I grew up in Yonkers, New York, and began my journey in life in 1940. A wonderful memory from my childhood is recalling stories shared by my parents with doses of history and humor on a lazy Saturday morning that lasted until noontime. The kitchen table with breakfast delights filled the stomachs of four children eager to learn about their world, past and present. We were reminded that we were first-generation Americans. This fact was manifested when relatives visited from Europe, when our grandparents spoke, or when our father copied a thick Scottish accent that his grandmother was known for. These same stories traveled from that breakfast table of long ago to a place I call my linen closet. Due to the isolation during Covid 19, I decided to straighten up this very closet. By touching each item, stories unfolded. There is a lifetime of stories in each linen fold. There is a box housed at the bottom of my linen closet, and it holds articles and a genealogy that my father wrote many years ago. There is a lifetime of stories in these treasured printed works as well. Each item, linen or paper, caused emotions to spill from my heart and soul. Sometimes I cried. I decided that others needed to hear these stories. Thus a book, a memoir, was born,