I’m going to be sad the day I finally work my way through the last of Emily Kimbrough’s delightful books of reminiscences about her childhood, her children, her travels, her friends, and the rest of her interesting life. Luckily for me, that day is still a few books away. Also, this morning I stumbled on an archive of her New Yorker pieces, so perhaps there is more material to keep me happy. (And then there is Kimbrough’s dear friend, Cornelia Otis Skinner, to read!) Some of these stories had me laughing out loud, wishing for someone to read bits and pieces to. The story of her daughter’s mumps, subsequently infecting not just their whole family, but a wide circle of family and friends, was very funny (though probably not so much to them at the time!), but to find out that it all started with that 12-year-old daughter’s first kiss, and that the kiss was bestowed by figure skater Dick Button, made me giggle and look up pictures of young “Dickie.” When college-girl Emily had her own first kiss a generation earlier, her complete innocence made her fear certain disgrace, and what she “did about it” (and told her friends to do) almost got her expelled from Bryn Mawr, until the misunderstanding was corrected. There isn’t a bad story in the book.
Travel writer and lecturer Kimbrough reminisces about her life, with anecdotes about some of her friends (better known, perhaps, forty years ago then now). This is gentle, relaxing reading, with an upper-middle-class bias, more attractive to those who have read Kimbrough's other books, perhaps.