My mom was a secretary: nylons, travel plans, no Windows, pencils to sharpen, hairspray, the coffee - weak. At home her lists were in shorthand, curlicues behind numbers, more cigarettes, a Christmas list. Dictaphones on folder files losing to tape recorders, mimeographs siring copy machines, a hold button, shorter skirts, short haircuts, her own parking spot. A computer in color, typewriters to dust, look at the fax machine! Sunlight grew African violets in an office with a door. In rolling leather chairs, meetings and numbers okayed, a noble new title. Earning and getting, a notice, a thank you. A mug of her own, a soft pair of shoes.