Volume 2, Issue 7 | July, 2022
Newsletter
Women are the storytellers of the family. Our blog allows us to share our stories with people all over the world.

Feel free to forward this email to anyone you think might be interested in reading the stories or joining the class.

If you are not interested in joining the class, but love to write, we are happy to have guest bloggers send us their stories. Email holli@myerberg.org if you would like to be a guest blogger.
Do you have stories to share?
You don't have to be a great writer, just someone who has stories to tell. If you are a woman 55 or older, you’ve lived a rich and interesting life. You have a litany of memories to share that other women would love to read. Join our fantastic group of interesting women just like you.
Our class meets on Zoom, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 2:30-3:30 p.m. 
For more information visit our page on the Myerberg website or email holli@myerberg.org.
Mom’s Colorful Swim Cap!
I saw your summer swimming cap
you wore when you came to our pool.
The variety of pretty flowers,
so many petals made it full.

When it got wet, it was brighter,
showing petals in various hues.
Each one prettier than the next:
red, yellow, green and blue.
The Store
This story is written in memory of my dad, who would have been 101 on July 12, 2022.
Growing up, The Store was a major part of my life. What was The Store? It was Baltimore Stamp Company (stamps for collectors!) located at 232 Park Avenue, LE 9-4439, downtown Baltimore. My parents were the owners, and much of my childhood, upon reflection, revolved around The Store.
De-Railed
Even though the Baltimore Orioles have been struggling, my husband, Stuart, and I have been diehard fans even before we met. We’ve been there through the happy times (think Cal Ripkin era) and the very unhappy times like the past five years. Twenty years ago, we purchased four Sunday season tickets for Stuart and me, his daughter, Meredith and her then 7-year-old son, Nicholas.
Ode to My Dad's Printing Shop
Entering the shop was its own assault, on every sense:
The first, upon opening the door, was the noise.
The Linotype machine, itself a one-time victor, was like a mechanical dinosaur.
Its giant head coming down to pick up the slug and move it along.
The dozens of machines’ keyboards clicking at the same time was a marching herd.