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I was schooled at St. Paul’s School, where my father taught English; Columbia University, where I majored in psychology and English literature, and the University of Pennsylvania, where, at twenty-six, I was nearing completion of a PhD in psycholinguistics.

The afternoon before I was scheduled to meet the academic committee for a job interview, I drove my Honda from Philadelphia to New York, to see my mother. She wanted to have a little pre-celebration for a future that was mine for the taking, an academic career that would ooze prominence and prosperity.

Once inside the apartment, suddenly, a dam burst. A simple tin trash can stood below my mother’s desk; I leaned over and hurled into it, again and again. The diagnosis? I was afraid to grow up.

That’s when I ran away. Without a word of explanation, I fled to Montana, to marry a man I had never dated. And then, when money got tight and I felt beaten down by life in a leaky shack with minimal hot water, I got into my Honda and drove fifty-one frontier miles to the Crystal Lounge, in Billings. I sat down at the poker table, among thick- fingered cowboys and boozing rednecks, slipped off my shoes, tucked my bare feet under my butt, and as the dealer tossed me an Ace-Queen, I knew I was home.