The NYT reported things today that I would not otherwise have ever known. Beverly married a man going through a divorce who fought for custody of his kids back in the fifties in Cleveland, and for that, she says, “Peter was ostracized by Cleveland’s rinky-dink version of high society.”
She had two children of her own, a girl Meredith, who was discovered to be profoundly deaf at 2 years old; and a boy Peter, born with severe mental retardation complicated by it is thought now, autism. She received these pieces of news within six weeks of each other. She went back to work, and sang for twenty more years.
"[Before the children's diagnoses] I was a combination of everyone else’s ideas: the director, the conductor, the tenor. After I came back, I talked back. I stopped caring what anyone else thought.
“I began to have a good time.”
Oh! Can I please remember this forever. What is this feeling called, reading stories like this--
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