Writing Leigh was difficult for me. Leigh Sinclair was only a few years older than I, so her youth and coming of age was mine too. The thought of writing a “historical” novel around my own generation jarred me. But once I got into it, I found that bringing up realistic details from my own past instead of from history books paid an unexpected dividend. I recalled things I had forgotten. And Leigh gave me a chance to revisit the turbulent times of my youth.
I recalled the Cold War, the fearful days of the Cuban Missile Crisis and the very real anxiety of a nuclear holocaust, so very different from today’s worries of “dirty” bombs and terrorism. I recalled awakening to the news that Robert Kennedy had been killed and wondering when the assassinations would stop—or if they ever would. I recalled the violent transition from segregation to racial integration, the trauma of Viet Nam and of Watergate.
I remember ladies wearing hats and gloves to church on Sundays when all the stores were closed and families got together over “Sunday dinner” and a quiet afternoon. I remember wearing a skirt every day—not just for special occasions—and wearing a girdle with hooks to hold up nylon hose with seams. I remember the advent of pantyhose and bra-burning and much, much more. My generation rebelled against the World War II generation, very much matching the “Lost Generation” of the Roaring Twenties. Chloe said it best: “It seems like in America, we have these times that come through like gangbusters, ripping things apart, and what’s been accepted for decades and decades changes overnight.” That was the sixties and seventies. Those were the days, my friends.