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Anne Hobson Freeman

Author

Three Chopt Road and Iris Lane

(Dedicated to the memory of my other grandfather b. 1867 d.1938) This is the corner where he kissed me thirty-seven years ago and stepped into a Yellow Cab. Off to New York City to negotiate some business which turned out to be dying. I rem [...]

At the Museum

The telephone was ringing, but Louise Reeves had her girdle only halfway on. Billows of white flesh were foaming at the waistband. She couldn't stop now. No matter who that was. "Will you get it, Essie?" she shouted toward the hall. "And tell them [...]

A Question of Timing

"How about another drink?" Peter says to the out-of-town lawyer he has brought home unexpectedly for dinner. And he plucks the empty glass out of the man's hand. "A short one," he explains to me, "while you're putting dinner on the table." "But d [...]

The Girl Who Was No Kin to the Marshalls

It began bank at her birth, or at least her baptism, when she was named Clare Colston for the mother of her Richmond grandmother. Although this fact endeared her to her relatives in Richmond, it endangered her in Lexington, a dark, alien, and mount [...]

Hugh

I am standing on the terrace of the Alumnae House, listening to a classmate from Pem East whom I remember chiefly for her gentle wit and acne—which has cleared up completely after 25 years—and the egg stains on her pale blue woolen bathrobe. S [...]

Breakfast With My Grandfather

On fragile finger bones tight stretched with translucent time-spotted parchment, the coin silver spoon is barely balanced. Silently we watch it sink into the bog of cornflakes. And we wait, you and I, too shy to press for recognition. And sure enough [...]