When I was growing up in the fifties, the weight of society was ever present. Every adult that swam into my orbit felt a responsibility and the freedom to correct and guide me.

I took typing my sophomore year in high school. It was called just that --- typing--- and the class room was filled with only females. After all we were the ones who were going to become secretaries, and the males absent from that room were the ones who were going to direct our flying fingers.

If you had asked me yesterday, I would have told you that the girdle was a thing of the past, a torturous remnant left over from my young adulthood. They were sold in lingerie departments and dress shops, and could be had in any color to match the rest of your undergarments, including your full length slip, another victim of female liberation.

I recently read an article in The New Yorker magazine about a venerable, but changing institution in Britain. The changes are disturbing long-held, treasured beliefs about establishments which in reality are not quite what they seemed.

There are many things I have taken for granted over the years, and one of those things is the local public library. It has always just been there, a source of a wide selection of reading material and a wonderful place for research.

One of the nice dividends of being older is that one has gained long-term friends over the years.  These are people who remember you when life was filled with children, but pockets were relatively empty. 

A recent trip to get a haircut left me thinking about how much that staple of female life has changed in seventy years. In the fifties it was an aggressively female place, with lots of decorating involving pink plastic and fake sparkle.

I am reading the latest book in the Alexander McCall Smith series about Mma Ramotswe who is the owner of the Number1 Ladies Detective Agency in Botswana. Aside from the charm of the series leading lady, what strikes one is the love she has for her country, its customs and its history.

My grandmother wore hats---not the fantastic confections that reside on the heads of female royalty, but small, close-fitting cloches that fit her petite frame. These hats lived in round boxes at the top of her closet, and were worn on all special occasions including church every Sunday.

I had not seen this picture before it turned up on Facebook on Memorial Day as a reminder to all of us to remember those who have served our nation. It is a picture from World War II of 12 young men standing in front of a B-29 Superfortress Bomber. They are on an air base in the middle of a hot desert in northern India.

With the virus changing every aspect of our lives in the past year, it has sometimes been difficult not to lose our joy.

We have heard the term heroes a great deal during our current health crisis. And certainly there are heroes, particularly those who march into hospitals every day to take care of their fellow countrymen struck down by the virus. I think particularly about the nurses who have been doing their jobs day-in and day-out for years without the recognition they are now finally getting.

One of the aphorisms of my youth was the statement 'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' From my current perspective I think I have to disagree with that statement.

“What a good deal,” one of my children exclaims, and I look at the price of the particular object they are contemplating and all I can think is, “Surely this (fill in the blank) cannot cost this much.” This is not an infrequent event, but one that happens all the time.

My blog is hosted by a company which has a feature that shows where the interest in my various observations is coming from. It has been fun to watch the space grow (although by internet standards it is a very modest growth), not only in the United States but abroad as well.

All of our lives we have been surrounded by quotes, some of which we forget when they are no longer relevant, and some of which we remember finding them useful for our whole lives. But the best quotes are those that grow and expand in our thoughts as their meanings become deeper with the passing of years.

I once knew a bright and shining star that flew across the heavens of my life lighting up its skies. She was a gifted athlete, a remarkable scholar, a deep thinker, a good friend, a treasured sister, and a beloved daughter.

My father, piloting a B-29 bomber in Asia, was shot down and killed in World War II. I was fifty years old before I met a single person whose parent had been lost in that war. That did not mean for one minute that I did not believe in the approximately 400,000 American deaths that occurred as a result of that war. I did not have to know them personally, to believe in their loss in addition to my own.

When I was growing up many of the houses that I lived in and visited had only one bathroom. This was considered normal in the 50s as many of those who lived in the houses of that era had grown up with outside facilities. That lone inside toilet was an appreciated luxury.

I hope the person in this picture is as happy with her life as her daughter thinks she is. To me her expression looks somewhat doubtful sandwiched as she is between her obviously caring daughter’s heartfelt letter, and the too cutsie advertisement with the double entendre use of the word spirits.