by Helen Schary Motro
The prop jet left Idlewild Airport in New York carrying my parents and me on our two-week visit. A precocious fifth grader, I had been given a travel diary, in which I dutifully recorded our itinerary. Today, hardly touched since, leather cover crumbling, it stands upon my bookshelf I open to the first entry: “Date: April 17, 1959. Place: Middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Weather: Fair. Today we started our trip to Isreal! [The 10-year-old’s misspelling is mine.]