I’m a child of the 60s.  And 70s.  The 60s were my teen years (I do, in fact, remember where I was when JFK was shot) and the 70s were my stupid years, for reasons that will go unmentioned (I’m talking about you, Gary).  But even in the stupidest of stupid/… Read full post »

Oh my God. 

Literally. 

Oh, my God. 

We call him St. Stephen of Sondheim, my husband and I.  He doesn’t know it yet.  I mean, someday we’ll tell him, but tonight was not the time.  We were surrounded by 1500 other people in Chicago’s Harris Theater, an… Read full post »

On Monday and Tuesday I wrote about my experiences tracking down the French Resistant who saved my father during WWII, and ultimately meeting him and his family.  Here is what happened to the key players:

Pierre Coulon           

After his… Read full post »

 I am sitting in the breakfast room of my little hotel on the Ile St. Louis when she walks in looking just as nervous as I feel but smiling warmly. “Linda,” she says, “je suis Denise,” and she wraps her arms around me and kisses me on both cheeks. 

Holding… Read full post »

He was a quiet man, and a smart man, and, sometimes, an angry man.  His way of fighting against the verbal abuse of my mother, who screamed nightly at the dinner table, was to keep eating and say nothing.  It made her scream louder.  He continued to say nothing.  And/… Read full post »

I’m taking a risk by saying this, but here goes:  I am tired of my kids. I feel especially guilty because they are all adopted. We have four, and I love them dearly, I couldn’t possibly love them any more if they were my own flesh and blood. But I’m tired of… Read full post »

Well, it’s my first post and I have no idea what to say.  I’ve been coming to OS for awhile, mainly to read everyone else and make an occasional comment, but I’ve never actually written anything longer than five words, or six if you’re bothered by contractions (“Tha/… Read full post »