“Mom’s hospital stay wasn’t covered?” I ask, trying to not sound as disturbed as I feel.
“No, that’s not what I said,” my brother replies, raising his voice during our blue-toothed conversation. “The hospital didn’t think she was covered.”
“How could they possibly think that?” I protest from the driver’s seat of my car. “We’ve only filled out dozens of forms in the past year with all that information.”
I hear Chuck’s groan, hundreds of miles away. He’s in Maryland driving home from work. I’m racing in my car in New England on the way to teach an evening class.
“Toll Booth in ½ mile,”
an alien-sounding female voice intones loudly from Chuck’s car, just as he says, “…called (garble garble) insurance (garble garble) card!” Continue reading
Funny, how conflicted a person can feel about success.
And there’s the rub. What IS success, and what is not?
That is what I’m thinking at 5:30 a.m. as I take in a deep breath, smell the essence of my tropical green tea, look outside my window and glory in the darkness and the early morning moon shining through my window.
This, this is my success. Continue reading
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