After Sunday dinner, while the others cleaned, talked or dealt with children, I sat down in a recliner matching the one that Rodney was in. I inhaled deeply and leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees.
Many times my husband has written of death and created numerous dying scenes in the make-believe world of television. Once he had won an Emmy for it. But death in Hollywood is often different than the way it is truly delivered.
The elementary school in which I received my first- through sixth-grade learning was a long, straight brick building with cement steps; an auditorium with heavy, red velvet drapes; a tiny library guarded by a grumpy gray-headed spinster; and a cafeteria in the basement down a flight of creaky wooden steps.