She was my first reader, my first editor, even my first publisher, her weary fingers tapping out my first words in a darkened basement in the middle of the night.
I was a 13-year-old sportswriter who couldn’t type, so my mother would type my stories for me.
It was always Sunday, always late. She had to report for work at the Ford plant early the next morning, but she would wait up for me to scribble my youth league baseball game story into a little blue binder. Then she would take the binder and walk down the steps to the rickety tray table that held the whirring Corona electric typewriter.
Once there, my dreams always her dreams, she began to peck away. She didn’t...