There was Joni Mitchell, and here was my wife, close to tears.
For years, she had loved the lady. Now the poet priestess was one table away at a mostly empty eatery on another hot 'n' hazy day in the San Fernando Valley. My wife approached, clutching at her heart, lavishing praise on _The Hissing of Summer Lawns._
Touched, Joni Mitchell inquired about our son, who was scrawling away with an orange crayon in his high chair. "He's an artist," my wife said. "Like you." Mitchell came in for a closer look. Our beautiful boy, Will, glanced up. Read more