I still remember when my father told us that his ad agency had hired a kid to write copy.  At last, somebody around my age to chat with on my next visit.   At the time, my father was in his early 40’s and we saw age distinctions differently. It turned out that by kid my father meant someone in his late 20’s — which at my age seemed practically middle-aged. Who’s old and who’s young depends largely on how old you are.   Someone in her seventies doesn’t seem as old to me as it once did  — especially when my spot in the 50’s lane grows more and more...

From my muse — for you to ponder, too. More on the subject of beloved caregivers to follow soon. www.democracyjournal.org/24/a-subsidy-for-dignity.php?page=all

My mother was so deft with a needle.  Living room curtains, my turquoise poodle skirt, an unusual outfit for my Barbie — all spun out of her head into our lives.  Impeccably knit sweaters, bronze sculptures, then on to her calling:  weavings that lend grace where they’re hung.  I’ve written about my mother, who at 95 is now caught in the Alzheimer’s web.  Unfortunately,  my DNA receptors stepped out of the room when the natural transfer of textile talent might have occurred. I forgive myself too quickly when I lose knitting stitches and carry on — head high, results...