Through The Front Door

One Man’s March

I long thought that my husband, Forrest, should write his story for this column, but since he passed away recently, the task falls to me. I’ll try to tell his story and a little bit of my own.

Forrest, an African-American, grew up in rural Alabama in a family of sharecroppers. He came of age in the late 1960s. I grew up in the same era, but in an affluent Northern suburb. I am white. Read more »

Lost Opportunity

An Exception to the Rule

In the 1950s and ’60s I had the good fortune to live in New York City, right across from Riverside Park. Our 325-acre back yard offered sledding in winter, and for the rest of the year I could race my Schwinn throughout the park. I was allowed to roam freely as long as I promised never to talk to strangers. If you obey no other rule, my mother used to say, obey this one. (I thought that was a good deal and obeyed no other rules.) Read more »