Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once wrote, “Letters are among the most significant memorial a person can leave behind them.” If I can make a judgement from this comment alone, my parents, especially my father, left me a very substantial way to remember them. The tub in the photo only holds
My parents were married at 2pm on 21 January 1951, at the Russian Eastern Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension, in New York City. The wedding reception was held immediately afterward on Park Avenue, at the home of my grandparents. It was a Sunday. The day was fair, although windy and
I have set myself a task for the first half of 2020. I would like to find the places my grandparents lived and worked in France, after their escape from Russia. This much I know: My grandparents were evacuated in March 1920 from the Port of Novorossiysk on the Black
My father was a hoarder. His house was not as bad as those you see on television, with stacks of newspapers lining the walls and furniture balancing on top of each other in the corners, but he certainly kept stuff. So much so that, when he died, I threw out
I have decided to write my memories of my youth, my life and now my “senior” years so that you will know your mother better. So begins the memoir my mother started but never finished. It is handwritten on just three pages of a notebook which was once thick. I
I was excited when I found several books at my local library on the Russian Revolution, including a few memoirs. I recently began to write a historical novel, set during the Russian Revolution and loosely based on the last couple of years of my maternal grandmother’s life. As some of