I glared at the invitation from my Alma Mater. I did not want to dress “French” for the alumnae dinner just because it fell on Bastille Day. My friends would adorn themselves as Madam Pompadour, Marie Antoinette, or the Scarlet Pimpernel. If they didn’t dress up they would dress clever. I imagined Mary arriving as Marat, tugging a bath tub behind her. My style would be more like Madam DuFarge, the old peasant woman knitting and counting heads beside the guillotine. I was a competant knitter. I could scrounge up a dowdy skirt, peasant top, and mobcap to perch on my gray hair. I could even pack a papier-mâché head in my suitcase. read more...