I met a sweet little baby named Barbara the other day. Just kidding. There are no babies named Barbara. Name fashion has moved on. So where are the Barbaras, the Brendas, the Donnas, the Connies; where are the Pattys, Peggys, Kathys and Susans? I can speak for one small segment of the Barbaras, at least: we’re turning 50. Our AARP welcome letters have been delivered. I’ve always liked having my birthday at the end of May. For one thing, it’s a gorgeous time of year.

I recently learned that my Grandma Guy was a daughter of immigrants. Of course, I knew we’re all descended from immigrants unless we are Native American, but I never gave much thought to where my ancestors came from. To me, we were just part of the big, boring Wonder Bread diaspora. My mom was the repository for all her mother-in-law’s artifacts; no one else was interested. After my mom died, the trunks of photos and boxes of papers and keepsakes from both sides of the f