I don’t ever recall hearing my father’s name, Walter, being spoken aloud. He was Papa to his grandchildren and Dad to his son, Warren, and older daughter, Gladys. I think my mother called him Dad as well. He was Daddy to me and Mr. Hickman to everybody else. “Daddy” gave his age as 45...
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My first memory of Mother was her singing “All the Pretty Little Horses” to me at bedtime. We were upstairs in our living quarters above Half-A-Hill T House, my parents’ restaurant/nightclub near Springfield, Mo. I can remember a tune like “Honeysuckle Rose” drifting up to us from Mickey Marcel’s band down below. The fact...
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Sherwood Forest is alive and well at The Adventure Park at Sandy Spring Friends School. You won’t encounter Robin and his merry men, but children ages 8 and up, teenagers, adults and many seniors can maneuver through the old trees as handily as Robin Hood’s band in the legends of medieval England. The “largest...
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My sister Gladys was 25 when I was born, and I became an aunt instantly to the almost 2-year-old son of my sister. This often created some confusion for folks outside my family and sometimes within our family circle as well. Gladys had elected herself Second Mother (in the style of the Chinese) and...
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My life has seemed to be a series of beginnings. Each one has felt to be disconnected from my previous life … no transition from one to the other. For instance, I was born and brought up in my parents’ restaurant /nightclub named “Half–A-Hill.” It was 5 miles from Springfield, Mo. I couldn’t conceive...
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I didn’t even need a sweater outside in late November this year, but Christmas decorations have had already started to bloom in all the stores and shopping centers near the community where I live. In fact, I’ve seen signs of Christmas in stores since before Halloween. That would never have happened in Springfield, Mo....
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One day a few weeks ago the mailman knocked at my door. “Package for you,” he said, and I opened the door. Leaning against the wall was a small jiffy envelope with the return address of my great-niece in Springfield, Mo., and “Fragile” was marked in large letters beside my address. I was mystified...
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You’re here by yourself?” a fellow traveler asked me on a recent cruise I took from Baltimore to Halifax, Nova Scotia. “Yes, indeed. I’ve been traveling by myself for a long time,” I reassured him. “I can go where and when I please; I don’t have to worry whether someone else is having a...
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One Sunday this past June I decided to check out the farmers’ market in Olney. It was beastly hot and humid, not a good day for browsing, but I parked, gathered up my cane and my shopping bag and set forth over the bumpy, uneven ground that led to the market. I’d only taken...
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Ever since I read “John Steinbeck: A Writer” by Jay Parini, I’ve longed to visit his literary landscape of Monterey County, Calif. I’ve yearned to see Cannery Row in Monterey, Monterey Bay, and especially Salinas, Calif., Steinbeck’s birthplace and now the home of the Steinbeck Center. The Center may be one of America’s less...
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