Issue 6 | May, 2021
Women are the storytellers of the family. Our blog allows us to share our stories with people all over the world.

Feel free to forward this email to anyone you think might be interested in reading the stories or joining the class.
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Do you have stories to tell? Well, who doesn’t?

If you are a woman 55 or older, you’ve lived a rich and interesting life. You have a litany of stories to tell that other women would love to read. Join our fantastic group of interesting women just like you.
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The Cicadas!
Image by Michael Kropiewnicki.
Yes, the buzz around town is that the cicadas are coming! This is Brood X, which appears from the ground every 17 years. Any day now – when the ground temperature is in the 60s – they will emerge. Though their life cycle is short, thank goodness, the not-so-little buggers are way too annoying.
This is what I remember about cicadas going back 51 years.
A Dark and Stormy Night
It didn’t start out as a dark and stormy night. The heavy rains came after my husband and “outdoor chef,” Bruce, stood at the grill, out in the open, grilling our feast of hot dogs, hamburgers and veggie burgers. Since we love grilled food better than cooking it on the stove or in the oven, he was determined to continue grilling. Our family, under the roof of the screened in porch, overlooking the back yard, stayed nice and dry.
Old Habits Don’t Die, Pun Intended
The purpose of this vignette is to give a humorous example of what I believe is a not so uncommon phenomenon: old habits don’t die, pun intended.
My mother died in the summer of 1990. I was born in 1947 and grew up in the Flatbush section of the borough of Brooklyn, New York. It was a low to upper, at best, middle-class neighborhood. Lillie Rubin was an upscale designer women’s clothing store that did not belong there.
The Glasses — a Story from My Past
“But I copied it off the board,” I cried as my father tried to help me with my homework. 
“Linda,” my father said, “There’s no such word as “c-f-t-a.” My lower lip started to quiver. “But Daddy, the teacher wouldn’t put it on the board if there was no such word,” I said between hiccoughing gulps. 
Putting his arm around me, my father said, “It’s okay, Dimple Face, everyone makes mistakes sometimes.”