For most of Grandfather’s neighbors and friends, memory of the communes is sharp and sour. We have yet to sweeten it.
A while back, or perhaps it was more than a few years ago, we all became aware of the epidemic of violence against women in this country, and memoirs began to be written as the survivors felt empowered to describe what they had gone though, battling through shame and the fear of family repercussions. We all have our lists of these titles, some of them bitingly effective, others less so, and perhaps I was not alone in imagining that writing about the problem would make the problem go away, or at least diminish it.
This morning as I was hiking in fresh snow with my dog Rose—a black Staffordshire Bull Terrier who for a while was feared by strangers as possibly a pit bull (that hysteria seems to have passed)—I saw only one other hiker, a young woman in a pink shirt, running up the trail with her small