I’ve always just called it the cedar chest but I think it was meant to be a hope chest. The place where a woman gathers her linens and household items in preparation for marriage. Later to become the repository of baby books, dried faded roses and a maribou feather stole worn to prom some fifty years ago. Continue reading
Rather than patting myself on the back with a “you’ve come a long way, baby” superiority as I clicky click across the ballroom in my beautiful fuchsia high heels and black business suit, I want to ground myself with where I came from. With who I came from. I don’t look at the women who came before me as less than we are today just because they didn’t have the trappings we have. Quite the contrary, I admire them for the trails they blazed for me. So we need to step back from this notion that WE are the women who have made it. Continue reading
I hope she knew how much I loved her. I think she did. If we’re fortunate we grow up close to our grandparents and I was very fortunate that way. As I look at picture albums and see her younger, it doesn’t make much sense. She seemed to always be Grandma, an indeterminate age, just always the same to me for nearly fifty years. Continue reading
dreamingofsquirrels 
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