Anne Champion At age seven, I believed I would fly someday, tramping through our house in my father’s leather jacket, arms hanging limply to the floor, and his old pilot’s cap with the smudged goggles from god-knows-where, so big that they left indentations on my cheeks. I sat on the stool of his workbench in this attire, encircled by oversized dreams, as he crafted miniature model airplanes from World War I and hung them from the...