Our beloved worlds

Did you catch John Stewart interviewing Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor on the Daily Show? Hear her interviewed on NPR’s Morning Edition? Latino USA? Her memoir was published a few weeks ago, and I think the only day she’s had away from the book tour since then was Monday, January 21: that’s the morning she swore Vice President Biden in for his second term.

The reviews I’ve read of My Beloved World mention young Sonia growing up in a tiny Bronx apartment with her Puerto Rico-born parents, her father’s early death, her mother’s hard work, her beloved grandmother, and her appreciation for affirmative action. One reason she gave for writing the memoir was that so many people identify with different pieces of her story. She thought perhaps writing about her path to the Supreme Court might give them hope.

But, alas, very little of her story that I identify with most was mentioned during her book tour. You may not know this, but Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when she was eight. I was diagnosed with Type 1 at age seven. With all the press coverage she’s had the past couple of weeks, the only thing I found that dealt with ways Sotomayor’s early diabetes diagnosis may have influenced some of her life decisions was in an article in the Charlotte Observer. The paper revealed that the chronic disease nearly killed her, and that one of the reasons Sotomayor never had children was that she was afraid she wouldn’t be around to raise them. I know what she means. Here’s an excerpt about my high school years From my own memoir, Long Time, No See:

In 1972, at the beginning of freshman year, I was admitted to the hospital twice, both times via the emergency room, both times close to coma. In the first episode, I could still talk when we arrived there, but the second time, Flo found me in a heap on the basement floor and dragged me, a hundred pounds of dead weight, up the stairs and out the back door and into the car. During that second hospitalization, my doctor, exercising his version of bedside manner, declared that I wouldn’t live past age thirty.

I was 14 years old when that happened, and my doctor then couldn’t have known about the diabetic advances around the corner. Fast-acting insulin, diabetic educators and home blood monitoring methods came along too late to save my eyesight, but those advances, along with my husband Mike’s willingness to learn about the disease and motivate me to stay well, have kept me happy and healthy far longer than my Nostradamus pediatrician and I could have expected.

The Charlotte Observer article reported that monitoring her health has become second nature to Sotomayor now, and that she gives herself insulin injections five or six times a day. Me, too! Justice Sotomayor told the reporter that she no longer worries she will die young. “When I reached 50, I was able to let go of that demon,” she said. “But not without recognizing its benefits. It drove me in a way that perhaps nothing else might have to accomplish as much as I could as early as possible.” I know what she means. Justice Sotomayor’s memoir ends when she is named to the Supreme Court; mine ends when we move to Chicago. And hey, with more advances in diabetes around the corner, watch out, world. Sonia and I are just getting started.

When they come out with a new American Girl pub crawl doll, it’ll be named “Beth”

The Wisconsin Book Festival runs from November 8-11 this year and features Patricia McCormick (a finalist for the National Book Award), Pulitzer Prize winners Richard Russon and David Maraniss, Peabody Award Winner Ben Sidran, Guggenhei Felowship Award Winner Jo Ann Beard, Alex Award Winner Lynda Barry, and ASPCA Henry Berg Award Winner…ME!

The theme for this year’s fest is “Lost & Found,” and what a kick it was to discover who’d paired up to sponsor our session. From the  WBF Web Site:

HOW I LOST MY SIGHT AND FOUND MY WAY
BETH FINKE, “HANNI AND BETH: SAFE & SOUND” AND “LEND ME A PAW”
Fri, Nov. 9 | 3:30PM – 4:15PM
Hawthorne Branch Library
2707 E. Washington Ave., Madison, WI
(608) 246-4548
Sponsored by the Great Dane Pub and the American Girl Fund for Children

The Great Dane Pub makes sense (in more ways than one!), but American Girl? All I can figure is that their sponsorship stems from the set of service dogs-in-training American Girl started selling last summer to go with their uber-popular dolls. From the American Girl web site:

This sweet puppy is a service dog-in-training! He has soft fur, a solid body, and a collar. When it’s training time, your girl can slip on his service vest—it has a handle My American Girl® dolls can hold. Reward this special helper with faux treats for all of his good work!

Great Dane Pub is offering a free first pitcher of beer to any Festival author who comes in with a group during the Wisconsin Book Festival, but I don’t think I’ll ask all those kids to follow Pied Piper Whitney and me from the library to the pub for happy hour. If you’re anywhere near Madison, though, I hope you’ll join us. First pitcher is on me!

Developing character

Back in 2003, the commissioner of Chicago’s Department on Aging showed up at a bookstore event to have me sign a copy of Long Time, No See. Joyce Gallagher must have liked what

That’s my friend Carolyn Alessio.

she read – she phoned me later to invite me to lunch, and in-between bites of egg salad sandwiches at Maxim’s, she asked if I’d teach a writing class for seniors. “I have the application right here,” she said, her fingertips drumming what I guessed was a big brown envelope.

I was not a teacher. I had never taught a class in my life. I said no.

You’ll do great!” she said, passing the envelope across the table to me.

The form had been pretty much filled out already, all I needed to add was a title and syllabus for the course. For that I enlisted Carolyn Alessio to help.

Carolyn was a new friend in Chicago back then. She used to write and edit the Chicago Tribune Book Section, and she had won a Pushcart Prize — a prestigious literary award honoring the best work published in American small presses. Mike and I were still new to Chicago in 2004, and I was just starting to get used to this part of living in a city  –  you rub elbows with accomplished people like this all the time, and it’s thanks to people like Commissioner Gallagher, Carolyn Alessio and dozens of others that the “Me, Myself and I” memoir class I lead for Chicago senior citizens has been an overwhelming success. So successful, in fact, that this week I added a third memoir class to my schedule.

My friend Carolyn is a teacher with successful students, too  – she left her Tribune job to teach at Cristo Rey Jesuit High School, a private school known nationally for its innovative ideas and emphasis on building student character. She is extremely generous about sharing teaching techniques and ideas with me and is perfectly willing to let me “steal” the creative topics she comes up with for writing assignments.

During the Chicago teachers strike last month Carolyn wrote an op-ed piece for the Chicago Tribune with an anecdote about how watching clips from the 1982 film “Gandhi” helped her students understand his influence on Martin Luther King Jr.:

Gandhi quiets the crowd in the famous scene and speaks calmly but forcefully. He persuades with logic, feeling and a strong sense of ethics. He skillfully handles the British army partly with humor but also a sincere pledge to avoid physical combat or retaliation. Neither side ends up rioting, at least not as a result of that meeting.

Carolyn and her husband Jeremy have two children who attend a Chicago Public School, and while she was eager to get them back in class last month, she also supported the striking teachers. From that op-ed piece :

It might seem like I was straddling two systems, but as a private school teacher and parent of two students at a strong Chicago public school, I saw shared areas of concern. Teacher evaluations based on student test scores constituted a key dispute between Chicago Public Schools and the Chicago Teachers Union, and for good reason — defining teacher performance mainly through test scores could undermine teachers’ deeper mission of developing character.

The Chicago teacher’s strike is over. I’m guessing that “building character among students” was not a topic on the negotiating table, but it should have been. As Carolyn Alessio says, all true educators are on the same side of that mission.

Carolyn Alessio has taught high school in Chicago for the past 12 years. She is the prose editor of Crab Orchard Review, a recent guest editor of Fifth Wednesday, and the recipient of a creative writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. I am lucky — and honored — to have her as a friend.

Leading with the fire in your hips

I’m putting the final touches on my morning keynote for tomorrow’s Women’s Leadership Symposium in Chicago. The conference theme is Synergy of Sisterhood: Breaking Barriers, Creating Alliances, and the University of Illinois – Chicago’s Women’s Leadership & Resource Center is offering workshops all day long.

One workshop that particularly caught my eye (okay, my ear) is called Leading With The Fire In Your Hips – Introduction Course to the Sensual Moving Meditation Practice for Womyn. The workshop is described as a “sensual experience for womyn that helps them identify their fears.” Now, c’mon. there’s not enough coffee in the world to help my morning keynote stimulate an audience the way that one will! Maybe you should consider signing up for the conference yourself — it’s open to Faculty, Staff, Students, and the Public.

Thursday, June 14
Women’s Leadership Symposium
Illinois Room, Student Center East
750 South Halsted
Chicago, IL

This program qualifies for LLEAP (Lifelong Learning and Educational Access Program) credit, and you can register on-site for the symposium tomorrow starting at 8:15 a.m. My morning keynote starts at 9 a.m., and I hope everyone in the audience lets the fire in their hips lead them to my table afterwards — Sandmeyer’s Bookstore is providing books for me to sign for anyone interested.

Art over adversity

I was extremely flattered when author and illustrator Sheila Welch asked me to participate in a book festival she was putting together in Freeport, Ill, and oh so disappointed to have to say no: Freeport is far away from Chicago and had no public transportation options. As you are about to find out from this guest post, Sheila Welch is one determined and resourceful woman, reluctant to take no for an answer. If my Seeing Eye dog Hanni and I took a commuter train as far west as it goes, she said she and her husband Eric could pick us up and drive us the rest of the way.

That car ride back in 2008 gave us a lot of time to talk, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. I recently asked Sheila to write a guest post on what it’s been like to continue her career as an artist after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. No surprise here: she rose to the challenge.

The positively best therapy available for me

by Sheila K. Welch

The puzzling symptoms began a decade ago. In the fall of 2004, I had trouble autographing books. Strange. My mother could write her name with a flourish in her late 80s. I noticed, while drawing illustrations, certain movements were awkward and difficult. A few months later, I developed a slight tremor in my right hand.

“Waiting to Forget” is available at namelos press

My family doctor seemed confident that it was nothing serious, and I wanted to believe her. By the spring of 2007, however, waving, clapping, brushing my teeth, quick sketching, handwriting, and typing had all become either impossible or laborious tasks. I could sign my name, but only if I did it slowly and deliberately. And only if no one was watching.

Something was obviously wrong. I suspected Parkinson’s. My husband and I had a dear friend who’d had early onset Parkinson’s Disease (PD), so I was acquainted with this progressively debilitating condition. I went to a neurologist and he told me that I definitely had PD.

Living with Parkinson’s is a balancing act. Medications and exercises have been developed to control many of the symptoms. However, the medications alter brain chemistry and can result in nasty side effects such as extreme drowsiness, and, with prolonged usage, involuntary movements and psychosis.

My future looked bleak. Feeling myself losing abilities that had come naturally and easily for so long, I went into creative overdrive: I revised one novel manuscript. Wrote several stories. Finished revisions on a chapter book. Made illustrated dummy books.

Next I completed a novel that was close to my heart. Several of our children were adopted at school age, and they were the inspiration for WAITING TO FORGET, published by namelos in 2011. Kirkus Book Reviews describes it as “a poignant, realistic tale of child-survivors.” Bank Street College and Pennsylvania School Library Association have included it on their best-books-of-the-year lists.

While working with namelos to get WAITING TO FORGET published, I wrote a picture book manuscript and began sketching illustrations. On New Year’s Day last year, I resolved to work
on a memoir for my family. One hundred words a day added up to 36,500 by December 31.

This spring, I’m doing rough sketches for one of my manuscripts and working on a major revision of a novel. I also created two drawings for an exhibition appropriately called “Art over Adversity.”

While all of these projects take far longer than they would have before my Parkinson’s diagnosis, I’ve discovered that the creative process improves my mood, and that helps me feel better

Sheila’s painting “Dream Beach” was displayed at
the “Art over Adversity” exhibition for Parkinson’s awareness month.

physically. Stress exacerbates all the symptoms of Parkinson’s, but when I’m involved in illustrating a book or I’m writing a short story, the stress level drops.

Equally important: I’ve learned to modify and adapt. I still do presentations at schools and conferences, but I don’t do live demonstrations of my illustrations — I display a sketch I’ve brought from home. To avoid the stress of travel, I use Skype to interact with kids. When the local library hosted the launch of my novel, I offered pre-autographed books for sale.

I’m incredibly fortunate to have my husband Eric. He drives me everywhere, solves my computer issues, and does the household chores. With his help, I have the time and energy to be creative. Our seven children have all been super supportive. The youngest, whose early life was similar to that of my characters in WAITING TO FORGET, now lives in Texas. He has read the novel and tells me that it’s a “real, true” story, which is my most treasured review.

A few weeks ago, I began treatment with a more powerful medication for Parkinson’s disease, and now I can use my right hand to touch type. There’s talk in the PD world of a new medication that might be neuro-protective, but in the meantime, I will happily stick with the positively best therapy available for me — drawing and writing.

Picture perfect

Both of the memoir-writing classes I teach are taking time off in June, and one of the last topics I assigned before the break was this: choose a photograph, any photograph, and describe it to me in 500 words or less. “But please don’t say, well, this is a woman in a yellow skirt with a blue blouse standing in front of a doorway,” I said, asking them to consider telling their readers what happened right before the photo was taken, or the reason someone thought to take the photo in the first place. If they decided on a landscape, I suggested they could write about the significance of that building or mountain or whatever.

I don’t usually do the assignments I give my seniors, but when Ellen Sandmeyer emailed this photo from the Sandmeyer’s Bookstore 30th anniversary party last week, I decided to give it a try. While I may be unable to see the photo, I can guess what it might look like. After all, I was there when it was taken! Here’s the photograph:

Whit’s down there, you just can’t see her.

This is me on stage at the Jazz Showcase in Chicago. A gorgeous two-year-old copper-colored Golden Retriever/Labrador cross named Whitney is at my feet, and Charlie Parker has my back.

I’m looking just as stunning as I wanna be, adorned in my belted black Lana Turner shirtwaist dress. The sleeves are turned up to three-quarter length, and the top feels like a man’s classic button down shirt. After that, it’s all woman. The waist is cinched under a fabric belt, and pleats end up draping the skirt right at my knees. From what I’ve been told, this dress picks up light and shines any time I move – oo la la!

If I look happy in this photo, well, that’s because I have a lot to smile about. Earlier that afternoon I’d been surrounded by a dozen-plus of Chicago’s most talented writers, and after that senior-citizen memoir-writing class was over I’d rushed home, gobbled down lunch, grabbed a cab to the Chicago Public Radio studio on Navy Pier, recorded an interview (more on that in a future post), rushed home again, fed Whitney, changed clothes, and after following my clever and courageous dog’s lead down the street to Jazz Showcase, we arrived just in time to be escorted onto the stage to do my thing.

Brent Sandmeyer took this photo from across the bar – he and his brother Rolf had flown in from opposite sides of the country to celebrate their parents and the sensational bookstore they opened here in Printer’s Row 30 years ago. It was an honor and a thrill to be one of the handful of writers and publishers Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer chose to speak at their celebration, and while I could have gone on and on about Sandmeyer’s Bookstore, I kept my talk uncharacteristically short: I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have a glass of wine until my talk was over. Cheers!

Monkey business

Here’s my husband Mike Knezovich with a book review.

Sometimes when I’m at an airport, a hotel lobby, walking down a city street, in an elevator, I watch the humans and think: Really, we’re all monkeys.

I learned there is some truth to that glib observation a few years ago when I wrote a freelance article on the work of Dario Maestripieri, professor of

Dario Maestripieri will talk about his book and his work on Thursday, April 19, 6:00 p.m. at Sandmeyer's Bookstore, 714 S. Dearborn in Chicago.

comparative human development, evolutionary biology, neurobiology, and psychiatry at the University of Chicago. Maestripieri has been watching human behavior a long while and sees lots of our behavior as evolutionary strategies and traits – many we still share with other primates.

When I interviewed Dr. Maestripieri, I found out he actually used to live in our building here in the Printers Row neighborhood of Chicago. He rode our elevator every day and watched people give awkward acknowledgements to one another when boarding, then immediately look down, up, at their phone (anything but maintain eye contact); he recognized this behavior as very similar to that of rhesus macaque monkeys when they are in tight quarters.

For a rhesus, baring the teeth and staring are signs of aggression. It’s a leftover in us, too.

That’s one really simple example of a fascinating thesis that’s really well-described in Maestripieri’s new book, Games Primates Play. Those of you who remember the bestseller of yesteryear called Games People Play will understand that Maestripieiri is making a very deliberate play off that title. Where the older book looked at everything from a social point of view, Maestripieiri’s work looks a layer deeper.

Example? Generally, a person walking into a crowded theater will look for a spot that has seats open on both sides. Only if none are available will the person finally plop down arm-to-arm with someone else. A sociologist might say that’s because humans need personal space. In Maestripieri’s research and new book, he asks, “Where does that need come from?”

I’m not doing it justice – I hope you’ll give his book a read and, come down to our favorite neighborhood bookstore, Sandmeyer’s, on Thursday night, April 19. Maestripieri will be giving a short presentation and signing books there at 6 pm. I’m going to do my best to be there with Beth – so come on, join us. After all, monkey see, monkey do.

Do you know what it means…

I asked Mike to give you an account of our most recent trip to New Orleans. Here’s Mike Knezovich:

It’s Fat Tuesday, and only a week ago, we were flying home from New Orleans. It feels like it’s been a long time already.

But I do remember…

We snagged our fair share of beads.

…catching three or four pre-Mardi Gras parades without even trying. And catching a whole lot of beads.

…a breakfast dish at Lüke restaurant called “eggs in a jar.” Two perfectly poached eggs, floating inside a jar on bernaise, with a fried softshell crab for a lid. Whoa.

…chandeliers and chandeliers and chandeliers and tapestries and extravagant crown molding and…chandeliers at our grand old hotel, Le Pavillon. And the hotel bartender, a German-born woman who landed in New Orleans decades ago and has been there since. And the hotel piano player, resplendent in a purple suit, who sang a lot like Nat King Cole.

Eggs in a jar. Can still taste that soft shell crab.

…multiply-pierced and tattooed young people playing old-time traditional jazz on the street. Superbly.

Panorama jazz band at The Spotted Cat.

…a great band at the Spotted Cat that we enjoyed for the price of a one-drink minimum.

…leaving the Spotted Cat, crossing Frenchmen Street to see John Boutte (Down in the Treme´,  just me and my baby…) at DBA.

…Riding the streetcar to the Latter Library, where Beth and Whit held court in front of a terrifyingly energetic group of pre-schoolers.

…dinner at Upperline. Go there.

…gumbo at Herbsaint. Go there.

I found a nice, safe, and quiet spot in the library with wireless while Beth and Whitney regaled the kids.

…a brass band, on our last night, playing just off Canal. They weren’t quite Rebirth Brass band, but they might be soon.

…walking. And walking. And walking. Just enough, the scale tells me, to have balanced off the caloric intake.

…dinner with our friends Seth and Bess, who moved to New Orleans from our Chicago neighborhood almost two years ago now. They are a wonderful young couple, who — it’s somewhat bittersweet to say — are plainly as happy as clams in New Orleans, so much so that it’s hard to imagine them back in Chicago.

So, how was New Orleans?

Sublime.

And I can say, having been there countless times, that while we always leave New Orleans, New Orleans never leaves us.

Practice makes perfect

Last month I published a post about two trips I took to New York City with Whitney during our training. Here’s an excerpt:

I am happy to report that corrections don’t shake her confidence. “Oh, you meant for me to turn into Penn Station, Beth?” she seemed to say once. “Well, then, let’s back up a few steps and do it again, get it right this time.”

Those two NYC trips were part of the “freelance” period of our training: during our last week at the Seeing Eye, instructors expose us to some of the specific things they know we’ll be facing once we return home. The confidence I gained working with Whitney in NYC is coming in handy here in Chicago.

I work part-time for Easter Seals, and their headquarters is located in Willis Tower (the tower formerly known as Sears). Our route to work involves going down steps to the Blue Line El stop (we don’t take the subway, I just use the stop to go under a very busy street), and then coming up the steps on the other side before embarking on a seven-block walk of lefts and rights. Once we get near the entrance of the building, I feel for a dip up and down to indicate we’ve crossed the entrance to a parking garage, suggest left, avoid the revolving door and find the button to open the accessible door instead, and…voila! We’re there!

My husband Mike trailed us on our first trial run to Willis. The next day, Whitney and I did it on our own. Whitney was a trooper, and she handled all the city hustle-bustle with eagerness and confidence.

Whit and I headed back to Willis Tower last Wednesday. A friend met us there to help me teach Whit how to get through security, navigate the lobby, go through the turnstiles, find the elevator, head to Easter Seals reception desk, find my cubicle. We went through the route more than once, and the third time was the charm. “Good girl, Whitney! You got it!”

A lot of temptation for a pooch who likes kids (photo courtesy of The Seeing Eye).

The next challenge: children. I visit a lot of schools with my children’s book Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound, so while I was still training with Whitney at the Seeing Eye, Jim Kessler (one of the Senior Managers of Instruction) arranged for me to visit his daughter’s elementary school in New Jersey.

The gymnasium was empty when we arrived, and I had Whitney follow Jim to a seat. After I sat down, I commanded Whitney to do the same. “Whitney, down!” She lay down and stayed still. Until the kids marched in, that is. That’s when she started crying.

”Great,” I thought. “She’s not afraid of Penn Station, but she’s afraid of kids!” This did not bode well for my career as a children’s book author. “Rest!” I told Whitney. She whined and sat up. “Whitney, sit!” She stood up and tried to wrangle out of her harness. I panicked. Jim Kessler to the rescue! “Put your finger under her collar,” he suggested, his voice totally calm. “Lift the collar closer to her ears.” It worked. She settled in and lay down at my feet. By the time we got to the Q&A part of my presentation, Whitney was asleep.

I’d assumed Whitney was scared of all those kids crowding her space in the gymnasium, but it turns out she likes kids. The reason she cried in the gym? I wouldn’t let her play! We don’t run across a whole lotta kids in our Chicago neighborhood, but any time we do, Whitney loses focus, turns towards the kid and invites them to play.

Well, I should say, that’s what she did when she first came home with me. Since then I’ve learned to snap a quick “leave it!” any time I hear a kids voice anywhere near us, then snap the leash if Whitney ignores my command and lunges towards them anyway. Whitney is a quick learner. She’s starting to leave kids alone.

I already have a number of presentations scheduled at elementary schools, colleges and conferences in 2012, plus a return to the children’s section of the Milton H. Latter Branch of the New Orleans Public Library in February. Whitney’s first test will come later this month at a disability awareness presentation for thirdsecond graders at Kipling Elementary School in Deerfield, IL. Let’s hope she gets an A.

The truth about Middle Child Syndrome

Flo and Cheryl smile for the camera

We had such fun with my sister Cheryl on our train ride to visit her daughter Caren and her family in Minnesota last year that she agreed to ride on the Texas Eagle with us to Springfield, Ill. Today.

I’m pretty sure Harper will do alright on this trip (he guides well inside train stations and hotels, it’s walking along sidewalks and crossing intersections that freaks him out) but it is oh so reassuring to know that my big sister Cheryl will be along to guide me, too. Cheryl has always had a way of boosting my confidence, and we always, always have fun together.

I grew up the youngest of seven children. Cheryl is fourth in line, and this explanation of middle child syndrome describes her perfectly:

Many times they go in the opposite direction of their oldest sibling to carve out their own place of achievement and relish in the satisfaction of being capable of doing it on their own. They are sensitive to injustices and much less self-centered than their siblings (first born and last born), which allows them to maintain successful relationships. They are put in the position to learn social skills that are extremely useful, not only within their household, but within their social community.

We were invited to Springfield by the Illinois School Library Media Association (ISLMA) to attend the Author Breakfast at their annual convention. The way I understand it, Illinois authors do a sort of speed-dating thing during breakfast: we sit at one table for a short time to describe our books, then hustle over to the next table for a short time to describe our books, then to the next table and so on. The idea is to make such a good impression on the school librarians that they’ll ask for a “second date” and invite us to their school to do a presentation sometime.

I will not be at all surprised if we get to the hotel tonight and Cheryl recognizes someone she knows in the lobby. Any time I am in a crowd with Cheryl and she sees someone that maybe just kind of sort of looks familiar, she does what any other self-respecting middle child would do: she approaches them and introduces herself. And if they don’t happen to be the people she thought they were, Her warm smile and friendly greeting wins them over, and she’s made a new friend. Its amazing.

And really, Cheryl is amazing. She was a teenager when our dad died, waitressed at Mario’s through high school and helped Flo raise we three younger ones. After she got married, she stayed in Elmhurst, our home town, and her house became a second home to us. She and her husband Rich raised three terrific kids, and now they have ten beautiful grandchildren. Cheryl is Flo’s caretaker, keeping track of her schedule and escorting her to all of her doctor visits.

And with all that going on (or maybe because all of that is going on?!) she’s agreed to this quick getaway with Harper and me, too. The quintessential last born self-centered youngest sister doesn’t say it nearly enough, but I really do appreciate everything Cheryl has done — and continues to do — for me. Once we’re “all aboard” I’m going to have her join Harper and me (and all the people she will recognize or meet!) in the club car for a toast. Here’s to Cheryl, and to all the other middle children I love so much. Cheers!