The Misanthrope’s Corner

I’m in a nostalgic mood. I just put in for Medicare and Social Security, so we’re talking milestones big time. Since I feel like reminiscing, I’ve decided to tell you about my Aunt Ellen.

It happened in 1919. The now-sprawling D.C. suburb of Arlington, Virginia, was then a little country town with dirt roads. Ellen was two months old, the youngest of four in a family who lived nearby. They were having a bad time; the father, who drank, had run off, and the mother’s epilepsy had worsened since the birth of the new baby, so my grandmother and the other townswomen did what they could to help.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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I’m in a nostalgic mood. I just put in for Medicare and Social Security, so we’re talking milestones big time. Since I feel like reminiscing, I’ve decided to tell you about my Aunt Ellen.

It happened in 1919. The now-sprawling D.C. suburb of Arlington, Virginia, was then a little country town with dirt roads. Ellen was two months old, the youngest of four in a family who lived nearby. They were having a bad time; the father, who drank, had run off, and the mother’s epilepsy had worsened since the birth of the new baby, so my grandmother and the other townswomen did what they could to help.