It's been 17 years since I shared a lemonade with that Louisiana lady. But I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a scene right out of the movies. One of those typical, hot, hazy, mid-July afternoons in the South. We sat on the veranda that extended along the front and side of the two-story white home. We sat at right angles to each other and our wicker rockers faced out over the lush green lawn. A warm breeze rustled the leafy trees before wafting toward the house and cooling our skin. Colorful gardens splashed the landscape as if they were dabbed on with an artist's brush. She paused to take a soothing drink and watched as a passing tractor kicked up dust on the road below. Emma Johnson was her name.