Dreaming in Color: Reflections at 32
- Kathleen Kuczma
- Sep 28
- 5 min read
Updated: Sep 28
Earlier this September, I turned 32—the same age my grandmother, Dorothy Marie Lavin (Broderick), was when she had my mom, her youngest of four children.
Thirty-two has a few crucial pop culture references—from Lorelai Gilmore juggling teenage motherhood and career in Gilmore Girls to Carrie Bradshaw navigating life and love in Sex and the City. I used to compare myself to Rory Gilmore—briefly considering journalism and daydreaming about Ivy League schools.
But as I’ve gotten older, I have measured myself much more against family versus fictional characters.
I Remember Everything
I have a strong memory for dates and ages. The numbers aren’t just markers of passing time— I use them as markers for comparison.
My grandmother died in September of 1960 at the age of 34. Thirty-two years later, in that same month, my mom had me at 34 -at the same age her own mother passed away.
That mirrored timeline is never lost on me. And turning 32 this year pulled me into its gravitational pull more than ever.
Being acutely aware of how short Dorothy’s life was has made me both restless and reflective. I want to do as much as possible in the time I have—travel, grow in my career, deepen my relationships. I’ve always moved quickly, perhaps out of some unspoken sense of urgency. But my husband, Paul has helped me develop a healthier relationship with the fear of missing out, and with the notion of regret. Maybe, I’m learning, we don’t have to live like we’re racing a clock.
Dorothy’s Roads: From Arizona to NYC
While my grandmother never flew on a plane, her life wasn’t without some adventure. In the early 1950s, she took a cross-country road trip with her husband, Paul (lovingly known to me as “Grampy”) and their one-year-old son, Richard in tow.
The purpose of the trip was to spend time with her older brother, Bill Broderick in Arizona, with the hope they would choose to relocate there. But the heat combined with the chorus of crunching cicadas underfoot gave them reason to retreat back to Hoosick Falls, NY less than a year later.
While a teenager, Dorothy enjoyed a girls’ trip to New York City in 1943, visiting the Central Park Zoo and snapping photos in Central Park surrounded by pigeons and sunshine.
We have these photos because of a photo album that Dorothy put together on black crepe paper in a brown leather-bound book.
More than 70 years later, my mom, my sister, and I stood in a nearby spot in Central Park Zoo, to try recreating one of her photos.
It was a quiet moment of connection across time, through three generations of women.
Dancing Through Time
Barbara, my mom’s cousin and ten years her senior, remembers her “Aunt Dot” as someone with a spark. She told me:
“Aunt Dot and Uncle Buddy could really cut a rug.”
Dorothy, she said, was more outgoing than her quieter husband—a dynamic that feels familiar to Paul and me.
My favorite story Barbara shared was how my grandmother would get ready for a night out dancing in Troy. With her dark red hair still wet from setting, she’d pin-curl it, then hang her head slightly out the car window to let the breeze dry it on the way to the local dance halls.
My mom, only a toddler when Dorothy died, has no memories of her own. These little details from Barbara feel like borrowed memories that I feel lucky to have heard about more than half a century later.
The Road to Hoosick Falls
Route 7 connects many parts of my family’s life—from dance halls in Troy to the small town of Hoosick Falls, where my mom grew up. That stretch of highway also leads to a more complicated chapter of our family’s story.
If you’ve heard of Hoosick Falls recently, it might be from John Oliver’s stint covering The Daily Show, and a segment on chemical contamination from the plastics industry. The town has spent years in legal battles against companies like 3M, Honeywell, and DuPont. In July 2025, the city of Hoosick Falls won another major lawsuit over decades of water contamination.
Why is this worth mentioning?
Because in September of 1960, while camping nearby over Labor Day weekend, my grandmother got sick—possibly from drinking the local water. Most people could have fought off the infection, but she had what they called a “weak heart.” Some say it was due to rheumatic fever as a child. Others say doctors had warned her not to have more children after her third. Instead, she had my mom five years after her previous child.
No one knows for sure what caused the infection. But with each new lawsuit and headline about the toxic water in Hoosick Falls, the past feels a little less distant. The mystery around her death maybe feels a little less mysterious.
An Invisible Deadline
I’ve always used 34 as a kind of invisible deadline—especially when it comes to having kids. It’s not a conscious pressure, but it lingers. Paul and I have been married for a while now, and I know some people assume we don’t want children. The truth is, I always knew I wouldn’t start a family in my twenties. I wanted more time—to travel, to build a career, to know myself a little better.
But even as I try to move at my own pace, 34 does loom a bit larger now. It’s the last year my grandmother had. And in a quiet way, it’s become a boundary line in my mind.
The Dream
On September 4th, I celebrated my seven-year work anniversary. It was also the 65th anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.
I have no memory of dreaming about Dorothy before. But in the early hours after midnight that night, she visited me.
In the dream, I was walking along Route 7 in the summertime at golden hour. I passed the yellow house where my mom and her siblings grew up. Outside, my grampy was working in the yard, young again, in his thirties.
Through a wide kitchen window, behind the screen of chicken wire, I saw her.
My grandmother. In full color.
I’ve only ever seen her in black-and-white photos, but here she was, vividly real—her dark red hair softly curled. She smiled at me through the window. She didn’t speak, but I remember gasping and immediately bursting into tears. I knew I was dreaming and I couldn’t look away. She smiled at me through the screen door, as if to say, “You’re doing just fine.”
Turning 32
Turning 32 has felt like stepping into the same frame as Dorothy—occupying the same space in life she once did. And maybe because of that, she finally stepped into mine.
Her life may have been short, but revisiting her in passed down memories and seeing a glimpse of her in my dream makes me feel her around me now more than ever.
And now 34 feels less like a deadline than just another upcoming bend in the road.
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