We are formed by what we desire

I grew up in a family where, through my teenage years, I was expected to go to church on Sunday. It wasn't terribly painful.

Because who can describe that look that triggers the memory of loved ones? Who can anticipate the frown, the smile, or the misplaced lock of hair that sends a swift, undeniable signal from the past? Who can ever estimate the power of association, which is always strongest in moments of love and in memories of death?

Good habits are worth being fanatical about.

In a school community, someone who reads a book for some secretive purpose, other than discussing it, is strange. What was she reading for?

I was brought up in a community, in a family that valued such things as good manners, and I still do.

Ever since the Christmas of 1953, I have felt that the yuletide is a special hell for those families who have suffered any loss or who must admit to any imperfection; the so-called spirit of giving can be as greedy as receiving-Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who's not home.