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She liked to cook and she loved flowers and antiques and painting. She adored
Grandma Zillmann, and together they made pressed-flower pictures and
designed birthday cakes for local children; their favorite cake was an elaborately
happy face with shredded coconut for hair and M & Ms for freckles. Margaret
loved it when Grandma Zillmann baby-sat. I loved it when Grandpa Roach came
and taught us to play poker. Beginning in our youth, the greatest difference
between Margaret ...
That was when the letters started; coley wrote to thank me. I loved my father's
eccentricity. I loved his calm. I loved my mother's strength. She was working on
the corner of Houston Street and Avenue D, which is not a safe neighborhood.
But she loved the children. Though some of the stories she brought home were
wonderful, my mother in the slums was not just a self-righteous suburban woman
assuaging her guilt. She cared. She had a strained and jump-started commitment
to the ...
Even as a copy kid, I found myself in arguments at parties about the validity of a
story, about the politics of the paper, about specific reporters. I was very proud to
be working there. For even my first stories, the ease with which an interview was
granted was astonishing. My father, having been there for thirty-five happy years,
had developed an absolutely reverential glow when the subject was the Times.
He told me I would love it, and I did. I loved seeing the reporters come and go
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Another name for madnessUser Review - Not Available - Book Verdict
Drawing on personal experience, Roach describes the devastating effects of Alzheimer's disease. When her vibrant mother was in her early fifties, she began to exhibit the early symptoms of this ... Read full review