I often think of my mother, who died more than 20 years ago, sometimes in ways I didn't anticipate. I was always irritated at having to call her on Sunday at 10am, no matter where I was and with whom. Now I'd love to check in with her. No one is as interested as she was in the boring, mundane details of my life (granted, I withheld a lot of the good stuff from her, so she had
Freud’s Butcher
A blog about Genealogy, Psychology, and Meat
