My grandparents, Mary and Marshall Barrow, had four children. My grandfather had been certain that each prospective baby would be a boy, but he ended up instead with four daughters.
One evening shortly before his death in the spring of 1940, he was lying in bed, listening to a radio broadcast of news of war in Europe. He knew the United States would eventually be drawn into the fighting.
Turning to my grandmother, he said, “I’ve lived to see the day when I’m grateful that all my boys are girls.”
*My aunt Barbara found this photograph with my grandmother’s face cut out, so she pasted one in from another photo.