I was born in the early morning hours of my parents’ sixth wedding anniversary. As Dad would tell the story, my mom wanted an anniversary baby, and figured she could make that happen by refusing to leave the house despite some obvious signs of my imminent arrival. He finally persuaded her to go to the hospital as midnight approached, and anxiously lit a cigarette as she was whisked away on a gurney. Within a few minutes, however, he wasn’t the only thing smoking in the waiting room. In his agitated state he had dropped a burning match into a wastebasket. By the time the fire was extinguished, I had been born.