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.
The Missed Opportunity to Die Young
I’ve missed the opportunity to die young, and as a result, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life working really, really hard to be successful and to leave a mark.
Christmas is a time for giving, being with family and friends, and hating every other asshole out there in the shops and on the roads also trying to spread joy and share in the Christmas spirit. Similarly, Hanukkah is a time for Jewish people to desperately try to feel relevant during Christmastime.