hirty-something years ago, Gladys Springer crowded into a borrowed Corvette with her mother and her daughter, and rushed to the hospital. Her daughter, Susan Normand was in labour. A few centuries later (to hear my mother tell it), I was born. She was there. In fact throughout my life, my grandmother was always there somewhere. But her story begins long before mine, and I am very proud to have the opportunity to tell it.

Born to Arthur Edward Beckerman and Kate Simberknopf Beckerman in 1916, Gladys grew up in New York City-Brooklyn. She was the first of three girls born to the couple, each six years apart, and so long remained the beloved first grandchild. She took her place rather seriously, and became a serious student and a worker from a young age.