My grandmother came to this country when she was twenty, and married three years later. She became totally Americanized, and told my grandfather — “We are in America. We speak English,” although she was fluent in four languages. She raised four children, including my mother, but found time to go to school and become active in “causes.” She was a labor union organizer, made speeches in Union Square (NYC), and was a suffragist. She was always a political activist. She had an inquiring mind and read anything she could, including The New York Times, even when she was half blind, until she died at 87. She was my inspiration. She taught me to think for myself and fight for what I think is right. Oddly enough, my mother was the complete opposite. She was very happy to follow the crowd and be a typical 1950’s housewife. I guess it skips a generation.

I’ve been frosting (or highlighting) my hair for many years. As the grey takes over, it’s becoming very difficult to distinguish between the frosting and the natural color. So I’m thinking of becoming totally blonde. I’m just afraid it may be too much bother to maintain. There used to be a product that was designed to cover only the grey, but they’ve apparently stopped making it.

rocky rocky — You’re more than welcome.

I think anyone who got a $20 million settlement would be just as optimistic and full of “joie de vivre.” But maybe I’m just a cynical old grouch.

I use SPF 85. I’ve heard that anything over SPF 30 is useless, but for the extra cost, I think it’s worth it just to be sure. When I was a teenager, I would lie in the sun for hours, and loved it, but in those days we thought it was good for you — all that Vitamin D! I don’t know whether I’m more concerned with skin cancer or wrinkles, but I lavish the stuff on when I’m out in the sun.

I am a voracious reader — I don’t watch TV and prefer to sit on my screened porch listening to classical music and reading. OK — I go indoors in the winter, but still don’t watch TV. I get most of my books from the used book sales that our local libraries run a couple of times a year, so my selections are not current. My tastes aren’t particularly highbrow — I prefer mysteries and trashy romances (though not “too” trashy — even I have my standards). It’s my form of relaxation, after working hard all day and after years of reading serious, heavy stuff in college and grad school. Jude Devereaux, anyone?

I would like to sleep eight hours — even seven if possible, but I automatically wake up at six each morning. I usually take a nap in the afternoon, though — I nod off at about three o’clock.

Anything by Edna St. Vincent Millay, but especially these — What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. and — The Agnostic The tired agnostic longs for prayer More than the blest can ever do: Between the chinks in his despair, From out the forest he peeps through Upon a clearing stunned so bright He cups his eyeballs from its light. He for himself who would decide What thing is black, what thing is white, Whirls with the whirling spectrum wide, Runs with the running spectrum through Red, orange, yellow, green and blue And purple, — turns and stays his stride Abruptly, reaching left and right To catch all colours into light — But light evades him: still he stands With rainbows streaming through his hands. He knows how half his hours are spent In blue or purple discontent, In red or yellow hate or fright, And fresh young green whereon a blight Sits down in orange overnight. Yet worships still the ardent sod For every ripped and ribboned hue, For warmth of sun and breath of air, And beauty met with everywhere; Not knowing why, not knowing who Pumps in his breath and sucks it out, Nor unto whom his praise is due. Yet naught nor nobody obeys But his own heart, which bids him, “Praise!” This, knowing that doubled were his days Could he but rid his mind of doubt — Yet will not rid him, in such ways Of awful dalliance with despair — And, though denying, not betrays. **************************** As an agnostic, the latter is particulary poignant for me. I discovered it when I was in college and it immediately resonated within.

The problem with the cover is that it reinforces prejudices. Many people considered Archie Bunker a role model, not realizing he was a “satire.” What if the cover had been printed on the National Review, rather than the New Yorker?

Since this is fantasy, I would bring peace and love throughout the world. My name would be “Supermommy” (that’s what my kids called me when they were little) and I would wear red — tights, clingy blouse, a mini-skirt and a cape. Oh, yes, I would also have the power to clean up my desk!

I find gardening so relaxing and rewarding. My garden is a work in progress — I don’t think it will ever be finished. Every year I look at it, and plan where I’m going to move things for next year. Unfortunately, we have deer and other critters that enjoy the plants, too, so I have to spray constantly. This year, I decided to grow tomatoes, so I planted six big pots and put them on the patio. I’ve covered them with netting and planted marigolds at the base (they’re supposed to be a natural deterrent), but I’ll bet the animals will get to them first.

I guess it all depends on whether you mean physically or mentally. Given the obsession with age in this country, I’d say time is not kind to women. Older men look distinguished — women look old. However, I think that mentally, women improve at a far greater pace than men. Women learn to adapt to changes and to conquer setbacks. I’ve heard it said that after a mate dies — women reorganize; men remarry. That’s probably because so many men have never learned to take care of themselves.

They are so clever! And it’s really non-partisan — I can even laugh at the digs at the Dems. And who said Liberals have no sense of humor?

The problem is that too many people will not realize it’s satire and will take it seriously. It will feed right into their prejudices. I remember when Archie Bunker was spewing his racist rants. It was also supposed to be satire, but there were many people who saw him as a role model. My father for one — bigoted a*****e that he was.

Tallulah, my beautiful nine-year-old British Blue — “Where’s my food?” “Go away and let me sleep.” “That chair’s mine; please get off it.”