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A first-time voter, a calm mother, a girl who wouldn’t be bullied
By Our ReadersJune 1995In the summer of 1958, the summer before I started kindergarten, my family — my mother; my father; my sister, Marie; my mother’s mother; and I — took its first and last family vacation.
By Joseph BathantiMarch 1995I knew I was in trouble. It was the way Mama looked at me from across the dining-room table, like I had wandered off and left her, even though I was sitting right there.
By V. Diane WoodBrownMarch 1995An aroused Ferris-wheel operator, a guest with a penchant for eavesdropping, a mother with a botched suicide attempt
By Our ReadersMarch 1995The past rushes into the room, breathless, dressed in something outrageous she just threw together.
By Sy SafranskyMarch 1995No one knows exactly when my sister disappeared. When I think of her now, a funnel, dark and deep, opens before me, echoing back her name: Victoria.
By Gillian KendallFebruary 1995An overwhelmed train traveler, an Interrail passenger using a Third Reich map, a map aficionado
By Our ReadersFebruary 1995My parents were dancers. Though practical and predictable in all else, they let their passions surface in the rumba, the tango, the dances that conjured up exotic places and smoldering emotions.
By Jill WolfsonFebruary 1995Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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