What did these two stout scrapbooks mean to my mother?
I did make some progress… although probably my greatest accomplishment was mayonnaise made in a blender.
Something in our basic human nature calls for ritual celebration with other people, even if the other people are strangers.
Why is it interesting or worthwhile to continue to wonder about the fate of my first cousin?
I understand her decision although it causes me a spasm of regret, as all the dreams abandoned by women do: the great heap of the unrealistic and the unrealizable that lies alongside nearly every woman’s life.
My mother wisely warned me many times against “kicking against the pricks,” by which she meant the inevitable barriers we face in life, not the male appendage. She would have been horrified by that association.
This morning I found a faded copy of a newspaper photo, certainly from the old Society Page of a Richmond Virginia daily, showing a group of three young people, two men and a woman, marching down Monument Avenue in that city, the broad magisterial artery where the greats of the Confederacy are memorialized in huge marble statues.
The Blue Box does not share the soft glow that softens the details of so many family histories; its light approaches a glare.
Having drawn all she could from that source, desperate to go to college, for which she would have to have a scholarship (none of the women in her family had ever dreamed of college), she “dropped out” in the most literal sense, leaving not only school but her mother’s crowded household to go as a sort of nonpaying border to an exceptionally gifted playwright and producer from New York, whose influence would be supreme.