When I was little I was so struck by the sinking of the Andrea Doria I named my dolls Andrea and Doria. My mother thought this was very amusing, but I could never figure out why.
Incredibly, that’s the only disaster I can remember – are there so many more now, or is my childhood clouded with romantic mist?
It’s Tina’s birthday, and so on this rare day when I’m letting the botoxed blond newscasters on CNN and Fox invade my quiet space, and AP alerts keep binging on my cellphone, I present this misty birthday scene – MY birthday, but there’s Tina.
You can see the fashion for that year, starting with me on the right: the petticoated skirts, Mary Janes, white socks … and there’s Tina, who always marched to the beat of her own drum – in this case, sailor dress and moccasins. Tina had courage: she didn’t wear what Mean Girl Betsy Cosgrove (the one with her mouth open, proclaiming to the group) wore; what I, of less courage, wore.
Tina became my friend when the Mean Girl decided she was mad at me, and she still is (my friend, I mean, though Betsy could well still be mad). Now she marches to that drum in her artist studio in the high desert, still leading a life of her own design.