January 20, 2011 § 8 Comments
I never knew my grandmother who died when my mother was in college, but that handsome young man with the shock of black hair was an important part of my growing up. He lived with my family, although by the time I knew him he was quite bald and went by the Italian familiar name for grandfather, Nonno.
In the era when gears and pulleys and levers moved the world and electricity was at its humble beginning, my grandfather, a mechanical engineer, spent his working life as an inventor. An inventor for hire.
January 13, 2011 § 9 Comments
When I was nine I yearned for, and saved for, a transistor radio. It promised to be my passport to the late night airwaves, to rock and roll, my backdoor sneak into being a teenager. It did all that, and more.
I carried that radio with its heady smell of new plastic everywhere, and at night hid it under my pillow, hoping my sister, Claudia, who slept in the upper bunk wouldn’t hear me listening to WABC and WMCA. Speaking right into my ear, Cousin Brucie and Scot Muni welcomed me out of childhood.
January 7, 2011 § 16 Comments
Wisdom accrues in small increments, the natural result of being alive with your eyes open. Here, in no particular order are a few things that seem, at least to me, to be true.
Whose face is that in the mirror? It must be my mother’s.
Orphans are popular in children’s fiction. My own orphan character is named Anna Casey. I admit, writing about an orphan is a cheap trick. The scariest of all possible tragedies, the mere idea of being orphaned engages a young reader. But unless we die young, we all become orphans. Even at fifty-five, the experience was as scary and tragic as I’d feared. Orphanhood can strike at any age.