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I am currently at work on my autobiography. Here's a little so far:

My parents didn't tell me much about their lives. It wasn't my place to know.

I do know that my mother grew up in New York City. I remember hearing a record she had made with her pals in an amusement park booth in the 1940s. She sounded sweet, unassuming, with a sense of humor. Or a vulnerable kind of happiness. She said, “Will ya puh-leeeze?” in the comical way of the time. I drew a cover for it. The cover is gone, the record is gone. My mother was never a great one for keeping things. She didn't believe in getting attached to possessions. (Including mine.)

I wonder sometimes what it must have been to grow up a black girl in New York in the 40s. Was it great? She just didn't have much to say.

“What did you watch on TV?”

“Oh, I don't know, Uncle Miltie.”

“Why did you watch him?”

“There wasn't anything else on.”

No emotion one way or the other. Her past was a shrug. I picked up that it wasn't worthwhile asking questions.

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More soon,

Milt!