Burnt Chocolate Stories

 In 1986, I volunteered at the Evanston Women's Shelter for Battered Women. I was an outreach spokesperson for any organization that asked for presentations. I explained why spanking a child is the least effective discipline tool, why abused women need sanctuary, how laws to protect battered women need to be passed. I also listened to the painful stories from women who sought refuge for themselves and their children, from husbands and boyfriends, afraid for their lives. Literally. Through these brave women, I learned what it meant to live in an abusive relationship. These women risked their lives to save themselves and their children. Often, they escaped in the middle of the night, to seek shelter and protection. As we were protesting on Lafayette Hill on Saturday, a fellow protester told me about an article she read that compares what our country is living through now, to an abusive relationship. I hadn't thought about that before, but it makes perfect sense to me. We ask, why...

1976 - Matt in Japan with his Dad      I sometimes say that every ten years I push the delete button in my brain to make room for new information. It's just a game I play to cover myself for whatever I can't seem to remember-names, dates, places. About thirty years ago, I started to write a collection of stories about my early years as a mother. I regret that I didn't write more of them when the memories were fresher and I could conjure up the experiences as if they just happened. Going through my files, I happened upon this little piece that taught me an important lesson. The year is 1976. We've lived in our house for just two years and the garage has stretched as far as it can to accommodate two cars, five bicycles, two tricycles, a lawn mower and gardening tools. Shelves in front of the windows creak with automotive supplies. Baseballs, basketballs, soccer balls, golf balls and tennis balls randomly bounce under the cars, creeping into the corners. A tinny red gas ca...

 In 1974, we moved into a beautiful house in Evanston, Illinois on a tiny street next to the beach called Edgemere Court. Older residents were moving out and we were one of the newcomers with young children. Janice and Charlie Feldstein, who lived across the street from us, were great neighbors whose company we enjoyed. Several years later, the last of their children graduated from college and they moved to a condo in downtown Chicago. Within a few months, a new family moved in with two children much younger than ours. We welcomed them to the neighborhood but didn't spend much time together.  A few years later, I was asked to do the collections for cancer research for our block since I knew all of the neighbors and had the time. So of course, I called the neighbors across the street.  When the wife answered the phone, I said, "Hi Pam, How are you?" She answered, "Oh, hi Barb. I'm doing fine." Not having spoken more than a few words to each other in passing, ...