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Where to begin? The family I grew up in had upper-crusty antecedents on both sides &#; Unused England on my father’s side, Virginia/Maryland/New England on my mother’s &#; but we looked middle/upper-middle class. My father was an architect. My mother didn’t work outside the house while my brothers, sister, and I were growing up. She talked with such evident longing about having done summer stock theater after WWII (during which she was in the SPARs, the women’s unit of the Coast Guard Reserve) that when I first read Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night my senior year of high institution, I connected her instantly with Mary Tyrone, who clings to a creed that she could own been a concert pianist if only she hadn’t got married.

That was not the only connection between my mother and Mary Tyrone: the latter was addicted to morphine, while my mother’s drug of choice was alcohol. She didn’t stop drinking till after a family intervention when I was in my mids. As a teenager I was immersive down convinced that if I drank, I would become an alcoholic too. So I didn’t drink.

In my mid