Interim Report
Our Son the Author



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Fifty years and five months ago, Peter and I got married. Although only twelve people attended our wedding, I did wear a white dress. A friend of my mother made an “unrequested” wedding veil for me. Its headband was covered in (not real) daisies.

I remember putting the box containing the veil on the roof of my red VW beetle while I unlocked the car. Then I drove off.

So much for my veil.

Unfortunately, someone found it and turned it in to the little corner grocery store. So I wore it, but it didn’t stop me from loving daisies.

Earlier this week, walking back from the gym, I decided to buy some flowers. Although much of Harvard Square near where we live is mall-ified, the florist shop has been there forever. The owner’s son was not surprised when I asked for daisies.

“You know,” I said to him, “I think I have been buying daisies from you for more than forty years.”   “It’s possible,” he said. “I’ve been here for fifty.”

It’s so nice to be “home”.



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Lovely. (I carried daisies 52 years ago,)

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