Last Thursday, I shared with you, dear readers, the beginning of my 30 years as a writer and editor. That was the upside of 30 years ago. The downside was the death of the Daddy, two weeks after I started my new job. The last time I saw him was the weekend before I started work. The parents were both happy—the Daddy, in particular—that I finally got a job. One, especially, that I was excited about. On the last evening of my visit, I was rummaging through my old bedroom closet for some stuff. I don't know how long the Daddy had stood at the bedroom door watching me before I realized he was there. "Do you want something?" I asked. He smiled. "No," he said. I returned to my quest. He stood there for a few more seconds, then left. It was such a odd thing for him to do. When I was a small kid, every now and then I would wake to find the Daddy and the Mama looking at me. I always pretended I was asleep. "She's okay," the Daddy used to say,