“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” That was a common idiom of our mother’s lexicon. She lived true to that statement. Even when she attempted to comment on something she disapproved of, she did her best to soften it. As a teen, I often was asked the question, “Janet, do you think that’s the most complementary outfit?“ Or it could have been make-up, pants, hair style or any other appearance-related observation. As a sensitive teen I was crushed no matter how much she tried to say it diplomatically.
I was ten years old. The person who I had considered my best friend was in the Stafford School auditorium with her class, and I was with my class for a school-wide assembly. Assemblies felt important. Usually the principal spoke. He was a tall, somber man who communicated in hushed tones lending an atmosphere of solemnity to childhood gatherings.