Three Stories: Generations of Breast Cancer

Abstract

From an early age, I knew that my mother’s mother had been glamorous. I had discovered old movies, and been captivated by the ladies of the silver screen: Lombard, Bergman, Colbert, and above all, Dietrich. Judging from my mother’s photograph of her, my grandmother, with her Marcel-waved hair, elegant style, and enigmatic smile, would not have been embarrassed in such company. More evidence was provided by her house. Tastefully grand, it had two large copper beech trees on the front lawn, a tiger’s head carved in the back of the fireplace, and a monster in the cellar, that growled whenever I went too close (though it was much quieter when my grandpa wasn’t nearby). I also associated her with the smell of gas cooking. Although the association of a woman with her kitchen may be depressingly conventional, for me this also had an air of sophistication. Piped gas didn’t reach the hamlet where I grew up until the late 1980s.