When I was your basic bomb-beshadowed neurotic kid growing up in the stressful '60s, I couldn't decide which would be worse: being a girl and having babies, or being a guy and heading for Vietnam. The latter scenario seemed as inevitable to me as the former might have been to my distaff classmates. The war was there every night like the cigar-smoking gorilla, glittering out of the living room cathode tube. When a local girl wandered up and down the streets of the neighborhood, wailing and sobbing, we knew what was in the letter clutched in her hand. Despite my older brother's satisfactorily high lottery number, the possibility of a similar escape for me seemed slim indeed. So ensconced was this grammar-school worldview, it never occurred to me that the war -- a constant for as long as I could remember, a Cronkite-narrated backdrop to an otherwise... More >>>