I was making the bed and minding 2-year old daughter who was on the other side of the room when I heard a thump and something being dragged across the rug. I thought it prudent to investigate. I turned a corner and saw that she had reached up, pulled my first edition of “Ask The Dust” by John Fante—the one that’s inscribed by Fante in 1939—the year of publication—to the book reviewer of the L.A. Times and is worth, quite literally, thousands of dollars—off my bookshelf, opened the custom made leather clamshell box, took the book out, removed the protective mylar covering from the pristine dust jacket, opened the book and was playing with the black and white publicity photo of Fante that’s laid into it. I got woozy. My knees started to buckle and everything turned white. I dived. There was a puff of smoke where I once stood. I grabbed the book and photo out of her hand with such velocity and force that I startled her. Her face went blank, then flush, then she let out a wail. I didn’t mean to scare her. I should probably take a more Zen approach to life and not be so attached to material things, but when it comes to my books, I have the serenity of an infant. She’d better watch herself. Next time I might lose control.