Dear Mom and Dad,
Had you lived (a very long time), you’d be celebrating your 84th wedding anniversary this Sunday, November 13th.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Had you lived (a very long time), you’d be celebrating your 84th wedding anniversary this Sunday, November 13th.
My older brothers and I used to wonder what it would be like if our mom died before our dad. We agreed that unlike our resilient and social mom, (who would outlive him by about 30 years), our dad would be a little old man shuffling around a Sears store on a Saturday, wearing his tan London Fog windbreaker (with red plaid lining and cigarette holes), dark blue chinos and avocado green deck shoes.
I’ve always thought of freelance artists—writers, painters, composers, sculptors—as being more blue- than white-collar workers.
Starting in childhood, I’ve spent parts or all of many summers in resort towns.
My brother Stuart would have turned 76 tomorrow but instead, in his early 50s, lost a battle to Hepatitis C, which morphed into cirrhosis.
This month is my 52nd anniversary of being a professional writer. Please note that in this reference “professional” merely indicates I’ve been paid to do it; it’s not a self-lauding of the writing’s quality.
When we were kids, the two-word expression that my parents considered the vilest thing for my brothers and me to say was “Shut up!”
My daughter was born on Easter Sunday 36 years ago today.
I have a cherished memory of my big brother Jerry, who’s scheduled to turn 81 today, barring any Breaking News on CNN.
When I shared the recent passing of my adored little tabby, Osborn the Magnificent, who spent 14 of his 19 years with me, I learned a great deal about people and pets.