Three weeks since my return from the Erma Bombeck Writers' workshop, my feet have finally touched the ground. While in Dayton, Ohio, Erma's hometown, I hobnobbed with writers, from beginners to notables. The real reason I traveled over 700 miles from home, though, was the opportunity to attend a workshop led by my favorite columnist, Craig Wilson.
     For me, the conference began not long after takeoff, when I overheard the woman across the aisle tell her seatmate she would be attending the Erma Bombeck workshop. "Me, too," I said, tapping her on the arm. She was going because Dave Barry would be there. I told her I wanted to meet Craig Wilson, whose column, The Final Word, appears in Wednesday's edition of USA Today.
    "Craig who?" she asked. Aghast, I reached into my bag and pulled out that day's copy of the paper. "Read this," I said, handing her the Life section.
     I've had heroes before. (Didn't I wait patiently in a line that snaked through the junior section at a downtown department store, just for the autograph of Mouseketeer Annette Funicello?) But Craig Wilson is a different story. His columns, like those of Erma Bombeck herself, are the reason refrigerators were invented. Just as my mother taped Erma's columns to the front of the family fridge when I was growing up, I tape Craig's columns to mine.
     Dinner, the first night of the writers' workshop, was followed by nearly an hour of Dave Barry's humor. My ears heard Dave's words, but my eyes were on a man two tables away. As the final applause died down, attendees stood, eager to purchase Mr. Barry's books and have them signed. My eyes were still on Craig Wilson. Shamelessly, I choreographed my exit to match his. Over and over in my head, as I slowly waltzed toward the door, I practiced looking surprised at our chance meeting. When he was stopped by another attendee, I came to an abrupt halt. Going through the motions of looking in my handbag, I glanced over my shoulder, as though I may have forgotten something at my table. When Craig began to move again, so did I.
     Pulling my husband along with me, I blurted out, "Mr. Wilson, we're your biggest fans. You're the reason we're here." I babbled on about wanting to write him a fan letter and my fear he'd think he was being stalked when I showed up in Dayton. He laughed. Reluctantly, we said good night to him, knowing he had other people to speak with. When he passed us later that evening, he put his hand up to the side of his face, as though hiding it. "Stalkers, stalkers," he said, pretending to sound an alert. (I firmly believe he was pretending.)
     The next morning, my husband and I sat in the back of a University of Dayton classroom, to learn about writing from Craig Wilson. When he spoke about his deceased dog, Murphy, he was visibly moved. We felt the same when he read some of his columns to us, especially one about his recent trip to Ethiopia. Even though we had exclaimed over its perfection when it first appeared in the paper, hearing it in Craig's voice made it more so.
     At that evening's book signing, I scooped up as many of Craig's books as I could. They would be gifts to friends, but I did keep one copy of It's the Little Things: An Appreciation of Life's Simple Pleasures for myself. He signed each one, "Enjoy! Craig Wilson."
     And I have-every wonderful word.