This is a story I often revisit in memory; and, if you don't laugh you'll cry. I was working a convention many years ago when a tall, lanky, non-descript individual entered the cavernous hall and visited each booth, extended a hand and spoke a few words. Soon, a 6-foot tall woman stood before me, dressed in bib overalls and a faded denim shirt, as thin as the business card being offered, and in a mannish voice that held no smile, joyless and as gaunt as her countenance announced, "Hi, I'm 'Happy the Clown'".

The table was set. Included was a small candle and a just-the-right-height flower arrangement in a cut glass vase. I studied the stems, the crown of baby's breath and tiny flowerlets, then arranged it to suit myself - not for the aesthetic look of it, but for the character of the shadow that the little candle was casting on the wall.