But there were advantages: my comprehensive education in city pigeon behaviors and plumage patterns; my ability to tell time by the sun’s reflection off a car; my discovery of Pippi Longstocking. Lillian always packed distractions—picture books, a plastic rabbit, a doll with hair and with eyes that closed—but these only got me halfway there or back. I remember bringing Pippi along because it was my regular bedtime book and bedtime wasn’t enough. At five, I had to limp through each chapter six or seven times before I understood it, but even when only half the words made sense, the story seemed like a friend. Pippi did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She didn’t go anyplace she didn’t want to go. My first copy got rained on. The second was left at a playground in Gowanus. Eventually, my third copy had only half a front cover and was partly held together with bubble gum. Pippi followed me to Cleveland and then to Los Angeles. After that I guess I didn’t need her anymore, because by the time I left California, the book was gone for good.

KENNETH LOWELL: By now, I was getting cockeyed at the bar until one or two a.m. and coming to work hungover on a regular basis. Since Lillian did not seem to notice, I had counted on no one else noticing, either, but there I was mistaken. It seemed Mr. Hardham expected us to use the morning to dispatch our more demanding responsibilities in advance of our regular souse at the day’s lunch meeting, after which we were supposed to be clearheaded enough to manage the afternoon’s litany of telephone calls. My artist pals’ drinking regimens were purely recreational and did not extend to three-martini lunches. Also, they could sleep in.

No matter what time I stumbled home, Lil was in the darkroom. One night, instead of going to bed, I lurched over to that inviolable door and heard a man murmuring on the other side. The sound of that voice made me instantly sober, or at least I thought it had, but were that the case, I suppose I would not have slammed my arm into the door. Lil shrieked, and I heard something clatter to the floor. Only then did it occur to me to try turning the knob. As the unlocked door swung open, the man continued to speak, unfazed by my sudden appearance. In the dim red light I saw Lil’s terror-stricken face, an overturned tray of developer, and the radio, its dial covered to mask the glow.

In retrospect, I’m thankful that by the time Hardham and Young finally gave me the ax, Gryphon House was still looking for a publicity director. Had that not been the case, I would not have met Catherine. I would not have been the father of Kate and Harrison. And when I think of not having been part of Levin’s Facing North or Tillary’s The Last Lunge, I am left feeling almost as empty as when imagining a life without my wife and children.