Apr. 30th, 2012

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About two years ago, before my mother died, she showed me an autobiography she had been working on over a course of about ten years. She wanted me and my family to read it, because it was in honor of our father, and their marriage—which we only observed first hand near the end. But she also wanted me to know because she felt it should be published, and she knew she had no energy to find a publisher and edit it any more.

When she died, I did not want to edit it—the pain was too fresh, and I felt as if it would be an attempt to profit from her death, though my reason told me it was not so. I did not know the trajectory of world politics at that time, or perhaps I would have tried to honor her request more promptly. As it was, the world was plunged into war, and for six years, editing a manuscript from a different era—a different world—was not high on my list of priorities.

The world has changed, now. So perhaps it is too late to publish this, but then, perhaps this is the perfect time. What better time than now to see where we have come from.

So, here is my mother’s story.

Anne-Marie Holmes, July, 1953

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May 2012

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