I Just Wrote About Childhood As I

I Write In Longhand On Yellow Legal Pads.

The Humiliation That Jane Had Felt Turned To Something Else--grief Perhaps, Or Regret. Regret That She Had Not Known How To Act With A Boy, Regret That She Had Not Been Wiser.

I Had A Very Wise Mother. She Always Kept Books That Were My Grade Level In Our House.

Ramona Stepped Back Into Her Closet, Slid The Door Shut, Pressed An Imaginary Button, And When Her Imaginary Elevator Had Made Its Imaginary Descent, Stepped Out Onto The Real First Floor And Raced A Real Problem. Her Mother And Father Were Leaving For Parents' Night.

Problem Solving, And I Don't Mean Algebra, Seems To Be My Life's Work. Maybe It's Everyone's Life's Work.