Memorial Day

Yes I am writing. I will deliver pages each week. Writers require deadlines, therefore write faster when older. I always wanted to be a Columnist (No, not Communist!) Maybe for one of the newspapers, like the Chicago Tribune, the Washington Post, or of course the New York Times. I am 84 years old: A proud part of a new and forceful generation. Do not, I warn you, call me widow!

The word "Blog" is unattractive. I am therefore posting words to be called “Veteran.” Google definition: “A person who has long experience in a particular field.” My column is about living now with occasional notes from the salty golden age of Hollywood and the ripe alluring years of publishing in Manhattan. I’ll write about the writers I knew and columnists I admired, such as Studs Terkel. (I’d take the train to Chicago for every book tour so I could have lunch with him each time.) I’ll also be introducing you to particularly talented new writers.

I’ve been writing a memoir since 1990. A book about how much love can cost and when it’s worth every cent. My sister reminded me that Charles Dickens used to send his books a chapter at a time to newspapers. “Right,” I said. I thought to myself, this way I can simply post these stories that have no end.

“No one reads love memoirs anyway,” an editor recently told me. During this plague, I don’t celebrate birthdays. And, as it is, “we” are all away…

Once upon a time, my birthday was always on Memorial Day. The American flag was lowered halfway down to honor the young men, including two of my cousins, who went overseas to war. They came back.

Mickey the Marine, handsome as Superman, did not come back.

Milly, our governess, had been waiting so hard for him. After she got the news, Milly drove us way over to the Veteran’s graveyard, a field of white crosses, plunging and rising like a harsh surf. I was carrying the marine doll Mickey gave me when he was on furlough. We gathered around a grave and all sang, “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

Growing up we were all worried almost all the time. The war, like now, had ruined everything we thought we knew. Nothing has ever been simple, even long ago. I held my marine doll tight. By each grave there was a small gathering of people, heads lowered like sad trees.