Walking thru my building lobby on my way out to the dry cleaners, I realized my Dominican doorman was staring at the elaborately embroidered caftan I was carrying on my arm, bought by my son on a trip to Kazakstan. “This week is the Jewish holiday of Purim when we celebrate by getting drunk and dressing up in costumes.”, I explained with a smile. “Oh yes, we know,” said our Irish concierge from behind the lobby desk, “because every year just about this time Mrs...
My uncle Milton wasn’t exactly a hardened criminal, but the truth is he was once caught breaking and entering. Most of the time Milt was a mild-mannered, slightly absent-minded professor of chemistry at Smith College and lived with my aunt Roseanne in Northampton, Massachusetts in a wonderful Revolutionary-era house at the end of Popular Hill Road. Once there had been a sign on their road that read DEAD END, but my aunt Rosie was a published author and the chair of the Northampton...
I was saddened to learn about restaurateur Barbara Smith’s battle with Alzheimer’s, and now she and her husband have chronicled their life with this debilitating disease in their book Before I Forget. I have followed Barbara career since she was a beautiful young model and in 1976 the second African American to grace the cover of Mademoiselle magazine. Also a talented Southern cook, Barbara went on to open the highly successful B. Smith’s restaurant in New York’s...
I don’t think of myself as an especially spiritual person, but some months ago I had a religious experience. You may remember I blogged about two talented thespians in my family — my great-aunt Miriam and my uncle Sol. (See THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT, June 15, 2015) Miriam, a generation older, died many years ago, but Sol died this past June, just short of his 96th birthday. Uncle Sol was a surrogate father of sorts to my husband, and grandfather to my son, and a...
When I was in high school I don’t remember anyone making a big fuss over college admissions. In fact what I remember most about senior year was shopping with my mother for my college wardrobe, walking around Greenwich Village with my friends, and slow dancing to 50s rock ‘n’ roll in dark living rooms. And I certainly don’t remember writing my college essay, because in fact my father wrote it for me. I don’t remember why he did, I guess I was just too...
Welcome to my blog World Thru Brown Eyes! Enjoy the read and please leave a comment and tell me how this old world looks thru YOUR eyes!
