Last Saturday I participated in a “Shop Local” Book Fair at a beautiful picturesque library in rural New England.
Twenty other authors and I sat behind tables covered with colorful cloths and plants, candy in dishes and strong stubborn wishes that visitors would want to buy and read our books.
As a writer, I wanted to hide behind the stacks of library books behind me. But as an author, I stood tall and smiled tremulously, feeling like Sally Field before she got her Oscar, thinking “Please Like Me (my books), really really Like Me (my books).” Continue reading
In a time long, long ago, I watched my grandmother boil turnips and mash them and then place them on the Thanksgiving table as if offering the sweetest dish imaginable. My dad would sing the praises of this Thanksgiving offering, and as a little girl, I learned to love the purple-orange vegetable of ill-repute.
Decades later, I boiled and mashed and served turnips on my Thanksgiving table. My guy compared turnips to garlic – he disliked both. But turnips became a vegetable my kids learned to revere.
But this year, Thanksgiving was not at my house. This year, we were invited to good friends, who happen to be the parents of our son-in-law. In a wide web of texts between a dozen people, we guests began to offer what we’d bring to “the table.” Continue reading
I seem to embarrass my children regularly.
This was an easy feat when they were young, like, you know, anytime between the ages of 11 and 19.
At five, our kids think we’re heroes.
At 15, we’re idiots.
But in theory, my kids should be too old for me to embarrass.
I’ve discovered this theory is incorrect. Continue reading
I bring the package to a post office 20 minutes away from my hometown.
In my local post office, the clerks have no sense of humor. One town over, the postal clerks are much too officious, and one town away from them, the line is always too long and the lobby smells of old wet non-delivered letters.
I don’t want to be rushed or frowned on or holding my nose when I send a precious package to my mom. She lives seven hours away and misses me. My packages are one way for us to feel closer.
I sidle up to the “friendly” post office counter, trying to look relaxed and casual. “Do you think I’m being too optimistic?” I ask shyly, pushing my parcel in front of the male clerk. Continue reading
Close your eyes and think of your first school picture.
Do you remember how proud you were, sitting on that hard little stool, a dark blue or bland beige background behind you, everyone’s eyes on you as the photographer beseeches: SMILE!
When you view the photo weeks later, your parents oohing and ahhing, you wonder: is that what I look like? Continue reading