I fretted about them, but I was embarrassed by them, too, and ashamed of myself for wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while my parents were busy keeping warm and finding something to eat.
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Glass Castle Reading Guide How To Embrace LifeWhen sober, Jeannettes brilliant and charismatic father captured his childrens imagination, teaching them physics, geology, and how to embrace life fearlessly. Her mother was a free spirit who abhorred the idea of domesticity and didnt want the responsibility of raising a family. They fed, clothed, and protected one another, and eventually found their way to New York. Their parents followed them, choosing to be homeless even as their children prospered. The Glass Castle is truly astonishinga memoir permeated by the intense love of a peculiar but loyal family. ![]() I was stuck in traffic two blocks from the party where I was heading. She had tied rags around her shoulders to keep out the spring chill and was picking through the trash while her dog, a black-and-white terrier mix, played at her feet. Moms gestures were all familiar -- the way she tilted her head and thrust out her lower lip when studying items of potential value that shed hoisted out of the Dumpster, the way her eyes widened with childish glee when she found something she liked. ![]() Glass Castle Reading Guide Skin Was ParchedHer cheekbones were still high and strong, but the skin was parched and ruddy from all those winters and summers exposed to the elements. To the people walking by, she probably looked like any of the thousands of homeless people in New York City. It had been months since I laid eyes on Mom, and when she looked up, I was overcome with panic that shed see me and call out my name, and that someone on the way to the same party would spot us together and Mom would introduce herself and my secret would be out. Glass Castle Reading Guide Driver To TurnI slid down in the seat and asked the driver to turn around and take me home to Park Avenue. The taxi pulled up in front of my building, the doorman held the door for me, and the elevator man took me up to my floor. My husband was working late, as he did most nights, and the apartment was silent except for the click of my heels on the polished wood floor. I was still rattled from seeing Mom, the unexpectedness of coming across her, the sight of her rooting happily through the Dumpster. I put some Vivaldi on, hoping the music would settle me down. There were the turn-of-the-century bronze-and-silver vases and the old books with worn leather spines that Id collected at flea markets. There were the Georgian maps Id had framed, the Persian rugs, and the overstuffed leather armchair I liked to sink into at the end of the day. Id tried to make a home for myself here, tried to turn the apartment into the sort of place where the person I wanted to be would live. But I could never enjoy the room without worrying about Mom and Dad huddled on a sidewalk grate somewhere.
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