I was raised in Hollywood. My Dad was a record producer at Capitol Records; my childhood memories are punctuated with music, concerts, recording sessions and even the Grammy Awards. My Mother, UCLA Class of 1937, stopped working outside the home during the early years of her marriage. She was 40 years old when I was born; my dad was 43. I have one sister, who is an accomplished artist and arts administrator.
Our parents took a keen and active interest in our educations. After my graduation, also from UCLA, I left Los Angeles.
A year later, my father died. My Mother took her first job outside our home in decades, and thrived in her work at an art gallery until her retirement in her 83rd year.
I am married and live in New York City. I work in marketing and fund-raising.
For many years, I viewed my life in Los Angeles through a rear view mirror.
That perspective changed when my mother exhibited unmistakable signs of dementia. At first slowly, then dramatically, my priorities were challenged. She needed me as no one had ever needed me before.
An independent woman had raised an independent woman; suddenly neither of us was holding that flag.
I dedicate my writing to my grandmothers, whom I never met. But I am named after them, and that is enough.