September 8, 2003
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LIKE THE FIRST MORNING
a work in progress
Chapter One – New York City 1939
In the year I was born war was declared, Sigmund Freud died, and with hope and trepidation the first edition of the “Big Book” of Alcoholics Anonymous was published. July 24 of that year was sultry – nothing unusual for a New York summer.
My father- tall, thin, introvertedly brilliant – was in the process of “breaking down.” This mysterious phrase haunted me for years, making me wonder if I, too, possessed the elements of such a degeneration, delicate nerves somehow unraveling in a way that would show on the surface and influence the lives of everyone around me forever.
My 
, a luminous young Communist, was involved with the WPA as World War II developed. Her lifelong motto had already formed: “As long as a soul in the world is suffering, we can never be happy.”
_________________(to be continued)
Deep Thought: If Alien was my friend, I’d like to be with him when he went to the dentist. When they started drilling, he’d probably go nuts and start eating everybody. That Alien!
Comments (5)
I think it’s a great idea to write your history here. I remember reading this earlier, and more of the story, and it held my attention all along. I hope you’ll finish it.
THanks Alice, I was reading LetMeGoToo’s Trucker Stories she just posted this morning and thought why not.
(blush) I’m honored. I look forward to reading your life stories!
I am intrigued and fascinated by the way you use words. May I continue to read your personal history?
Sure, I thought I’d post a bit each day that anybody can read.