This is my symphony

What I read & what I lived …

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There’s a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

What I read

I’ve made mention before of my love for all things Three Pines and Inspector Gamache, but Louise Penny’s ninth Gamache novel How the Light Gets In has got to be my favorite. I settle into these novels like a long awaited homecoming. That quaint village,Three Pines. The scones and licorice pipes and scotch and bacon. Neighbors through thick and thin. And all those heady references to literature and history. Fairy-tale like, to be sure. But like fairy tales, the books are familiar and I return to them again and again.

In How the Light Gets In we have the murder of the last remaining Ouellet quintuplet. (The Ouellet’s were, Penny tells us in an end note, inspired by Canada’s famous Dionne quints.) Constance Ouellet visits Myrna shortly before Christmas to reconnect with her former therapist and promises to return. Instead, she’s found murdered in her small Montreal home. But we also have the culmination of Gamache’s battle against his immediate superior Chief Superintendent Francoueur, who, previous novels revealed, has taken up Pierre Arnot’s vendetta against Gamache. We witness the extent to which Francoueur has turned the homicide division against their Chief Inspector and how he has fallen in their esteem. Exhausted by the conflict and all but admitting he has been bested, Gamache goes so far as to tender his resignation.

Or does he?

Of course, part of the charm of the Gamache mysteries is the resolution–and Penny outdoes herself in How the Light Gets In. I spent the better part of a rainy day racing through these pages, curled up in my recliner, blanket tucked around me: a little slice of Three Pines right there.

What I lived

It should probably come as no surprise that right about now, I’ve got an irresistible urge to plant three pine trees somewhere in my yard.

Used book with a message

But I have a city lot and I’m already trying to rein in my yard as it is. I need to make it more manageable so that I can continue its upkeep on my own for as long as possible. (Professional lawn care is so expensive.) I’ve spring-cleaned the beds and borders, and I’ve got a landscaper coming to reposition some plantings and remove some brush. (She’ll also add a much longed for raspberry border behind the garage!) The raised beds are planted, albeit much more conservatively this spring. Heck! I even seeded over some bare spots on my lawn.

For years I’ve told myself the story that I don’t have a green thumb. (“I can’t grow a darn thing!,” she lamented.) I ceded all that to my ex-husband a decade ago. But I’ve been trying to rewrite some of the stories I’ve allowed to limit me. Because really? Yes, my peas might be straggly–my herbs might need more sun–the mulch I used might not work … but what have I lost, really? Some time. A little money. Ok, a lot of work. The question might better be what have I gained? And the answer to that question is simple. I’ve learned. What not to do. What to do differently. My vision just might take some time.

Now that’s some kinda metaphor for life right there.

Last week I also read the much-talked-about Midnight Library. I had been hesitant to read it because the novel seemed to oversimplify a pretty heavy idea: what if you could try out the many different lives you might have lived and choose from among them? My used copy arrived with this sticky-note attached and I was almost ashamed of my book snobbery. But, alas, I’ve not reviewed it because I wouldn’t know what to write. From my perspective, the novel takes a meaty stew of a concept and reduces it to jello: crystal clear and much too sweet.

As I read I couldn’t help mutter to Nora Seed as she agonized over her choices, “There’s no magic bullet, no perfect world. Just deal with your shit, girl, and get on with life!”

I guess all this is to say that that’s what I’m trying to do with this life I have that I never expected. Rewrite the stories I’ve told myself that no longer fit. Dream of Three Pines. Plant some tomatoes. And get on with it.

What I read

Every so often a book comes along that meets you right where you are, one that stares straight into your heart as you sit nose-to-page. This week, that book was All the Children Are Home by Patry Francis.

Dahlia and Louie Moscatelli have a houseful of foster children. Their rag tag family has already expanded and contracted several times when arrival of an ‘Emergency’ one afternoon changes their lives profoundly. Agnes Juniper is a tiny six-year-old Native American girl who knows nothing of her mother or her heritage. She arrives traumatized by abuse in her last foster care placement where she was kept in the attic and beaten. When she arrives at 100 Sanderson Street, Agnes knows nothing of toys or the outdoors and she speaks like a two-year-old.

Dahia and Louie are unlikely parents: she, haunted by trauma of her own and crippled by agoraphobia; he, a quiet giant of a man who eschews emotion and is most comfortable under the hood of the cars that he services at Louie’s Texaco. But as improbable as these parents might be, Agnes is transformed in their care. She immediately attaches herself to eight-year-old Zaidie’s side–Zaidie, who perhaps mothers the little girl better than Dahlia herself is capable. Foster brother Jimmy, just thirteen, is the first to fall in love with Agnes and it’s his “I love you” a few weeks after her arrival that cracks open her heart–and his. The Moscatelli children are all too familiar with loss and abuse–and it’s their unconditional love for Agnes that causes her to thrive.

As might be expected, their life is not easy. Money is scarce and there are no extras. (Truth be told even the basics are hard to come by.) Dahlia’s dark secret makes the family a target of harassment in their small town. Social Services interferes, moving children around like checkers on a board, never mind the damage that results. Substance abuse. Assault. Incarceration. It would be cliche for me to to call the children resilient or to claim that it’s love that changes everything. Except that it does.

I wonder, sometimes, at the praise books receive. Last week I read Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter, which was “a literary miracle” according to NPR. Now don’t get me wrong–it was a fantastical romp of a story that moved from the studios of Hollywood to Oregon and Italy. It was a great read: well-written with some significant insights into the human condition.

But All the Children Are Home? It touched me.

And that’s the best literary miracle right there.

What I lived

I’m slowly getting used to my new reality. Sometimes grief over Mom’s death sweeps over me and I lose an afternoon or an evening to tears and doubts. Did we do enough to make her comfortable at the end? Did she truly know I loved her? Was there something I could have said or done to ease her mind? Sometimes I worry and fuss about house repairs and yard work now that I’m on my own. Who do I call to skim coat the damage to the living room wall? When will the tree guy grind the willow stump? How will I ever keep up with the yard work?

But you know what? At the day’s end, life is a miracle.

Last week I cared for my grandson when he was sick with strep, even managing a trip to the pediatrician for the first time in over twenty years. He stitched and painted and lego-ed all day. This week my daughter and I took the Littlest to story hour at the Gardens. I’ve put in hours of work clearing out borders and beds and the yard looks pretty darn good if I don’t say so myself. I ordered two polywood Adirondack chairs for the deck–and put them together without a hitch. My morning coffee never tasted so good as when I sit on the deck watching the orioles feed. Today Friend Mary and I had lunch in Grand Haven and walked along the channel. And the cherry on top of it all? The weather has been a delight: blue skies, gentle breeze, and eighty degrees. (I think it’s finally safe to say that winter is a distant memory.)

Maybe Ma Moscatelli said it best when she thought about the murky future: “What could I do but put on my shoes, start down the street, and see where the day might lead?”

What else, indeed?

What I read

If I ever need a quick pick-me-up, I’ll choose a novel that exalts all things food. And since I read–and loved–Ruth Reichl’s Tender at the Bone, when I saw her debut-novel Delicious! on the shelf, I thought it deserved a chance. I wasn’t disappointed: a food magazine, New York City, an ugly duckling heroine. What’s not to like?

Billie Breslin dropped out of college and ran away from home to conquer the Big Apple. Billie, baker extraordinaire, lands a job at Delicious!, the Grand Dame of food magazines–and as assistant to managing editor Jake Newberry, so less.The test kitchen and offices are housed in Timber Mansion, a Greenwich Village landmark. And, yes, there’s the food: braised duck hearts and cheese souffle and Anzac biscuits and chicory salad and wine, of course. Lots of wine. But there is also a luscious cast of characters. Sal and Rosalie, proprietors of an old-school New York cheese shop where Billie moonlights. Sammy, the magazine’s travel writer, whose arcane diction is as flamboyant as he is dapper. Mr. Complainer, a hunk of a customer who just might steal Billie’s heart. Her dad, who phones her weekly to beg her to come home. Mrs. Cloverly, the reader who calls Delicious! weekly to complain that a recipe is inedible. And Billie’s sister Genie, who never answers the letters Billie writes.

Billie and Sammy discover a secret room in the mansion’s library–and hidden treasure: correspondence from a twelve-year-old fan to the chef James Beard during World War II. First merely captivated by the young girl’s story, they soon realize the historical significance of the correspondence. But the magazine has been shut down, Timber Mansion is on the market, and time (as they say) is running out.

It can be a bit of a gamble to read a non-fiction writer’s first novel, but Delicious! was a pleasant surprise.

What I lived

This much is true. I had a week. A week that involved the city’s tax department, unpaid taxes, and an ex-husband. I’ll leave it at that, except to say that I never imagined a tax bureaucrat could be as sympathetic and understanding as I experienced. But that was the last straw. In the past several weeks, I lost my mom, contracted COVID, and paid a whopping federal tax bill. I needed a distraction. Something far from the madding crowd, but still close enough that I wouldn’t spend an arm and a leg–especially since I had already given one leg to the U.S. Treasury.

Holmes County Ohio–Amish country–was just what I needed.

I slept like a baby. I stayed at a comfy little B&B. I wandered antique stores. Shopped for crafts. Visited a fabric store. And walked through more gift shops than I have in the past several years. (A shopper I am not.) I ate chicken pot pie. Had my first-ever whoopie pie. And went to as many Amish grocery stores as I could fit into my day. You heard that right, dear Reader. This gal brings home groceries as souvenirs. I got pickles and jam and whole wheat flour and raspberry cobbler and barbecue sauce and Trail bologna and snack mix and another whoopie pie, stashed in the freezer for when I need a little bit of escape right at home.

Life is truly delicious, yes?

What I read

If you–like me–need a novel that draws you in and keeps you on the edge of your seat, Laura Dave’s The Last Thing He Told Me fits the bill. I’ve had a bit of trouble staying focused enough to read over the past several months (more on that below) but this story held me fast. Newlyweds Hannah and Owen seem like the couple who has it all: she’s an artist, he works in Silicon Valley, they live on a houseboat, and their love story has a sweet Meg Ryan-Tom Hanks vibe to it. Except for the fact that Owen’s sixteen-year-old daughter is less than enthusiastic about having a stepmother, their life is just about perfect.

Until one afternoon Hannah gets a single sheet of notebook paper delivered to her door, scrawled with a note from Owen: “Protect her.”

And then, dear Reader, we are off and running. Quite literally.

Because Owen has disappeared. His Silicon Valley boss is arrested for cooking the books. And the FBI is on Hannah’s doorstep. (Oh, and Owen stuffed a duffel bag of money in Bailey’s locker at school.) Hannah quickly discovers that “Owen” was not who he said he was. Nor, it seems, is Bailey. Based on a snippet of memory that Bailey has about her life before moving to San Francisco with her dad after her mother died, the girls are off to Austin, Texas–hoping to solve the mystery of who Owen was, and why he disappeared.

Hannah might be in over her head. But our heroine is scrappy and determined and has a big heart–she loves her unlovable stepdaughter and if she can’t find her husband, Hannah is determined to unlock the secrets of Bailey’s past. It’s quick and satisfying and just. plain. fun.

What I lived

It’s quite fitting that I’ve not posted for nine months. Because in that time I’ve birthed a new life. I’m on my own at sixty-something, the life I thought I would have shattered by fallout from addiction and financial infidelity. I lost my nest egg. I got a part-time job. And as if those changes weren’t enough, I spent five months caring for my elderly mom after she entered hospice care in her home last October.

So focusing on much of anything other than getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other was often difficult, if not impossible. I’ve learned to give myself grace and not make too many demands. Blogging was just one of the things I set aside for a while.

But although I am alone, there’s no despair here. For now I’ll just leave it at that–but not before I share with you a poem that says everything I care to say about the sorrow of carrying on while living with loss.

New Moon

How much it must bear on its back,

a great ball of blue shadow,

yet somehow it shines, keeps up

an appearance. For hours tonight,

I walked beneath it, learning.

I want to be better at carrying sorrow.

If my face is a mask, formed over

the shadow that fills me,

may I smile on the world like the moon.

Ted Kooser

What I read

I put off reading Lisa Genova’s Still Alice (or seeing the movie) because Alzheimer’s disease is everyone’s worst nightmare, am I right? And I just didn’t know if my heart could take the Big Feelings I knew the story would stir up. But I’ve got to say, Genova handled a sensitive topic with incredible grace and never once gave in to the maudlin. Alice Howland is a Harvard linguistics professor who comes to realize, at fifty, that something is terribly wrong. She loses a word or a face here and there, misplaces names–but don’t we all?! Then one day she gets lost in her neighborhood on a run she has done daily–for years. None of the landmarks look even the little bit familiar, and she struggles to regain her bearing. Within days she is referred to a neurologist and it’s not long before her fears are confirmed: early onset Alzheimer’s. When the story focuses on the response of Alice’s family, friends, and colleagues it’s much as one would expect: anger, aversion, pity. But the writing soars as Alice’s memory fades and we see the world through her eyes. Her daughters become “the mother” and “the actor.” Her granddaughter’s playroom is “the room with all the loud seats.” When Alice follows her caretaker on a walk at the novel’s end she “didn’t want to leave, but the woman was going, and Alice knew she should stay with her. The woman was cheerful and kind and always knew what to do, which Alice appreciated because she often didn’t.” There is a kind of peace in Alice’s world–and while there may not be hope exactly, the fear of this horrible disease loses a bit of its sting.


My book club read this month was The Other Americans by Laila Lalami. We try to alternate reading fiction and nonfiction, and last month’s book was Jose Vargas’s Dear America about living undocumented in the United States. As its title suggests, immigrants are front and center here. The story is a multi-layered crime-mystery, love story, family saga. Driss Gerroui, who immigrated from Morocco thirty years ago, is killed in a hit and run late one night as he leaves the diner he owns in small town in the Mojave desert. His daughter Nora, a struggling musician, comes home to bury him and help settle his affairs, and in the process discovers a shattering family secret. Nora’s ambitions collide with her mother’s aspirations and she must decide to stay or go. Turns out there’s more than one way to immigrate–that sometimes our most difficult journey is coming home to ourselves.


Dystopian climate change novels don’t usually catch my eye. My all. time. favorite. is the young adult novel The Age of Miracles which I wrote about nearly ten years ago. (If you haven’t read it, you must–it’s that good.) But the blurbs for Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy were pretty compelling. “Instant bestseller.” “Poignant.” “Tantalizingly beautiful.” Franny Stone is on her way to Antarctica on a fishing vessel, following what might be the last of the arctic terns. Most bird species are extinct. The oceans are barren of fish. Even mammals in the wild have vanished. It’s us. We humans. Our greed finally destroyed the earth. An interesting premise, for sure. And while the writing is beautiful, I found it difficult to stay with this one. Franny is difficult to connect to. And unbeknownst to me when I chose the title, there’s the fact that the novel takes place (for the most part) on the ocean with all its endless tossing and turning and waves and storms and cold and …
“Thank you, Moby Dick,” she said with resentment. “You’ve ruined many a fine book for me.”

What I lived

There is no better time of year in my Great Lakes state than June. Days are warm; nights cool. My perennial garden is in full bloom and the pots of annuals haven’t yet gotten tired as they will in August. Birds. Fireflies. Oh my! I’ve got ‘summer’ on my menu and it’s chicken salad and asparagus and steak on the grill. And strawberries are in and there’s nothing better than a berry that is just a few hours–or minutes!–picked.

“The whole world is a series of miracles, but we’re so used to them we call them ordinary things.”

Hans Christian Anderson

Last week I went camping in a new spot: Sleepy Hollow State Park. What they say about the pandemic and RVs and campgrounds is correct: there’s not a spot to be found and if you do find one, be prepared to park cheek to jowls with big rigs and trailers. I was lucky enough to get a reservation the last week of school, so the campground was quiet and only half full, if that. I hiked and read and walked to the beach. I found a cute farm market and bakery. I read some more.

Close enough to heaven for me right now.

What I read

For the past several years, the best sellers lists have been heavy with World War II fiction. Think The Tatooist of Auschwitz, The Nightingale, The Book Thief, All the Light We Cannot See. I’ve read and reviewed plenty on this blog. But when you read a lot there’s a kind of weariness that sets in eventually, and I feel as though I can’t read another.

So I hesitated when Friend Denice urged me to read Steve Kluger’s Last Days of Summer, first published in 1998. “It’s about a little boy in World War II,” says she. Another one? But “You’ll laugh! You’ll cry!”j and “You won’t be sorry!” she assures me.

And I did. And I’m not.

It’s true that the war is really just a backdrop to the story, at least for three-quarters of the novel. The real showstopper is Joey Margolis, a twelve-year-old who is a brilliant liar, too smart for his own good, and craftier than most at getting his way. Joey is New York Giants’ third-baseman Charlie Banks’ biggest fan–or should I say pest? His letters to the ball player are hilarious–“I am … dying from malaria. Please hit a home run for me because I don’t think I will be around much longer”–but the impetuous behind them, quite alarming: in order to avoid getting beaten up by neighborhood bullies, Joey wants Charlie to act as a buffer of sorts. Surely if the bullies know that the great Charlie Banks is Joey’s friend they wouldn’t dare terrorize him?

But there is so much more to Joey’s story. His father left, remarried, and has gone “no contact” in anything related to his son. Joey is a fanboy who idolizes President Roosevelt and corresponds with him on a regular basis, giving his unsolicited advice: lowering the voting age to nine, for instance. Joey repeatedly earns F’s in “obedience” on his report card. He is learning the saxophone and wants to be bat boy for the Giants. His Bar Mitzvah is coming up and who will stand up with him?

The novel is written with little narrative, and, instead, Kluger tells the story through letters, box scores, report cards, newspaper articles, and transcripts of Joey’s sessions with his psychologist Dr. Weston. So while WWII eventually rears its ugly head, this reader was anything but weary this time around. The Last Days of Summer is poignant WWII story told in a fresh and imaginative way.

House Girl by Tara Conklin (first published eight years ago) is another fresh look at another much-written about U.S. institution: enslavement. The story of Josephine, a seventeen-year-old house slave alternates with the modern day tale of a white lawyer, Lina Sparrow, who is working on a case seeking reparations for descendants of enslaved people. The two women’s paths cross as Lina seeks to find a class to be the representative in the class-action lawsuit her firm is about to file. Conklin uses Josephine’s much acclaimed–but unattributed–artwork to connect the past and the present and gives the reader an intimate look at the life of one young enslaved woman.

What I lived

Over the past year I’ve become quite the fan of used books. Yes. You heard that correctly. This former bookselling book snob has had no compunction buying a gently used book. I’m sure it’s related to my fixed income suddenly colliding with my voracious appetite for new reads. My two favorite haunts are the local institution Schuler Books (where I’ve also started re-selling my books for credit) and Bettie’s Pages. Bettie’s is by far the more endearing of the two. Set in the small town of Lowell, just east of Grand Rapids, it’s a small shop whose owner Nicole is passionate about books and is a social justice warrior. Her space is cozy and welcoming with wood floors, brick walls, and bomb-ass (does anyone even say that anymore?!) sidelines: expertly curated puzzles, stickers, socks, tarot cards, and–as they say–so. much. more. I try to stop by to browse whenever I’m in town visiting Friend Denice. (And I should note that both of the books I mentioned above came from Bettie’s Pages.)

A bird in the hand is worth …

Would it surprise you to know I am stitching up new critters? So while I’ve got stacks of Mr. Socks and Tiny Mice and Picnic Bugs, I’ve added a new one because, really, can one ever have too many critters to stitch? Meet the Merry Wobblers! These little tweeties work up pretty quickly and, after finishing a few, I’m finally getting the hang of it. I wait–sometimes impatiently–while I get the pattern down so I don’t have to think as I sew. It is then that the process becomes what I call stitching meditation.

The weather turned overnight into summer and you won’t hear any complaints from me. After seven long months of cold, rain, snow, and gray skies, my bones are finally warm and my heart is full. Friend Mary and I went camping last weekend and walked for miles in the sunshine. We talked for more hours than I have in the past year. And as fully vaccinated folks, we ate out. At a restaurant. Indoors, no less. Something we hadn’t done for fourteen months.

A new season. Pandemic relief. A fresh start.

I love my nest. The sunlight. The rocker I refinished nearly forty years ago. Amish rugs. Green kitchen chairs. My dad’s watercolors. Books. The antique trunk. Polished wood floors. Don’t get me wrong–if I had a million bucks, I’d make big time changes. But at the end of the day, my nest is my refuge.

Part of that is probably due to the fact that when I was young I was a bit of a nomad; by the time I was thirteen I had lived in ten houses. People always ask why and if I’m feeling kind I answer with a golly-gee smile, “Oh, my dad was a rolling stone…” (As in every family’s history, there’s always more to the story.) Marriage and divorce brought me six more moves.

So you might not think I would love Choe Zhoa’s Nomadland as much as I did.

It is a beautiful film, quiet and evocative. And while many reviewers (and their commenters) lament the film as “too sad”, I couldn’t disagree more. Rather, Nomadland is the story of people who–through no fault of their own–lived through some sort of loss, and by going on the road gain agency over their lives.

I couldn’t overlook the fact that so many of the nomads are women. Even more specifically women of a certain age. Women who, as they age, start to fade until they become invisible. Women who have worked hard their entire lives, made a home, raised a family–and at the end of the day receive a pittance in Social Security to see them through those golden years we Americans love to fantasize about.

Fern, the film’s main character, is grieving. Recently widowed, out of a job, and stripped of her company house after the gypsum mine closes. No one would deny Fern’s losses were great. But like so many of the nomads we meet in Nomadland she refuses to curl up like a pill bug and roll into a dusty corner. She takes to the road, reclaims the steering wheel, and determines the course of her life. She isn’t homeless, she is “houseless” and in so many small ways it’s clear her van isn’t a substitute for a home–it is her home: the Santa tchotchke, her husband’s tackle box-turned-cupboard, her autumn leaf dishes. There is still connection in her life: at Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, with girl friends, and fellow CamperForce workers. And it is all of her choosing.

I loved the scene where Fern walks through a campground with a sparkler and “Happy New Year” party hat. Sad, you say? I think not. Fern is making a life of her own, one that fits with her new reality. In fact, I resented her (almost) love interest, Dave, who seemed to be dangled in front of us as though he could be Fern’s way out of life on the road. Why is it we think that a woman needs to leave the life she has made for herself–solitary or unconventional though it may be–and attach herself to a man to experience happiness? (But, damn, that David Strathairn is fine …)

For several years I’ve followed Bob Wells’ Cheap RV Living and Carolyn’s RV Life, so the nomad life was not new to me. (“And both appear in the movie!” she fangirled.) At first I watched because I was preparing to buy a small trailer for summer camping in my retirement. But I found myself captivated by the life. Even a little envious. Could I make it on the road? Would I have the courage to leave my beloved nest behind?

I think about it often. I was married the first time at eighteen to a controlling man and married again in my forties to another. (Yes, I do see a pattern …) Like my favorite sociology professor used to say, a woman is only one man away from becoming homeless. For many reasons, I feel that possibility keenly.

One of the final scenes in the movie stays with me because it felt so close to home. Fern returns to her empty house in the abandoned town and walks through, much like a prospective buyer would. After visiting every room, she walks out the backdoor, into the yard, and through an open gate that leads to the road.

For now it’s enough for me to know my trailer stands ready; the gate, open. And I can walk through anytime I want to.

Or need to.

About six months pre-pandemic (for how long, I wonder, will we orient ourselves with that descriptor?) I picked up my needle and thread and started stitching. I hadn’t done any stitching for years–decades, even–and suddenly, here I was again, surrounded by fabric and embroidery thread and wool felt and bamboo hoops. Maybe it was a kind of retirement right-of-passage, who knows? I finished a few projects and that was that.

And then 2020 reared his ugly head.

Almost immediately, I turned back to textiles. I wove on a little lap loom. I embroidered. I cut out Tiny Mice and Mr. Socks and Picnic Bugs. I made needle books. I spent hours making little piles of fabric on my sewing room floor. I went down the black hole that is Etsy and bought up wool felt and hand-dyed wool squares. I eventually discovered that stuffing my critters with carded wool makes for an infinitely more sensual experience than polyfill.

I stitched. I turned. I stuffed. I stacked fat quarters one on top of another. I stitched enough that my stitches–finally!–seamed along in a (fairly) uniform manner. Needle work filled the hours at the beginning of the Great Pause when we were restricted from everything except a quick trip to the grocery store.

Each grandchild got at least two Tiny Mice. Two Mr. Socks. Even Tiny Bunnies come Easter. I added little jackets to each Mr. Socks I made–more color! more stitches! Then the critters started to stack up in my project bowl. On the bookcase. At the foot of my sewing chair.

The question family asked most often was, “What are you going to do with them?”

Shrug of the shoulders. (Why do I need to do anything with them?)

“Are you going to sell them?”

Nope.

“Start an Etsy shop?”

Uh …

And then I started working up a power goddess art doll pattern–I call her a taliswoman–and realized she was pretty unique. Maybe I could sell her and use the extra cash for those bits and bobs that a fixed income doesn’t account for. Friend Denice saw some potential–and her opinion (she is a quilter extraordinaire) holds weight. I planned out my assembly line. Started to multiply how many I could finish each week. Went online to look over the application for the Artisan Market at our local farmer’s market. I stitched up some prototypes to create a template I found pleasing …

And then.

Some pull and tug that felt oh-too-familiar. And oh-so-uncomfortable. The hectic pace of a busy career. Juggling housework and kids activities and a husband who liked an active social life. Feeling torn in different directions. A to-do list a mile long. Prep quickly and efficiently. Git ‘er done. Move on to the next thing.

I thought I left all that behind?

My life in retirement has been something of an exercise in living well. Setting aside time for quiet and contemplation. Writing my life. Clearing space. Paying attention to my body’s needs. Getting plenty of food for my soul.

I resent the fact that in order to have value in our world, there is pressure to “do something” with one’s creations. Doesn’t the very act of creating have value–without any expectation or objective attached?

I trust myself to know that stitching itself is enough. Colors and patterns are enough. All those tiny backstitches? Enough. I stitch to bring me back to myself. Stitching as moving meditation.

All I need to center is a needle and thread. And that’s enough.

What I read

Friend Mary all but shoved this book into my hands: “You’ve got to read this so we can talk about it.” Not a bad recommendation, I’d say. And Sarah Blake’s The Guest Book gave me much to think about. There’s racism, for one. And bias, ethnic discrimination, and privilege. Which, I’ve got to say, sounds very antiseptic compared to the gut-punch the novel delivers.

Ogden and Kitty Milton have got it all. Wealth, education, and social cachet. They are white. There is tragedy in their lives, as in all families: when four, their oldest son falls out a window to his death. Their daughter has epilepsy. Ogden and his best friend Dunc Houghton are marked by what they experience in Germany as Hitler consolidates his power.

But overall, it’s a good life. The couple raise three children–Joan, Evelynn, and Moss–who experience All The Best that their parents can offer. There are private schools, housekeepers, clubs. The opera. The art museum. And rules, of course: “Enter every room with a smile. Speak to everyone, regardless of their place, as another human being … so as to create an atmosphere of goodwill around you … when one has money, one ought never talk about it, and one out to think about it as little as possible.” Evelynn is the child who embraces the Milton ethos, where Joan (due, in part, to the fact that because of her epilepsy she decides not to marry) and Moss (a musician at heart trying to please his father by joining the family firm) chaff against its confines. Joan falls in love with a Jewish man and Moss with a Black journalist, but is their free-thinking enough of an antidote to the racism that poisons their privilege?

The Miltons also owned an island (yes, an entire island) off the coast of Maine where the family has summered since the Thirties. And it’s on this island that the story pivots when Len Levy, a Jew, and Reg Pauling, a Black man, attend a family engagement party in 1959. Right on the cusp of the civil rights movement.

Let the secret-keeping commence.

Now, nearly sixty years later, the Milton grandchildren must decide if they can afford to hold onto the island after the trust money runs out. The problem is that they each read their family history differently, and the decision is muddied as family secrets come to light.

So is Crocket Island an albatross? Or an anchor? As in so many families, the answer to hard questions depends on who you ask.

What I lived

I’m just starting to read White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo. (Another book recommended by Friend Mary.) For months it’s rested with my bedside reading and for months I kept moving it to the bottom of the pile. I’m willing to face my own shortcomings in matters of race–at least I say I am–but it can be hard to look yourself in the mirror without makeup. And I think that’s what DiAngelo intends for me to do. As does listening to the Derek Chauvin trial over the past couple weeks, unable to deny the devastation my people have wrought. So when I read The Guest Book my white privilege radar was already on high alert; it can be so much easier to see the speck in someone else’s eye–even a fictional someone!–all the while ignoring the log in one’s own.

my works in progress …

And just as powerful a theme as race in The Guest Book is the whole idea of family secrets. Readers of this blog know I write about them quite often*. But that’s because I’ve seen firsthand their insidious effects: mental illness, substance abuse, toxic relationships, destroyed marriages, ruined finances.

But isn’t a secret what you tell your best friend when you are seven-years- old, hanging on the jungle gym at recess? Isn’t a secret is what you share with your favorite stuffed animal right before you fall asleep at night. What you shyly, tentatively, tell your first love. Secrets are sweet bits of ourselves that we lavish on those we love.

Talking about family secrets is nothing less than whitewash for something far more odious. People who wouldn’t dream of telling a lie, people who pride themselves on truth telling–they seem perfectly fine with family secrets. Why stir the pot? Why open old wounds?

What we forget is that even when one thinks the shit has been covered, it still stinks.


*Just a few of my ‘family secrets’ posts:

The Ninth Hour
The Winter in Anna
The Dinner
Sarah’s Key
The Two Family House
Educated

What I read

This month’s book club read is Fredrik Backman’s Anxious People and it will stay with me for quite some time. Imagine a bank robber at the end of their rope–no job, no apartment, worried about losing custody of their kids. Imagine a motley assortment of lonely hearts and misfits, held hostage after that bank robbery fails. All of them those ‘anxious people’, or, as the narrator repeats again and again, ‘idiots’. The novel is Backman at his finest, and his other characters–Ove, Brit Marie, Granny, Peter–would feel right at home between its cover.

The novel began a bumpy ride for me. I stumbled. I grew irritated. Something about the writing was off. And I was, quite frankly, tempted to quit. (Pssst. Don’t tell my book club!) Had Backman lost his touch? Was something lost in translation? But, oh, no, dear Reader. No. It is genius. So if you find yourself faltering for the first fifty pages, don’t despair. Your stick-to-itiveness will be rewarded.

Each of those misfits has a story–heart-wrenching, poignant, melancholy. There is sharp-tongued Zara, a banker tormented by her compulsions; Roger, the retiree drifting rudderless, and his wife Anna-Lena, who tries to fill that void. There’s Julia, pregnant and not a little overbearing, and her long-suffering wife Ro; Estelle, age eighty-seven, and lonely as lonely can be. Jim and Jack, the father-son police team, who take charge of the hostage situation, and sort it all out after. (Or do they?) And the bank robber turned hostage taker, of course.

But it’s in the coming together that each character is thrown a lifeline. Our modern problem, according to Backman, is that “most people never become individuals to us. They’re just people. We’re just strangers passing each other, your anxieties briefly brushing against mine as the fibers of our coats touch momentarily on a crowded sidewalk somewhere. We never really know what we do to each other, with each other, for each other.” And “the greatest loneliness in the world [is] when no one is walking beside you toward your destination.”

Turns out the greatest blessing is walking each other home.

What I lived

A couple months ago I met some folks–AirBnB hosts, they were. A lovely home in a beautiful setting. But, I was pretty certain, not of my political persuasion. My radar was fine-tuned, critical and ready to judge. It was, after all, a few short months after the election and only a few short weeks past the Capitol insurrection. Surely my judgement was justified …

But how foolish I was.

These kind people were among the most gracious I have ever met. They shared their life stories openly and freely. They welcomed me into their home with such sincerity, I felt like a distant cousin. We laughed. We sipped Kahlua. Sat by the fireplace and talked some more. They asked about my life at home and didn’t bat an eye when I told them it was complicated. We talked about our dogs. (Did I say we laughed?)

I thought about the antipathy so many of us feel towards each other in the U.S. today. Especially those who aren’t in our tribe, who don’t share the same politics. We reject them out-of-hand, because, well … they’re wrong. I’ve come to realize when we put up those walls, when we stay in the mind ghettos we create, we miss getting to know some pretty great folks. That love might be the way out of this mess, after all.

Turns out the greatest blessing is walking each other home.