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?
My serious mistake had been to believe a friend who had uttered those seven seductive words, “Have I got a guy for you!”
Full confession: I’ve been in love, with my 2013 calendar.
The heating guys have been here. They insist that our system is “balanced” — their word, not mine. They tell us that we’re wise and sensible people to have the whole system checked before the real bite of winter kicks in.