Marilyn Gould

As a four-year-old, whenever I saw beautiful flowers—also known to adults as weeds—I’d pick them, roots, bugs, and all, and bring them to my mother. She would always stop what she was doing, cut the roots off, shake out the bugs, and arrange them in a glass, which was actually a pint-sized mason jar. She’d … Read more

Mother’s pantry, just off the kitchen, wasn’t very big. There was just enough room for the wringer washing machine on the left as you entered, and the flour barrel to the right of the doorway that led to our playroom (which later became a dining room), a few cupboards, a small counter area, and the … Read more

(and a Good Story)