father, I felt so safe.” Safe in your father’s arms—that is what it feels like to be the beloved son. During summers at the ranch, I slept in the basement, in a huge, sagging old bed with a brass headboard and a white chenille comforter. I was certain there were treasures down there, too, somewhere in the rows of jars of my grandmother’s canning—peaches, apricots, beans, jams. It had a moist, dank coolness that was wonderful when the August days reached into the hundreds. But some nights—when the big