Wednesday as we were reeling from the aftereffects of the election, my dear sister Eleanor sent me a care package.
Christmas Comes but Once a Year…
I have such blissful memories of the Christmases of my childhood, first and foremost the firm insistence on going to church Christmas morning.
Hands
Our faces show the inevitable effects of age but our hands seem to me to retain a little of our youthful hopefulness.
What’s the Matter With “The Runaway Bunny”?
My mother didn’t favor books written for children since she believed we could all absorb adult literature at an early age and be the better for it—and I think she was probably right.
The Virgin Goes Into Labor
Oh the ghosts of Christmas past! We all have them. May yours wear holly wreaths and drag chains of tinkling bells if they have to drag chains at all.
Mary’s Birthday
No, not that Mary, who was busy having a baby, but my mother, Mary Caperton Bingham.
White Privilege
As I begin to re-read piles of research, looking for details I may have missed and will want to include in this final revision of Little Brother, I find myself face to face with this issue.
Recording Two Women’s Friendship
What did these two stout scrapbooks mean to my mother?
My Mother’s Cookbook
I did make some progress… although probably my greatest accomplishment was mayonnaise made in a blender.
Acting Christmas
The ritual that returns to me most vividly this December is one I call Acting Christmas