Six is flannel pajamas and cereal on the front end, spaghetti straps and cocktails on the back. Six is the number of one, half dozen of another. Six is a gap-toothed smile taken on the first day of big school, the only photo that survived the fire in '42. Six is the number of hours Lelar Mae labored to bring her eldest son into the world and the number of grandsons who carried her casket. Six is big ideas, deep thoughts, beginnings and endings squeezed into an impossibly small container. Six is always worth it, but it can knock you on your butt if you aren't careful how you open it.