In 1972, amid war, Watergate, and wild family dynamics, I learned the most enduring lesson of that era: never leave pot brownies where the babysitter can find them.
I fled through an egg fight at the dairy, dodging rotten eggs and laughter, savoring wild childhood freedom and fresh cold milk after.
The summer I hitched my skateboard to Billy’s wheelchair, we defied gravity, common sense, and every warning—sealing a lifelong friendship in a single wild, perfect ride.
Mom’s prized “pearls” from her employer were fake glass beads, but to her, and us, they were priceless symbols of grace and dignity.
Watched a failed missile test above Catalina; reminded me of mass extinctions—sudden disaster silencing Earth’s vibrant life forever.
On Oct 17, 1989, a 6.9 quake rocked SF—just as acupuncture saved me from years of cluster headaches. Fate, timing, and healing aligned.
Margaret Mead visited our Iowa home. My daughter charmed her while I served East African curry. That night sparked memories—and maybe inspired Jennifer’s future at Barnard.
Face to face with Kwisanga, a mighty silverback, I found awe, humility, and a renewed resolve to protect our primate kin.
At Revel, I discovered a love of poetry, a few laughs, and the wisdom to know when to lay down my pen.
Vienna, 1982: I met a duvet, ditched sheets forever, and discovered the cloud-like joy of effortless, cozy sleep. Total game-changer.
In 2009, inspired by Julie & Julia, I met one new person every day for a year—armed with bold questions, a Word doc of prompts, and a sense of adventure.