My dear daughter, mother of three under 6, wife of distracted lawyer-husband, granddaughter of a beautiful loving stubborn grandmother, offers to drive me the 1 ½ hours to the airport.
“You shouldn’t leave the beach house on your vacation – I’ll call a service,” I insist.
She whispers back, teeth clenched tightly, “Get me out of here!” Continue reading
The day is hazy and warm. The Atlantic Ocean sparkles a silvery grey while I bike on the Boards in mid-morning bliss.
My brother and I with our dad at the beach.
At least 15 of my extended family travel near (DE) and far (CA, DC, MD, and MA) each year to unwind, rewind, and renew our family connections. My parents began this tradition in the late 1950s. My brother and I preserved the idea, and now our kids, nieces and nephews have enlarged and expanded on “the family vacation.”
Some of our friends who have never experienced the NJ shore kind of scoff at the premise of “relaxing” on a crowded hot humid beach where literally thousands of children scream in delight at each rolling wave, where teenagers throw Frisbees between the waves, and where people from all over the east coast with many different body sizes stroll the surf near naked. Continue reading
Painting: Paul Cézanne, The Dream of the Poet (The Kiss of the Muse), 1860
I’m in fits and starts
A little bit off, and my cart’s
ahead of the donkey. Continue reading
©2008-2014 SuperSizeArtist
I’ve always had a “belly.”
I’m not talking about my stomach – which I realize I need to digest my food.
No, it’s my belly that has been a constant source of hardship and complaint since I was a teenager. Continue reading
I’m walking the same paths that I did when Henry sniffed along with me. Days after he died, when I began walking alone, I realized how much of a fixture we had become those early morning walks. Half a dozen other early ramblers inquired, “where’s Henry?” or “where’s that bright-eyed, busy-tailed dog of yours?”
Now it’s almost five months later, and I still walk our same route. This morning, one of Henry’s biggest fans stops me on the path, the San Francisco Bay by our side, a tiny otter face peeking out in the foggy mist. Continue reading
roughwighting 