A blast from the past

Memories are weird, how they just crop up in your mind for no apparent reason. This morning, as I was getting ready to come to the Tribune, for some reason, a memory came into my mind, from back in the 1970s when I lived in New Orleans. 

My (first) husband and I were a young couple that didn’t know a lot about life. He was a student at Tulane University, and when we first moved to New Orleans, we lived in an apartment house. It was an old two-story house that had been partitioned into five different apartments. Four of the apartments were rented to college students. We were the only couple in the building. The rest of the tenants were single guys.

Our landlady, Thelma Kuntz, lived alone in an apartment on the first floor. Nobody ever went inside her apartment, but she went inside all of our apartments from time to time. She treated us all like we were her children, and we belonged to her.