Author: Erin O'Mara

A year ago, when my garden should have been thick with zucchini vines, my crop was a flop. The plants were weak and spindly from the start. I fertilized, watered and sweet-talked, coaxing a single anemic blossom into being.

I just had my annual ophthalmology appointment and made my annual call to my parents to share the doctor’s compliments on the eye surgeries I had as a child.

The thick blanket of snow glitters under a nearly full moon and the stars are poking through the navy sky. I love picking out the dippers.

It’s so cold in my house that I’m doing something I’m sure no woman in the history of the world has ever done. I’m wishing for a hot flash. Of course, when I need to turn my temperature regulation on its head, my hormones are stubborn and stable.

The Roaring ’20s were sparkling and romantic, a whirl of dancing and joy, resting atop a foundation of wealth inequality, crime and corruption. Industry had boomed. Technology was changing everything.