The other day while going through one of my father’s storage cartons, I found a letter-sized box labeled “leaves.”
An introduction to a periodic series of journal posts reflecting on living with war, both past and present.
Several weeks ago I watched my outside thermometer drop to -13° Fahrenheit by bedtime, not an unusual winter temperature for Vermont. But that isn’t the coldest weather I’ve experienced, not by a long shot.
My mother earned two medical degrees, the first in 1936 and the second twelve years later. She always displayed the 1936 Chinese diploma in the most prominent spot.
My parents were newlyweds in 1930 when they crossed the Pacific Ocean to Shanghai, China. They were bound for the city of Chengdu in Sichuan province and their first of two tours of duty as medical missionaries.