When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.Some years ago, a big deal publisher type rejected a client’s project I had sent over. Unlike many who email rejections, she called. She prefaced her rejection with the following caveat, “I want to be gentle with you.” The minute I heard that, I knew she was going to rip me a new one. Or worse, that she deemed me fragile in some way and felt I needed to be handled with kid gloves. The whole exchange rankled and, obviously, I’ve never forgotten it. Now, I’m reading the extraordinary letters between Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. One letter from Lowell to Bishop reminded me of the gentle publisher and her “favor” of kindness: “Don’t see how you could think Wilbur flattered by Randall’s review; what makes it hurt is R’s leaning over backwards to be friendly — caressed by a tiger.”
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Betsy Lerner 
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