By Gloria Bares, Author of A Bionic Woman, her book of memoirs On many Saturday mornings I sit with my grandmother, Mimi, on the porch outside her flat in Los Angeles, California, enjoying our favorite breakfast: fresh raspberries I call “garnets” dolloped with whipped cream and just a little cereal on top.   This is…

By Gloria Bares When I was young, I loved gardening days with my Dad. I’d see him, clippers, snippers and spade in hand. walking toward our backyard, his garden, his second home. I remember his six foot two inch frame, curled over the flower beds of zinnias, daisies, geraniums. Nasturtiums–orange, red-orange and yellow– spilled lazily over the borders….

By Gloria Bares Maybe it was my grandfather Poppie’s voice as he read stories aloud, sparking words to life, his face lined and shadowed, revealing his feelings. I held my breath, spellbound, disappearing into the words of the story. Or when we’d read Longfellow’s “Hiawatha” together. The rhythm of our voices tapped my inner drum, quickened…

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