Sixty years ago, I astonished my parents by moving to Boston.  I had graduated from college and didn’t have a job.  Most of my friends were either married or teachers (or both). I liked Pittsburgh, but I was looking for some adventure (and a husband).  It all worked out—great husband, kids, career.

But nobody knows you like your longtime friends.  In the last ten days, a childhood friend I’ve known since I was four visited us from Washington, D.C., the person I shared an office with in my first Boston job flew in from Los Angeles, and I was in touch with three high school classmates who live in Massachusetts.

At eighty-one, the people who knew me “when” are increasingly in my thoughts.  I feel a sense of anticipated loss that makes me want to check in with them.  The days are going by so much faster now. 





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My parents were from Pittsburgh and I lived there for my first 8 years. How well I remember the fantastic Carnegie Library and the Cathedral of Learning! We lived in Shadyside on an all-wooden street, Roslyn Place.
My father went to Taylor Allderdice and grew up on East End Avenue. My mother grew up in Wilkensburg. My youthful career began with an aborted day at Winchester Thurston where I had a panic attack because I could not open the metal box of crayons. The next day, to my great relief, my parents took me to The Liberty School which had a boys's entrance side and a girls's entrance side.

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