Growing up in Michigan, I read “Hiawatha,” but I was never exposed to the poems and stories of Jane Johnston Schoolcraft, a nineteenth-century Ojibway Indian from the Upper Peninsula. I was culturally deprived.
In the months and years before she died of breast cancer, Beverly Bondy Rose created a safe and loving place for her little daugher and the people around her.
Things were getting serious. My boyfriend had moved his goldfish into my apartment. I had returned from a long weekend to find that Jon had moved his dimestore pets from his place to mine. He was sheepish about this.
Christina likes pink. Given a choice, my five-year-old daughter will take the pink balloon, the pink panties, the pink baseball bat. And Christina likes her pink pink. Cerise, rose, fuchsia – none of the variations on the color pink will do it for her. She wants the real thing, powder puff pink, little girl pink.
My little son Peter likes money. He wants an allowance. Jon and I debated. Fifty cents a week? 75 cents? “Let’s not talk in cents,” said Peter, who is 6 1/2, pushing 7. “Let’s talk in dollars.”
In a few weeks my son would be eighteen. It would be time for him to sign up for Selective Service. I’d filled out forms and applications for my son for all of his eighteen years, but this was different. This piece of paper could send him off to war.