I remember as if it were yesterday.
It’s June — high season for weddings. How well I know it. I’m often at the weddings of total strangers, but before you think “Wedding Crasher,” let me explain: My husband is a retired judge of the Superior Court of New Jersey, and is, therefore, authorized to officiate at weddings. And as “Mrs. Judge,” I’m often invited to be with him. I seldom decline.
Nobody ever told me, when I became the mother of a newborn, that I would carry her home from the hospital trembling in terror, wondering how in the world I’d know what to do with her. She seemed like a tiny, helpless victim of my gross ineptitude.
While other people in my life could not grasp what it was like to do interviews of Holocaust survivors, my daughter Amy did.
Most of the women I know simply can’t believe it.
I recently got into a discussion with our daughters about their memories. At this stage of my own life, I want to know what “took,” and I thought I did.
So here it is, National Women’s History Month. Did you know? Do you care?
On their very first date, way back in 1931, my parents went to the Philadelphia Flower Show. My mother was a 20-year-old beauty. My father was a dashing young lawyer of 26.
It’s well after midnight, and I was in the kitchen enjoying a private binge of frozen cake straight from the package. I’m was feeling out of control, fat and guilty. My husband stumbled in, looking a bit panicky.
A stranger observing them in the back room of the Country Club Diner on a recent evening might wonder: Was this a family gathering? A neighborhood party? An office party?