I write tonight from Hamilton, Ohio, a classic middle American town where I spent several important years of my growing up. For the first time in 30 years, I saw my old house, walked to my old (virtually unchanged) schools, even bought a “brown cow” (a root beer float) at Flubs dairy treat. I got so excited as I walked past Twila Suggart’s house, found the park tree that was my secret place to think, and mourned that Irene’s bakery was no longer there. What is significant about this is that I had forgotten these wonderful feelings, for the years that followed Hamilton were like living a family disaster in slow motion.