Margaret Wagner

On the morning of my sixth birthday, before I stepped off the airplane in Mumbai, India, then known as Bombay, my mother gave me a present, a Tammy doll. Tammy, more wholesome and sweet than a Barbie doll, had blonde hair, a comb and several outfits. Even more exciting was the carrying

I sat on a stone bench outside the ruins of Ephesus, Turkey with my 85-year old Grandma. She was a petite woman of 5’4,” hair barely peppered with silver and delicate hands that somehow retained a refined air despite decades of kneading pie dough,