When the phone call came 44 years ago, I was in the full bloom of a second pregnancy. The caller was Diana, a college friend who was also, it turned out, expecting her second child. Diana had moved into a nearby suburb, had found me in the phone book under my husband’s name, and presented this absurd proposition: Why didn’t we start a book group? Read books? With a toddler and a house to manage, I barely had time to read headlines in the local daily. Besides, we were both due to have our babies within weeks. Diana, always a determined sort, dug in. Didn’t I miss reading? Didn’t I miss adult company? We were, after all, former English majors who still might be capable of analyzing symbols and finding important themes in literature.
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