Beaches, boats, and bikinis. Station wagons filled with kids crammed into the way–back. Dancing lessons leading to semi–formal dances with white gloves and patent leather shoes––starting at age 8. Your father arriving on the New Haven line from New York at 6:10, the Times or Tribune under his arm. Sledding on the club’s golf course as kids, boys caddying on that same course as teens. Summer camp in Vermont with horse–back riding and tennis lessons. Weekend parties at someone’s pool, carrying cases with collections of 45s, and going steady. Schools touted as the best in the country. Pleated skirts, knee socks, and loafers. Trigonometry, vocabulary prep, and avid discussion of the merits of each of the seven sisters.

We are all shaped by our upbringing, and the setting my father chose for ours–– a modest ranch house in a good school district in the town of Stamford, Connecticut––seemed to fulfill  his upwardly mobile aspirations. We were 10 minutes from the beaches, walking distance from school, and surrounded by families with baby boomer kids our ages. My older sister was the pretty one, popular and talented. She quit college after one semester at UConn, but she married the son of the former mayor and Commissioner of the NBA, happily discarding her desire to be the next Sandra Dee for marriage and family. I was the nerdy one, constant reader, class officer, honor society, and voted most likely to succeed. I was destined to go to college––more importantly, to be a college girl.

And then my perfect life blew up!

It was years before I understood how the things that made me a “Connecticut girl” guided and affected my life––for better and for worse. Though we were not wealthy, we were privileged in ways I didn’t understand until much later. I was aware that the world was full of poverty and struggle, but that was “out there;” it was not part of my protected and perfect existence. It wasn’t until I entered my teens that I had to acknowledge the contradiction between the life we lived outwardly and its secret undercurrent. My worldly father was an alcoholic. My idealistic and creative mother was manic-depressive, leaving us for weeks at a time for “rests.” Our home was pervaded by a fear of the next crisis.

By age 14, in full denial, I was finally pretty, popular, and in love. A world of experiences and opportunities lay ahead–until I was plunged into reality by a shock that became a glorious gift that changed everything. These memoir essays and vignettes are snapshots of the moments that together give shape to the joys and struggles that make up a life.