Poor Grown Ups.

One night in 1974 I was sledding down the front stairs in my new sleeping bag when I heard my mom telling my sisters that we were having BLTs for dinner.

This was the worst news ever, unless I could convince my mom to get rid of the L and the T, which would be difficult but not impossible, especially if my dad was going to be home late. (At seven years old, I still had fairly limited knowledge and ability when it came to categorizing bad news.)

I went in to the kitchen and pretended to be interested in what Walter Cronkite was trying to tell us through our tiny, tinny tv, eager to assess the situation.

All I heard was “Proof of Life” and I was on a mission.

I promptly forgot about the dire dinner coming down the pike and ran upstairs to start my Proof of Life Box, not hearing the rest of the story about what had happened to an almost grown up named Patty Hearst.