It was Friday night. We had just walked in from a supper of hamburgers and Cokes, with all the family, at the Soda Fountain.
A friend, Barbara, texted urgently that our mutual friend, Dinah, was being rushed to the hospital. Possibly a stroke.
Dinah, a dark-haired beauty from my girlhood, was a teenager when I was in patent leather shoes and lace-trimmed socks. Dinah wore dr...
To access content, please login or purchase a subscription starting at just $5.
