Growing up, Thanksgiving was over the top. Turkeys weighed in at 25 or so pounds, and leftovers nearly burst the doors off the fridge. One year, I think it was 1976, Mom and I got the fancy idea to make chestnut stuffing for the turkey. I wish I could remember where we’d heard “chestnut stuffing” mentioned … in a book? A song? Either way, we decided it would be a fun mother-daughter project for Thanksgiving. I know it was not…
October’s books were packed with Halloween vibes this year. Despite my dear mother’s DNA, I remain a scaredy cat when it comes to evil witches and things that go bump in the night. Nevertheless, I made it through some classic works without having to hide under the covers in fear of bad dreams. (Full disclosure: I’m still not in any hurry to watch any of the film versions.) Book 1: The Witches by Roald Dahl Witches are everywhere, according to…
This poem of Mom’s caught my eye the other day, just as Farmer Gary and I were reminiscing about the bittersweet work that goes into clearing out a long-loved house and finding another family who will make it home. In 2002, Dad was executor for Mom’s uncle Pip’s estate. Her cousins and even some of their children gathered to help clear out the home that for decades served as a gathering place for four generations of family. May and Pip…
This clock is not an unusual one. Or is it? I remember it sitting on a shelf along with books in my parents’ library. Mom and Dad both passed away in that room, which seemed fitting, given their love of words, books, poetry, and plays. It’s a pretty clock. An anniversary clock. I assumed it was a family heirloom, thinking it was from Mom’s aunt May’s home. But no one else remembers that. At first, the clock made its new…
Have you ever gotten that weird feeling that you were being watched? Turns out, it wasn’t just a feeling. Farmer Gary and I were enjoying our morning tête-à-tête in the sunroom, when he froze – sort of the way a bloodhound does – and intently squinted out one of the east-looking windows. “There’s a squirrel in the tree. He is surveilling us.” Sure enough: Gary calls him Sylvester, after a pet squirrel his cousin Renus had as a child. I…
These days, social media is full of parents bemoaning the bittersweet moment of driving away from colleges and universities that just six months ago they were bragging about joyously. This time, though, they leave without their child. I remember that acute pain. Walking by a bedroom that no longer vibrates with electric guitar or bass riffs rattling the door knob. “Oh, how I’ll miss this,” I thought more than once. I still do. No one asking for a clean shirt….
Yesterday evening, it was time to choose which book to read next. I select at least a few fancy Folio Society volumes each month, as the collection was lovingly built by my parents. As I open each new (to me) classic, I look for hints that Mom or Dad (or both) may have read it years ago. That just makes it more special. They were both tidy souls and so there aren’t any smudges or tears. But once in a…
Remember Edgar from the movie Men in Black? Gary and I thought of him the other day as we read up on the brew that must be mixed before it is carefully poured into a hummingbird feeder. “Sugar … in … water” is all he wants. And so, our first hummingbird carries the name E’gar. When I chose this particular hand-blown glass hummingbird feeder, it seemed like the decent thing to do. According to the online description: Blue: Represents resilience…
Postcard 1: Six decades of hedgehog love As proof that memories and assumptions can be faulty, let me confess that I’d always believed my first encounter with a hedgehog was through Mom and her love of Beatrix Potter characters. We brought those tiny story books – just the right size for a toddler’s hands – home from the library every chance we got. I was just four years old when I met a hedgehog by the name of Mrs. Tiggle-Winkle:…
The little red diary from my moving-away party in June 1970 is only two-thirds complete. Our family was getting ready to move from Pittsfield, Mass., to Fairfield, Conn., that summer. That diary gave me – a 12-year-old middle child – a place to be excited as well as miserable. Fifty-four years later (ack!), the diary is sitting on a shelf here in our home. I’ve been tempted to pitch it for years. Last night, I decided to take a look…