How old am I? If anybody asks, I have a proud answer: “I’m 5.” The neighbor lady who brought me home to my mother asked me that. But that’s not the question now. Now, it’s “Why did the lady have to bring you home?” and “Did you cross the street… Continue
A memoir is a memory. Memories may be long or short, serious or humorous, ordinary or extraordinary. Whatever they are, they are truth as you know it and as your readers will come to know it.
Here are some of the memoirs I have written or edited. Each of these is a chapter in a book.
When my mother found out she was pregnant the first time, she knew immediately that it was a girl. My father was amused. Nobody could know the sex of a baby until it was born, so this must be just one more piece of evidence for the foolishness of women…. Continue
I was in a doctor’s office the other day—yes, a doctor’s office, bastion of the hopefully-healthy old, though I myself even at my age still go see the doctor only about three times a year. As almost-usual, the doctor’s assistant couldn’t find me in the computer system the office uses… Continue
From my Grandfather, I learned about honor. The knock came long after the family had gone to bed. Dr. Waller answered the door nonetheless—in those days, doctors were on call 24 hours a day. Standing on the porch were two swarthy men with long black hair, wide sleeves, intricately… Continue