A Light Forever Dimmed  Nature may abhor a vacuum, but,
apparently, it adores symmetry. On February 16, 1992, one of the
people who indelibly shaped my life—my maternal
grandmother—died. Feelings of security and optimism and a sense
of self, now so resolute that they seem hardwired into my DNA,
got their toehold in quiet afternoons cooking with her at her
ancient white stove, a triple layer of cardboard wedged under
one shapely leg—the stove’s, not hers.  This February 16th,
someone else who had an impact on my life died. It’s not,
mercifully, The One, a family member, or a friend. But still, my
life got a little dimmer—by about 100 watts. The person: Ronald
Howes, Sr.  In the early ‘60s, Mr. Howes invented the toy that,
powered by two low-watt light bulbs, came to delight battalions
of little girls—and me: Kenner’s Easy-Bake Oven. Just as my
grandmother found ways of shunting my breathtaking lack of
athletic prowess into hours of cooking, Mr. Howes gave me an
out. And an outlet. Whenever my three cousins—Bar