Of Female Pilots, Peace and Being Seen (continued from … Of Trimester Grades, My Grandmother and Time) …
Being a stay-at-home mother I receive no salary for the work I do.
Ask anyone about the task and art of mothering and they will most probably say, “Hardest job in the world? Mothers work incredibly hard. They are the backbone of society.”
One man on an airplane piloted by a female pilot went
Despite all that I endured with my mother under her care, or lack of it, I was never ambivalent about my ability to love.
Even in the worst of times during my childhood, and while undergoing the nightmare of relationship with my mother, it has always seemed the easiest thing to love, the hardest to mistreat and push away, speak harshly to.
I cannot imagine being to my children as my
It is said that an autobiography comprise the story of a life and that memoir consists of a story from a life. A life can hold, and a person can write, many memoirs. But we have only one telling of the factual events constituting our life.
As a story from a life, a memoir consists of scenes from that life, or more importantly, moments from the aspect, area, or slice of our life that one is focusing upon.
The dimension of life
My earliest memory is of interacting with my mother. I was around three or four years old and presented my mother a flower that I had placed in a glass Log Cabin syrup bottle.
My mother had been standing to the kitchen sink. She was washing dishes.
I had spent the last half hour to forty-five minutes scraping
A client once described herself as her mother’s Barbie doll. “Some days, Mom liked Barbie. Other days she hated me.”
I always took special care of my Barbie dolls, all the dolls I received for Christmas and other occasions. I also knew
by JCT(Loves)Streisand* My first pregnancy occurred when I was twenty-seven. It was planned. A young minister’s wife had said, after hearing my lament the emptiness I was feeling then in the fourth year of my marriage, “You need a child.” This was probably an easy response for her to make in that at twenty-eight […]
When I think back on my late teens and early twenties–I met my now husband when I was seventeen years old–I am amazed that I married, that he wanted me and that we have remained together for thirty-two years.vWe’ve known each other thirty-six.
I tried committing suicide, my second attempt, three months after meeting my husband, then boyfriend. We met in August of 1978, my first week as a college freshman. He was a junior, practically 4.0 student, majoring in Chemistry and with aspirations