memoir
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Chapter One In mid-December 1971, a social worker named Mrs. Erickson drove my twin brother and me along the winding road of La Collina Drive in Beverly Hills, focused on one mission: finding us a home. At five, we’d already been through too many, but she swore this time was different. “This is the one,”
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Writing a memoir is like opening up a door that you’ve kept closed for a long time—maybe because you were afraid of what was behind it, or perhaps because you weren’t ready to let others see it. My memoir, “The Gingerbread House on La Collina Drive,” is my way of opening that door. It’s not
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—Chapter 1— The Christmas Kids In mid-December 1971, Mrs. Erickson, a social worker in her late forties, drove up the winding road of LaCollina Drive in Beverly Hills, focusing on one thing: securing a home for my brother and me. We were five-year-old foster twins with learning and behavioral challenges. Despite being bounced from place
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It’s been a long journey, but it’s almost at its end. I’m not referring to my life—hopefully, I have many more years ahead—but rather to my memoir, a project I started over 17 years ago. While I’ve scrapped earlier versions and started from scratch more than once, this version feels final. The only step left
Louis Spector 