Stories I Tell Myself
Linda Brody Bakst on Brooklyn, growing up, identity and more
Year: 2018
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Last Monday I came out of the doctor’s office and checked my cell phone and found that I missed a call from my brother, Mark. I got in my car, made sure the Bluetooth was connected, and called him back. “Hey, I see I missed a call from you. How are you doing?” “I’m on…
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It was 1990. We had just celebrated Daniel’s first birthday, and Leah was fast approaching three years old. I was working full time for the Legislative Commission on Expenditure Review (LCER). Gary was finishing the first year of his Endocrine Fellowship. The kids were in daycare at Kidskeller. Those are the facts. Gary and I…
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Another Monday morning. Unfortunately I do not have a blog post ready yet. A combination of the business of life and a minor obsession with Downton Abbey got in the way. I found Downton Abbey on Amazon a couple of weeks ago, having not watched it when it aired originally, and it is official: I…
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A woman stands in the middle of a room Like a sculpture I sit, studying her I know her. I shift seats I study her again I see variations, but the image holds. A chill wind blows She shifts her stance Bracing herself I see her face. I don’t recognize her Who…
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Note: Gary’s Dad was hospitalized last Thursday morning with difficulty breathing. Gary flew down to Florida to be with him and oversee his care. He wrote this on the flight down and gave me permission to share it. It is a trip I have taken before. It is filled with dread and anxiety. It is…
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Class ended. Mercifully, after two and a half hours of policy analysis and evaluation, it was time for lunch. A group of six of us, all full time graduate students at Columbia, had a habit of going to the diner a couple of blocks down Amsterdam Avenue after class. I gathered up my stuff and…
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Changes were afoot in 1982. It was a big year for the Brody family. Joshua, the first grandchild, born to my brother and sister-in-law, Mark and Pam, arrived February 1st. In April Uncle Terry and Aunt Barbara moved from the upstairs apartment in Canarsie to a large suburban house in Morganville, New Jersey.…
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Book clubs have a long history in my family. Growing up, I recall my parents, who were both teachers, periodically hosting their book club at our house. This involved cocktails, hors d’oeuvres and dinner. I would help my mother with the preparations and once the guests arrived, I said my hellos and retreated to my…
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I am working on my next blog post, but it isn’t ready yet….stay tuned!
