image: run on the American Union Bank, 1929 from Wikipedia
They called it Black Tuesday; I call it Dead Tuesday – the day our world died. Father came home, two days after the crash, drunk, disheveled, babbling, glassy eyed. But alive. His partner had committed suicide, choosing to jump from their office window rather than face financial ruin. I understood his actions completely. The economy recovered with the war, but my father never did. He’d lost everything. Which meant so had we. A definite change in life style and address. No college for John. No debutante ball for me. No socialite parties for Mother. We crashed, too.