My childhood was a fine one, in a small-town Midwestern way. I had a secure home, entertaining brothers, a bookstore and public library a few blocks away, and good friends.

I read a lot. Too much? If that's possible, maybe so.

It was one of those friends, Mary, who kept me from disappearing forever into the cushions of my favorite reading chair. She got me up on water-skis, on snow-skis, in a fishing boat, combing a beach, out on the skating rink.

Ah, the skating rink. For all the years I can remember, my father flooded the side yard and we had a private rink. He was a lawyer, and winter nights after working late, he'd come home from the office, put on his WWII army-issue overcoat, haul out the garden hose, and stand in the cold putting down fresh ice for the next day's hockey games and cops-and-robbers chases.