My daughter is in her mid-40s and lives in North Georgia with her hubby, a patent lawyer.
They vacation a lot in Hawaii.
She was young once, and I recently scanned this old photo. Here she sits in the passenger seat of a little Cessna I used to rent and fly through the skies of South Louisiana.
Even further back, I too was young. Here I am at age 17, standing on a lake’s edge somewhere in Florida with Janie Friedman with whom I was madly in love.
Look at her. Who wouldn’t be?
This girl caused me, inadvertently, endless grief. I dropped out of Vanderbilt University because of her. I talked my way out of the Air Force early because of her.
Jeez, she was way under my skin.
Just a few years ago, I found her on Facebook, living in New York City, which to a Jewish princess is the next best thing to Tel Aviv.
I sent her a message. Two messages. Three messages. No response.
I suppose it’s best to let sleeping princesses lie.
Let’s continue the time travel. Here I sit with my sister in our backyard in Jacksonville, Florida, on an Easter Sunday. She would have been about 15, and I would have been 12.
We were not a religious family, but folks got dolled up in those days on Easter Sunday, and maybe my paternal grandparents were there for a visit. They were very Christian.
About 30 years later, my sister went off the deep end, and she still swims in roiling, uncharted waters, something that saddens me.
Now let’s leap back another decade to about 1947, judging from the look of my sister. She’s flanked by the two grandmothers, paternal at left, maternal at right.
They’re sitting on one of the stoops at our farm in southwest Georgia.
God only knows where I was.
Probably sucking on a bottle, a habit I did not break for 50 years.