Mother tense with the cooking: "Get out of my kitchen."

Gil and I ran down the hill to the River. Stayed out as long as possible.

The wool dresses I was forced to wear linger longer in memory than the turkey and mashed potatoes.

Ordeal of polite conversation. Father's students so handsome, and I so shy. Endlessly passing around hors d'oeuvres to avoid conversation. Small pieces of thin white bread shaped into hearts, diamonds, etc. with a variety of cookie cutters. Mother artfully decorated each from a palette of chopped parsley, chopped olives, finely sliced hard boiled eggs and pimentos.

My hair brushed back from my face. Gil and I at a separate table in the sun porch. Through the glass panes in the door we could see the grownups eating.