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It was 1968, and my had just been accepted to New York University as an art major. She is an only child of a pharmacist and a model. At first glance, her parents are the most unlikely duo one could think of, but they were the stereotypical story of "opposites attracting". They met one weekend in 1955 while Nana was doing a photo shoot on South Street.

"I was walking along, minding my own business, when I saw the most beautiful woman in the world", he would always say to me, his eyes twinkling. He had invited her to coffee after her shoot was over. They talked for so long that the staff at the cafe had to kick them out at closing time. They moved into the townhouse in Center City, have been together ever since.

They had tried to have another child, but Nana said that her body had decided that she was only supposed to have Mom. She was never sad about it, and made sure to pay no mind to nosey neighbors who paraded their bigger families as though there were some great secret urban contest where whomever had the biggest, busiest, and best nuclear family won. It seemed to be a competition born out of the late 1940's and early 1950's.
Anglo-Saxton W.A.S.P. families with one mother and one father, living with their 2.5 children in one of the carbon copy ice cream colored houses that line the block of any random development in America. Thankfully, my grandparents never bought into "keeping up with the Joneses". They stood their ground and lived their lives how they saw fit, no matter what gossip was spread about them by nosy housewives.

Her plans were to move into NYC with her best friend Mary Anne as soon as she could after they both graduated Delaware Valley High School. She had been reading newspaper articles about Andy Warhol and The Factory, and had even trekked through subway into the city, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the man who, in her eyes at least, seemed to have carved her destiny. She had slipped out of her house late one night with Mary Anne and rode the train up to Penn Station. They then took a cab ride to 33 Union Square West.

They had both heard stories of what went on in The Factory, and they traded the scintillating rumors and gossip they had read in the newspapers amongst themselves as a way to pass the time on the train. They both knew that the sexual escapades and heavy drug use were absolute facts, and both were slightly shaking at the thought of exactly what visuals were in store for them, though neither one wanted to admit to being nervous.

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