In my first year or so at the 'Post,' I began to write with some frequency on the least important issues - so-called light editorials. The titles themselves are revealing of just how light: 'On Being a Horse,' 'Brains and Beauty,' 'Mixed Drinks,' 'Lou Gehrig,' and 'Spotted Fever.'

My mother seemed to undermine so much of what I did, subtly belittling my choices and my activities in light of her greater, more important ones.

The only way I can describe the extent of my anxiety is to say that I felt as if I were pregnant with a rock.

When in 1969 I became publisher of the 'Washington Post' as well as president of the company, my plate was fuller than ever. I had partly worked myself into the job but not, except for rare occasions, taken hold. I had acquired some sense of business but still relied on others more than most company presidents did.

One doesn't soon forget the natural beauty of Washington, although those of us who live here do sometimes take it for granted.

So few grown women like their lives