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I was small for my age, awkward as a new-born calf, my tiny moon face partially hidden behind bottle bottom lenses set in a baby-blue cat’s eye frame (in 1964 the only other choice in girls’ glasses was baby-poop brown). I peered out at the world; my prescription glasses corrected my near-sightedness (which my mom, like the wicked foster mother in Kipling’s “Baa Baa Black Sheep,” believed was the result of reading in bed), but did almost nothing for my total lack of depth perception. I could see my hand in front of my face; I just wasn’t sure of how far away it was.