We kids had clamored, as always, for the seat next to Uncle Al, a gap-toothed, balding old guy of 35, always with a day’s growth of beard, a tender touch, and a pocketful of Indian nuts to share.
When I got home from that humiliating party, my mother wasn’t there, and, possibly for the first time in my life, it was my father who could take me into his arms to comfort and reassure me.
Grieving has spawned hundreds of religious rituals and thousands of self-help books. I think there should also be a what-to-watch list to cut into the mourning fog. For someone my age, there is nothing so helpful as the Minister of Silly Walks, a dead parrot, and the Spanish Inquisition.
“No one in Europe wears a one-piece," she said. "Not fat old ladies, not pregnant women, not women with mastectomies or abdominal scars. Get yourself a bikini or you’ll feel like an idiot at the pool.” If ever I was going to wear one again, this was the time.
I am going on vacation next week. I have also planned a vacation from my vacation the week after our adult children and their families go with us to Colorado.
I got phone calls from friends all over the world asking "Are you OK?" I was — but my webmail account was not.