Equally at home in the good stuff and the junk.

As a kid, I could get lost in my mother’s jewelry. She kept it in one of those tiered jewelry boxes I believe were mandatory in the trousseaux of Eisenhower-era brides. Better than a dollhouse, this box was like my own private boardinghouse of bling, its velvet-lined compartments filled with baubles I could pile on in endless combinations, conjuring a parade of exotic characters in my head. Many of the pieces I never even saw my mother wear. They seemed to exist purely for my pleasure.

I especially loved her charm bracelet, whose band was an intricate mesh of golden…


Jordan, Pippen, Rodman. I’m sure Mom loved them even more because she didn’t have to do their laundry. Image via SlamOnline

My mother was not what you’d call a sports fan. She had eight kids, six girls, and while I would never claim that this fact alone made our house a sports-free zone, it clearly played a part. We had estrogen in the air, thick as the scent of Lemon Pledge on cleaning day. We had Joni Mitchell and “Masterpiece Theater” and macramé. Georgia O’Keefe on the walls. Feminist tomes on the bookshelves.

We didn’t have a lot of balls.

Throughout my childhood, I don’t believe I ever saw my mother sit down to watch a televised sporting event, other than…

Shannon Barr

Freelance writer & editor. Marketing & communications specialist. Magazine publishing veteran.

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