Another weekend, another shooting in America. And the closer it hits home, the deeper it hurts. I’ve talked about Gilroy before. I spent a gauzy couple of years there as an awkward early 20-something taking on my first “real” job.

On a blisteringly hot afternoon in July 2005, I worked a booth at the Gilroy Garlic Festival. I handed garlic fries in greasy paper-lined baskets to smiling, sweaty people. The festival itself spans a weekend, but for the community invested, it’s a year-round effort. The planning, the recruiting, the fundraising, the care. The love.

Everything that goes into making the festival the kind of thing a 6-year-old boy would want to attend. Or a 13-year-old girl. Or a 20-something man. To try garlic ice cream for the first time ever. To watch famous chefs sear and simmer and sauté their recipes in pots and pans over high-flying flames. To have silly summer fun on a Sunday afternoon before day camp, school or work the next day.

Not to die at the hands of a man with a gun.