My Grandmother’s Death Presents a Journalistic Regret and a Literary Goldmine

When my grandmother, Joyce Himmel, died on May 11, it marked the end of a very long era. She was just two-and-a-half weeks shy of turning ninety-five. She wasn’t sick, really. A near perfect picture of health and resilience for the better part of a century, in the final minutes of the fourth quarter, her heart just wore out. It was quick and peaceful. Hard to complain about. She had a long and happy and thrilling life.

I could say more, so much more, but this isn’t about Nonny as much as its about her book club.