Lingering sting, and a vote for change in attitudes

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I thought I would never forget the time, the place, the season. What I wore. What she wore. The faces of the people I met that day.

But I have forgotten. It's a blur. The only thing I remember is wanting to cry.

I had taken my granddaughter, Lucy, into Boston to a modeling agency. She was 17 months old. My grandson Adam, Lucy's cousin, was barely 7 months. It was his mother's idea.

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Seeing the young person in the old

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Seeing the young person in the old

“Once upon a time, I was a little girl just like you,'' I tell my 3-year-old granddaughter.

And she squinches up her nose and shakes her head and says, ``No, you weren't.''

I show her pictures of me when I was 2 and 5 and 8. I say, ``See. I had hair just like yours.'' I show her my fourth-grade school picture. ``Look. Here I am.'' I call my childhood friend Rosemary and say, ``Rose? Talk to Charlotte. Tell her how old we were when we met.'' And Rose tells her that we were 7 and in second grade.

But Charlotte remains unconvinced.

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No point in wishing life away

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No point in wishing life away

Where did June go? And May? And why does February plod and March stall, while spring and summer fly by? It's July Fourth - the quintessential summer holiday - and I still have winter coats hanging in the front hall closet. I haven't planted any annuals yet. Or weeded my garden. My window boxes are empty. There's not a single flower on my deck. My marigolds are seeds in packages. The lawn furniture remains in the shed. And I haven't even begun to make a summer reading list.

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