My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to Johnathan Livingston Seagull—Ludwig von Wolfgang Vulture, about a vulture who learns to read. He also wrote lyrics, usually to existing melodies. My mother was a classical pianist, and he became quite adept at putting words to the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Verde. But he was just as happy to put words to popular and traditional ditties, too. Being a child, I had no idea his librettos weren't sta