When Russia bombed Odessa last year, my sorrow for her people stirred up an old regret: a powerful, long-standing feeling that there, long ago, I disappointed my Grandpa Ben. I was sixteen and my grandfather Benjamin Graham was seventy-three. We were passengers on a...
When I was a little girl, I knew my Grandpa Ben was rich. He and his family and their awfully nice help person Lucy occupied a gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, while my family lived in an ordinary house near New Haven. The summer I turned six, my family was...
How extraordinary that, just when I’m ready to write about my Grandpa Ben, I find this photograph of him tucked in a box on my office shelf. I don’t remember seeing the photo before, but surely I must have when it arrived by airmail, almost fifty years ago. The...
