My parents both had good memories even at ninety years of age, but they rarely agreed when they told about an event they both remembered. On their sixtieth wedding anniversary I asked them to tell me what that day was like for them. Dad grinned sheepishly and spilled out a tale of how happy he was to pick my mother up at the train station that morning. He said if felt like it was one of the best days of his life. Mom’s version of the day was about how tired she was after her long journey from Canada and how frustrated she was to have the ceremony delayed for hours. She had no pleasant memories of the ceremony. My sentimental father was skilled at seeing the good in the world and ignoring the disdainful. My mother harbored resentment and jealousy that often gave a bitter taste to her remembrances. Memory it seems to me is a fragile thing, held together more by the glue of emotion than reality.