An Ode to Nat King Cole


Autumn leaves drift by the window.  Autumn leaves of red and gold.

According to my faithful book index, GoodReads, I have only read 22 books in 2011.   Last year, I read 32 books by year’s end and vowed publicly that I would read at least that many in 2011.  I suppose I could hurry through 11 short novellas and meet the goal, but is that what a resolve is all about?  Is it about meeting the letter of the resolution while breaking the intent?

I see your lips, the summer kisses, The sunburned hands I used to hold.

I intended for this year to be chockerblock full of reading and writing.  Instead it’s been a year of frantic action . . . helter skelter movement as opposed to thoughtful introspection.  I did not mean for it to be so busy.  Honest, I didn’t.  The year started out so relaxed, so full of earnest reflection.  The beach in Zanzibar.  The meditative mornings.  The trip to Berryville.

Since you went away, the days grow long. And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song.

Time which seemed so abundant in January hit a patch of ice and now it is almost Thanksgiving.  What thief absconded with my early mornings, quiet evenings, and lazy weekends.  And, why was I an accomplice to the crime?  When did I start pushing away the days?  What conspiracy led me to complain nonstop about spring’s saturating rains and summer’s humidity?  Was I really in such a hurry to face my kids’ first quarter interim grades?  Yes, I am to blame for having wished away the year.  Ah, time . . . if only.

I miss you most of all, my darling, When autumn leaves start to fall.    

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Giving Thanks


I wrote this letter to my friends after reading Kelly Corrigan’s The Middle Place.  I found it to be very inspiring.

I believe in the power of women — all kinds.  Randy Newman’s short women, John Updike’s sexy women, political women like Hilary Clinton and Michele Obama, family women, friendly women.  I love them all.

Personally, I love my friends.  Yes, the ones with the double names — Nancy Bauer Collier, Linda Bauer Darr, and Mary Huber Wilker — and the ones without — Molly Sim, Jenny Heimberg, Brigid Schulte, Amy Young, Daria Cook, Jen Walker, and Sheryl Gorsuch.  I love my book club buddies — Ruth Brannigan, who should top everyone’s “fab five” cell phone list and Wendi Kaplan — everyone needs a therapist as a friend.  I love the ones who have kids and the ones who don’t, but love mine and laugh at their smart mouths when I find absolutely nothing endearing about them. I love the fun women and the serious ones and believe you need to have both in your life if only to remind you that sometimes life is not worth crying about, but sometimes it is.  I love the women who have left my life — Kathy Wilson, Elizabeth Rich, and Nancy Foil, whose passing was way too early for me, but whose divine hands I see at work every day when I pause to give thanks for the blessings in my life or take the time to find out why making the school play IS the most important event in the universe.  I love the women who have made me mad or made me cry — although  going through the eyes of those needles has left scars, I have grown wiser and kinder for having experienced that pain.

Finally, I love the women in my family.  In trying not to do me harm, my mom ended up doing a lot of good.  I love the fact that she brought me into this world and jokingly reminded that she could take me out of it. I love my Aunt Barbara who stood up for us kids when my mom couldn’t cope and my dad was too busy taking care of mom — she mopped our brows, took our midnight calls, and put us back together after a divorce or two.  I love my great aunts Bessie and Margaret who could spin a yarn or tell a tale that would make me weep with laughter.  I love the fact that they always made a great batch of Irish rum-laced fruit cake, wondering if that’s how they kept their senses of humor so alive and in tact.  I love my Nani and my Grammy.  I loved their pride as Catholics and Quakers respectively.  I loved learning to sew and learning to reap what one sows in the world — all lessons which occurred at their knees.

Above all, I love my girls — Sara, Meg, and Mattie.  I love who they have been as babies, toddlers, children, teens, and now, in Sara’s case, an adult. I love their artwork, music, and friends.  I love their laughter, their anger, and their tears even when I haven’t known what to do with any of it.  I love that they are courageous, vibrant, sensitive, independent, lively, thoughtful, wild, crazy, and probably way too sassy.  I love their voicemails and hate their cellphones.  I love their adventures and I love their quirks.  I love how they love each other and stick together even when I’m not in the mood to be scolded.  I love the lessons they’ve taught me and grovel at some of the wisdom that has come out of their 2-, 4-, 10-, 12-, and 20-year old mouths.

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