In Belfast, in the stunningly gorgeous building dedicated by Prince Edward in 1932 (he who abdicated), where the Northern Ireland Assembly convenes, I learned why I can never be president of the United States.
When Mama died and the remainders and reminders of her life had to be sorted, distributed and, in some rare incidences, disposed of, my sister, Louise, and I marveled constantly at the historian that Mama was.
Only one thing scares me about dying. It is so momentous it rocks my heart with grief whenever I think of it. It is a tumultuous rocking that resembles the Mississippi River in New Orleans when the ocean is signaling that a vicious hurricane is headed that way.