The extra leaves for the dining room table have been dusted off and jammed into place. The 18 unmatched chairs are being assembled around that table in a dining room that seems to have shrunk since last Rosh Hashanah. A huge brisket is in the freezer.
There she was, resplendent in a black jumpsuit and a gold lame trapeze-style coat with lavish ruffles, no less.
No more first days of school at our house.
Yoo-hoo! Is anybody out there? Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Perhaps it was the way the sunlight hit her face. It was bright and unforgiving.
Ah, summer, glorious summer. It’s all frolic and fun — and, of course, romance. Maybe at your house. Here’s how it looks at ours.
Let me give it to you straight:
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.