Last week&#039;s Puma Problem blog prompted an exchange with a reader. &nbsp;He said I didn&#039;t need a Grandma&#039;s Weekend at WSU to be &quot;unbelievable&quot; because I already WAS unbelievable. &nbsp;I responded by saying I was laughing. &nbsp;He replied by saying&nbsp;he loves my laugh. &nbsp;(By the way, &nbsp;I read the comment lines on Facebook and at &lt;a href=&quot;http://pi.com/&quot;&gt;PI.Com&lt;/a&gt;, but personal responses generally go through my e-mail account. &nbsp;&lt;a href=&quot;mailto:jajance@jajance.com/&quot;&gt;jajance@jajance.com&lt;/a&gt;.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That exchange of e-mails got me thinking about my laugh. &nbsp;For years people have told me that when I&#039;m being interviewed on the radio or on television here in Seattle or elsewhere that they recognize me by my laugh. &nbsp;And I&#039;m glad they do. &nbsp;But it was not always so.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent five years selling life insurance in the Phoenix area. &nbsp;I was a district manager with several people reporting to me. &nbsp;I had two little kids and a husband who wasn&#039;t much help. &nbsp;That is an example of understated elegance. &nbsp;Already in the late stages of chronic alcoholism, he was actually a drag on the system. &nbsp;I managed to get the kids into a church-sponsored pre-school just across the parking lot from my office. &nbsp;It was a co-op which meant that parents had to put in one morning a week as a &quot;volunteer.&quot; &nbsp;The other mommies involved were stay-at-home moms. &nbsp;Occasionally a daddy would show up, but it was mostly moms. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to get the kids there and get myself to work, and then on my day-in-the-barrel, dash across the parking lot, do my bit, and then hustle the kids home to their afternoon baby sitter. &nbsp;I called those years the &quot;battle of the babysitter&quot; for good reason.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember one guy in the office who routinely turned up late for agency meetings. &nbsp;I know that his wife (of the stay-at-home-variety) always laid out his clothing the night before. &nbsp;They had no kids. &nbsp;He got out of bed, put on his own clothes, ate a breakfast that was fixed for him, and came to the office. &nbsp;And every time he was late and I was on time, it made me grumble. &nbsp;And probably worse. &nbsp;I&#039;ve been told that I can deliver an icy blue-eyed stare that can freeze men&#039;s nether parts. I probably leveled one or two of those at him, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, unable to fix a husband who was unable and/or unwilling to fix himself, I gave up and got a divorce. &nbsp;As soon as I divorced him, he started turning up on my doorstep every Saturday morning saying, &quot;Hey, you said in sickness and in health. &nbsp;This is sickness.&quot; &nbsp;That&#039;s true, but his sickness was killing me, so I did the only thing that made sense. &nbsp;I got out of Dodge. &nbsp;I packed the kids and all our worldly belongings into a U-Haul trailer and hooked it to my 1978 Cutlass Supreme Brougham that my husband said I never should have bought and would never be able to pay for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That&#039;s how we headed north to Seattle. &nbsp;We didn&#039;t have a map because, as my daughter told a neighbor in Phoenix, &quot;You only need to know two streets to get from Phoenix to Seattle--I-10 and I-5.&quot; &nbsp;As we came through northern California in the early part of July 1981, I could see the bank of clouds sitting parked over the Siskiyou Pass, and I felt as though I was taking my children from the light to the dark. &nbsp;And I only cried when they were both asleep because I didn&#039;t want them to know how scared I was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I came to Seattle, moved into a condo in downtown Seattle with my sister, and gave myself permission to do what I had always wanted to do which was write. &nbsp;I wrote my first novel which never sold to anyone. &nbsp;The second manuscript, the first Beaumont book, sold to the second editor who saw it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eighteen months after I divorced him, my first husband died of chronic alcoholism at age 42. &nbsp;After his death, I learned that being divorced had no effect on the grief I felt. &nbsp;I also came across the poetry I had written during those tough times. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They ended up being published in a chapbook called After the Fire. &nbsp;At the time I was writing the poetry, I thought I was being true to my calling of being a writer, but when I saw them again, in the aftermath of my husband&#039;s death, I realized that I had been using art and words to deal with the essential conflicts of my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After the Fire came out in 1984. &nbsp;In 1985 I was invited to do a poetry reading of that book at a widowed retreat sponsored by WICS (Widowed Information Consultation Services) of King County. &nbsp;It was at that retreat that I met Bill. &nbsp;It turned out that his first wife and my first husband had died on the same day of the year two years apart. &nbsp;For the first several months after we met, we compared notes, finding the similarities in lives inalterably changed by spending years with a spouse dying of a long term chronic ailment. &nbsp;Eventually, however, we started having fun. &nbsp;Six months after we met, we married.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next year, we went back to Arizona for my parents&#039; 50th wedding anniversary celebration. &nbsp;While we were in Phoenix, I took Bill to the office where I had worked to introduce him to my colleagues in the insurance business. &nbsp;None of those people recognized me. &nbsp;They had NEVER seen me smile, and they had NEVER heard me laugh. &nbsp;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So when I come back to home Seattle, whether I&#039;m flying into the city or driving up I-5, I see the Seattle skyline and I smile, because Seattle gave me back my laugh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This week, I&#039;ve heard from three different people who have written to say how much After the Fire has meant to them, so I&#039;ve decided to close this with one of those poems. &nbsp;(By the way, After the Fire is now available in an annotated version from the University of Arizona Press. &nbsp;If you know anything about my dealings with the Creative Writing department at the U of A, you&#039;ll know why my being published by the U of A Press is also grounds for a hoot of laughter.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I grew up in the desert. &nbsp;There&#039;s not much fog in the desert. &nbsp;Dust? &nbsp;Yes. &nbsp;Fog? &nbsp;No. &nbsp;As a newcomer to Seattle, I joined a breakfast networking group in hopes of meeting new people and prospects for my life insurance business. &nbsp;As I walked down the hill from the condo on Second Avenue to the Edgewater, there were times when the fog was so thick I could barely see across the street. &nbsp;When I came out of the meeting, an hour later, I would be amazed to discover that the fog &nbsp;disappeared completely. &nbsp;So here&#039;s the poem I wrote about that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fog&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I walk in fog.&lt;br /&gt;Its velvet touch &lt;br /&gt;Caresses me&lt;br /&gt;And hides the hurt.&lt;br /&gt;Beyond the fog&lt;br /&gt;The sun shines clear and bright.&lt;br /&gt;I must keep moving.&lt;br /&gt;I have earned the light.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These days, I see my current laughter as part of that light. &nbsp;And yes, I&#039;ve earned it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;