This is my symphony

What I read & what I lived …

What I read

Catherine Ryan Hyde is a good read no matter what–the plots are simple, yet compelling; the characters, rich; the resolution, straightforward. (I wrote about two other titles here and here.) Her novel Walk Me Home didn’t disappoint. The story opens with sisters Carly and Jen running away from home in the dead of a cool night in New Mexico. They are supplied with a backpack each, a $20 phone card, and two bicycles. Mom and her boyfriend died in a car crash the day before and the girls have no one. Sixteen-year-old Carly suspects Child Protective Services will close in on them soon, but she is certain they’ll find safety if only they can reach their ‘step-father’ Teddy in California. They leave the bikes behind pretty quickly (eleven-year-old Jen crashed hers) and start to walk. And walk. Across the Southwest desert, no less, following the roads, hiding in culverts, and begging money for candy bars from gas stations to keep themselves fueled. They are hot. Sunburned. Thirsty. Blistered and exhausted. But Carly is certain Teddy is their savior. (Jen–for reasons we eventually find out–is silent on the matter.)

The girls are near death when they are finally rescued by Delores, an elderly Native American woman, who feeds them, gives them shelter, and puts them to work around her property to pay off their debt. While Carly is wary and lashes out at Delores, Jen settles in quickly, relieved to finally have a safe place to call home. Jen loves the work and the animals. She finds a grandmother in the old woman while Carly sees only a jailer. Carly eventually sets out to find Teddy on her own–and the story takes a more serious turn when she discovers the truth behind Jen’s reluctance to reunite with Teddy.

Walk Me Home is a satisfying coming-of-age story–perfect for a quick weekend read.

What I lived

A walk in the neighborhood

Last week I flew the coop. (Figuratively speaking!) January was a difficult month with a loved one’s Covid illness and the worry and financial impact it brings. It’s been months since I’ve visited face-to-face with friends. Home life can be complicated. And it was suddenly just too much. So four days, three nights, and nineteen hundred miles later, I landed myself in Tucson to visit with my son and his family. The drive was character building, to say the least, what with lake-effect snow, freezing rain, and freezing fog. It was just me, myself, and I for hours and hours, and I came to think of Red Semi and RV-With-The-Bikes as friends along the way. (That, and the NPR radio hosts I listened to as I jumped from city to city and station to station.) I learned, once again, that I can do hard things. And I must say I thought about those little girls Carly and Jen an awful lot. Which got me to thinking just how many novels involve a journey and then I remembered teaching The Odyssey all those years ago and I decided we are all of us just putting one foot in front of the other and … well, such are the meandering thoughts when a day’s drive covers five hundred miles.

It’s lovely here in the desert Southwest. A cool (?!) 70 degrees. Sunny. And oh-so-full of loves. My end game is not sightseeing, but reconnecting with my sweet six-year-old granddaughter Luna whom I last visited just as the shut downs began in March a year ago. (You can read about that trip here.) By my first full day here I had the Grand Tour of the Barbie Dream House, went shopping for dinner fixings, picked out her birthday gift–a sewing basket of her very own!–and stitched what she is calling her ‘sewing basket gnomes’. Today will be more of the same, I’m sure. (Did I mention it’s sunny here?)

Life is good.

What I read

Last week I read two novels that, in content and style were distant cousins, but in spirit were as close as sisters. Sarah Gailey’s Upright Women Wanted is a dystopian Western set in the not-so-distant future, a mash up of Handmaid’s Tale and Hunger Games and a cowboy dime novel. Esther Augustus stows away in the Librarian’s wagon and is found two days after leaving Valor, Arizona. Esther’s father had promised her hand in marriage to one of his cronies–but Esther, still mourning the execution of her secret lover Beatriz is desperate. Desperate to escape her impending marriage and desperate to rid herself (as she sees it) of the curse of her desires. The Librarians are morally upright women whose task is to lend Approved Materials in small towns throughout Arizona, Utah, and New Mexico. Joining their ranks might mean that she, too, could become morally upright. Except it’s soon obvious that the Librarians Bet, Leda, and Cye are not quite what they seem. For one thing, Bet and Leda are clearly a couple. For another, they transport more than just Approved Materials. Like rebels seeking to overthrow the authorities. Upright Women packs quite a punch in its too-short 170-odd pages–murder! gun fights! smuggling!–and it’s an anti-totalitarian, feminist, and queer-friendly tale well worth your time.

The Book of V by Anna Solomon weaves together the stories of three women: Lily, a struggling young mother; Vee, Lily’s mother’s one-time best friend; and Esther, queen of the Old Testament. I wasn’t familiar with the Jewish tale of Vashti and Esther, but Solomon deftly connects Esther with the modern women. And it’s a connection many women share: we compromise our aspirations and dignity for the sake of our partners and children. Lily finds motherhood stultifying and embarks on a chaste affair of the heart to gain control of her life. Vee’s marriage to a rising senator in the fifties ends in disgrace when she refuses his humiliating request at a Washington party. And Esther–a second wife just like Lily–must ally herself with the king’s first wife Vashti in order to save her people. Settling. Compromise. It’s the story of our lives.

What I lived

Never has there been a time when I have experienced such absolute delight in simple pleasures … and also incredible shadows. Times are sweet with the Littles in my life: I helped with virtual school when my daughter works–a walk now and then–loads of book-reading and Barbies and Do-a-Dot markers. I’m taking snapshots with my heart to last me a lifetime. My afternoons are often spent stitching critters and the time has come, I think, to start “stitch-bombing” (my twist on yarn bombing) the world with Mr. Socks and Very Nice Mice and maybe even Picnic Bugs. I’ve come to love a finger of bourbon on ice–I never saw that coming!–in the evening. Hour-long talks with a friend every week. Mass on Sunday. I can’t complain.

And yet.

It’s lonely sometimes. I miss yoga with Mary and drinks after. I miss flying to Tucson to visit my son and his family. I want to sit in Sweet Seasons for a couple hours with Denice. I miss a Girls Night Out. Hugs. Oh, how I miss hugs. We’ve had Covid in the house (not me) and it was nasty, just like they say. I follow the rules, but there’s a worry that nibbles around the edges: when? where? who? I watch too much news and mourn as our nation rocks with conflict. Our skies are gray in January. And February. And March!

The view at my feet …

But then.

There’s all those books waiting for me. A walk in the Gardens with my son. The scent of Murphy’s Oil soap after fresh-washed floors. Clean sheets. Aunt Alice’s wool granny square afghan at my back. The surprise of an Etsy purchase in the mail. A trip planned at long last.

I think I can do this.


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What I read

In this time and place–a New Year, the raging pandemic, my own struggles– Rachel Joyce’s Miss Benson’s Beetle was the perfect read, what with its story of an unlikely sisterhood, adventure and derring-do, following a dream deferred. Margery Benson is a a spinster lady in post-war England. She teaches (in a quite lackluster manner, it should be noted) domestic science in a girls’ school. Margery is “lumpy old woman”–tall and overweight with bird’s nest hair and a potato nose. (Do I even need mention nearly all of her frocks are brown?)

And when a random act of larceny propels her to leave her world behind and head halfway around the world for New Caledonia to search for the elusive golden beetle, Margery hires Enid Pretty–her opposite in nearly every way–as her assistant. Enid arrives for their four-month ocean journey in a bright pink suit, candy floss yellow hair, and sandals. With pom-poms at the toe, no less. Where Margery is a woman of few words, Enid’s flow endlessly. Where Margery worries and frets, Enid trips through life with endless optimism. She is the Tigger to Margery’s Eeyore. And while Margery tries to keep her at arm’s length, that is impossible.

So begins their hero’s journey. Both women, it turns out, are following their vocation: Marge’s, entomology; Enid’s, motherhood. Life hasn’t been easy or kind to either and the humiliations they endured in the past propel them to test themselves. There is one passport between the two of them. Lost luggage and supplies. A stolen Jeep. Heat and humidity and tangled jungle to battle. Meddling diplomatic wives whose snooping almost reveals their secrets. A cyclone and dangerous river crossing.

Miss Benson’s Beetle is proof that a coming-of-age story isn’t limited to young people. That it’s never too late to follow your dreams and find love–although both might be found in the most unlikeliest of places.

What I lived

It’s a quiet life I live now–much quieter than I imagined retirement would be. But it’s a good time for learning to live in balance, a good time to turn inward. When I read a book like Miss Benson (or the Book of V. which is next up for review) I realize in a very real way that it’s my relationships with women that have transformed me more than any other. They certainly offer more support than the romantic relationships I’ve had. [In fact, I’ve decided my pall bearers (long, loooooong time down the road!) will be women. Because they have carried me through life, they’re the ones who will carry me out. Quite literally.]

Other than such Deep Thoughts, I’ve taken on my grandson’s virtual school when Mom works and his sisters are at day care. I’m working through an online weaving course on my lap loom. And I’ve stitched more Mr. Socks than I ever dreamed I would.

Granted, life is quiet. But I am safe and warm. I have long chats with friends. I walk. I journal. I read, always. It’s true in my case, as it was in Margery Benson’s that, “Never in her life had she felt so near that porous line where her own body finished, and the earth began. And blessed. She felt blessed.”

What I lived

18,000 pages read
500 vlogs watched
150 podcast episodes
150 home-cooked dinners
75 masks sewn
71 Amazon orders
60 books
47 emails to Friend Denice
45 journal entries
30 restaurant take-out dinners
15 Revive & Thrive deliveries
17 Facetime visits with grandkids
12 stitched kitties
10 blog posts written
9 months
8 days camping
6 pedicures
5 haircuts
5 online meditation groups
4 trunks full to Goodwill
3 embroidery projects
1 flu shot
1 pound gained
1 sweet ol’ kitty euthanized
0 colds or sniffles (Can you say, “Masks?!”)

What I read

Tattooist of Auschwitz Keeper of Lost Things Doomsday Southern DiscomfortLost Girls of Paris Widow NashBecomingBridge of ClayOlive, AgainEvie Drake Starts OverThe Dutch House A Single ThreadIncomplete RevengeRadium GirlsLager Queen of MinnesotaHidden Valley RoadA Woman of No ImportanceThe Testaments Brutal TellingBury Your DeadState of WonderLaw of SimilarsMarch Handmaid’s TaleShine, Shine, Shine Making ToastMan Against InsanityNon Violent CommunicationWhite QueenThe FriendNiagara Falls All Over Again Flight Behavior

To the best of my recollection, this list makes up the first six months of pandemic reading. My favs are linked; non-fiction is bolded. (Some titles from the Maisie Dobbs and Louise Penny series are included, but I didn’t link those–even though they are well-loved–because they are like Old Friends and I’m biased in their favor.) I’ve read almost half again as many titles since the end of summer, but more on those another day.

Great Pause #8

It’s been a while, has it not?

And in the midst of a global pandemic where life as we know it has slowed to a crawl, I find it rather odd that I’ve not blogged more.

There’s definitely an emotional health aspect to this whole experience–one, I think, that is too often overlooked in our focus on face masks and social distance and hand-washing and Lysol wipes.

So I’ve sometimes had to do battle with my own demons: loneliness, isolation, fear. That unfocused feeling of moving from one thing to another to yet another without a real sense of purpose.

I’ve always lived by to-do lists. I’m a planner. I keep my ducks in a row. Every day has its own agenda and each task builds on the next.

But now?

I do some hand-stitching. Make a few masks. Bake a rhubarb crisp. (Or two!) Listen to NPR while I embroider. Dust a bit. (Well, maybe not so much …) Hang laundry on the line. Take a walk.

This little beauty from Taos Pueblo sits
on my writing desk

Don’t get me wrong. This “discomfort’ is one that only the privileged among us have leisure for. And my gratitude knows no bounds. I have a steady income. A house to call my own. Health! Friends who care for me.

Thanks to my husband the gardener our backyard is flush with zinnias and cosmos and gladiolas and butterfly bush and coneflower. The other day I watched a hummingbird flit from zinnia to butterfly bush and back again.

Her path wasn’t linear. Her flight seemed erratic. She hovered by each flower for only a second or two before zig-zagging off.

Kind of like me for the past two hundred and some odd days.

But no one on God’s green Earth would ever think less of that incredible little creature for her flight. Would never criticize her for lacking direction or being unfocused.

So I’m extending to myself the same grace. I’ll make like a hummingbird and flit through my days, moving from laptop to the kitchen sink to sewing machine and on out into the garden–without judgement. Compelled by whatever Inner Knowing pulls me forward and keeps me airborne.

What I read

My Nancy Pearl action figure on my writing desk.

This little lady right here, Nancy Pearl, my sister-from-another-mister–at least when it comes to all things fiction– recommended The Widow Nash … and all her other NPR listeners, truth be told. Like any of the other books I’ve read at her prompting, the story did not disappoint. (I’ve left a list of other titles she’s reviewed and I’ve read below.)

The Widow Nash settles in Livingston, Montana at the turn of the century. She lives for a time at the Elite Hotel where she mourns her husband, Edgar Nash, a man who fought in the Cuban war, but died of a lingering illness. Widow Nash becomes part of a cast of small-town characters who are either seeking their fortunes or running from their past–or both.

Widow Nash is indeed running, but her fortune has been lost. (Or has it?)

In reality, she is Leda Cordelia Dulcinea Remfrey. Dulcy. Her father, the wealthy mine-owner and inventor Walton Remfrey has just committed suicide in Seattle. And like a snake in the grass, Dulcy’s former fiance Victor insinuates himself into her life again. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Victor is just as violent as he was when she broke off their engagement after he raped her. Dulcy had cared for and chaperoned Walton since she was fifteen, following him all over the world from the mines he owned to the spas and clinics where he sought treatment for syphilis, and she is tired. Tired of a life which is limited by the demands of the men in her life and the repressive upper class.

So on the way to New York from Seattle, she fakes her death and eventually settles in Livingston. Here she meets hotel owner Eugenia Knox who runs the Elite with whatever panache she can muster in such a hardscrabble western town. Another widow, Margaret Mallow becomes Dulcy’s fast friend. The alcoholic police chief Gerry Fenoways whose sadistic streak is well-known. Samuel Peake, a newspaperman. And Lewis Braudel, the journalist who has his suspicions about her story, in part because Dulcy stole her fictitious husband’s back story from a novel Braudel had written.

Dulcy suspects that Victor’s thugs are never far behind, despite the fact that her family declares her dead after only a year. And her fears are well-founded. Will Dulcy be discovered? Will Victor drag her back to a life she no longer wants? There’s also that matter of her father’s lost fortune from the sale of a diamond mine–will his journals offer her any clues to its whereabouts?

The novel is washed in sepia tones–a touch dark, sometimes grim–but one that is totally compelling.

[Watch Nancy Pearl’s interview with author Jamie Harrison here–I think you will fall in love with her articulate, but unassuming and relatable, perspective.]

What I lived

If there is any fantasy that turns itself over and over in my head–especially during tough times–it is this one: I leave everything behind and reinvent myself some place far away. A simple apartment. Quiet. Solitude. No emotional entanglement (because no relationships, of course). I have thrown off the whatever I think is holding me down at the moment.

Of course, it’s only a pipe dream. Some fantastic plan I’ve concocted to step out of situations in which I feel trapped. Years ago what held me in place was my children; these days it’s my grandchildren. Because I could never leave those dear little hearts.

Bag End

During this Great Pause that fantasy has returned in full force. I’ve become obsessed with the Rubber Tramp movement, folks who leave “sticks and bricks” to live full time in their car, van, or RV. Entire YouTube channels are devoted to their adventures, but my favorites are Bob Wells’ CheapRVliving and Carolyn Higgins’ Carolyn’s RV Life. The vloggers are daring. Independent. Inventive. Free. Their videos are anthologies of how-to, travelogue, and personal philosophy. I can’t get enough of them–especially Carolyn, who also talks about the challenges women face on the road. For the past week I’ve been backtracking through her playlist in order to watch (almost) every one of her nearly five-hundred vlogs.

I see myself pulling out of the driveway, Bag End bobbing behind me, this Great Pause and social distancing and COVID-19 worries left behind in the dust. On the road I’ve got the whole world ahead and my tiny house behind. I boondock, maybe staying put for a week or two in one place before moving on. No shut-down for me …

At least in my fantasies.


Other Nancy Pearl recommendations reviewed on This is my symphony:
Etta and Otto and Russell and James 
Unbecoming
Miss Hargreaves 
August Snow
The Half Brother

Great Pause #6

This week I accompanied my elderly mother to the hospital for an outpatient procedure. I was, to be honest, more than a little apprehensive. Covid, I was sure, lurked in every crack and crevice, covered every surface. And while I was able put those fears aside, the experience was eerie. Arrivals to outpatient services are funneled down a corridor at six-feet intervals, stopping at a Plexiglas wall behind which sit two gatekeepers. We were given surgical masks to replace the fabric ones we wore, and I had to wait outside while a nurse determined whether or not I was permitted to keep Mom company during the procedure. The waiting room was nearly empty, chairs turned backwards at intervals to encourage social distancing. And in the busy outpatient radiology department, she was the only patient for the entire three hours we were there. Not exactly the normal state of affairs for this busy urban hospital.

My project at home has been stripping wallpaper from the room that was once my husband’s office, now slated to become my sewing room. I. hate. removing. wallpaper. But I took my time, only one wall a day to preserve my arthritic hands, and now it’s just waiting for new (self-adhesive! removable!) wallpaper to go up. It only took a pandemic and a shut down to get it done.

To keep myself on an even keel, I stitch (you can read about my adventures here) and I’ve returned to coloring some evenings while I listen to podcasts. I’ve been able to “attend” a few online meditation events offered by a perceptive and gentle energy worker, Susan Duesbery. She has several practices available on her website, and I can’t say enough about her practice. I continue to read, of course, but have had to adapt my choices to fit my current head space. I’ve tried any number of titles in the past two weeks, only to put them aside after only a chapter or two. It seems only comfort reading will do. So I’ve read two Louise Penny titles and have already decided my next book will be another in the Maisie Dobbs series. Let’s call this the macaroni and cheese of reading–warm, “I want seconds” comfort-food.

Friend Mary and I enjoy ninety minute happy hour phone calls a couple times a week–and it’s like I’m fifteen all over again and lying on the floor in my bedroom, twisting the cord around my fingers while solving All Life’s Problems. We only talk about what’s important and life-changing, of course: coloring books and re-organizing the basement and what’s for dinner and camping trips and virus fears and elderly mothers and garden weeds and summertime and eating too many cookies and face masks and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned and books …

And just like that, it’s all good.

Great Pause #5

First Cozyblue project: Night Garden

A few months ago, I took my embroidery hoop in hand again after putting it down nearly thirty years ago. I’m not quite sure why I put it aside. Probably something to do with the fact that I was a single mom finishing my degree part time. That I had three kids to shuttle around. And then a new teaching career that asked for more hours than I had in a day.

Embroidery patterns have changed since the 70s and 80s when the patterns leaned towards cute or floral or country. Not really pieces I’d want to spend time on today. But then I found Cozyblue Handmade and Snuggly Monkey and I was hooked all over again. Mandalas and vines and sun, moon, and stars. Oh, my!

My hoop has been a lifeline during this Pause. I stitch and stab and worry about whether or not my leaf stitch is even; I focus on french knots and fly-stitches–with nary a thought of some lurking virus. Or a depleted bank account. Or missed grandchildren.

What’s on my hoop

Embroidery has become a kind of meditation that calms my fear and keeps me smack dab in the moment.

So how serendipitous that Tracy Chevalier’s new novel A Single Thread should offer me the the story of how the magic of needle and thread saves a young woman one stitch at a time.

Violet Speedwell is a “surplus” woman. During the Great War so many young men of marriageable age were killed that in the years that followed, a generation of women watched marriage, children, and independence pass them by. At 38, Violet languished at home with a demanding mother until she made the nearly unheard-of decision to move to a new job in another village … and life on her own.

One day Violet visits Winchester Cathedral on her lunch hour and finds that she has interrupted a service dedicating kneeling cushions created by the Cathedral Broderers*. Violet is drawn in by the prayers and music of the service and drawn to the community of women whose artistry would allow them to leave something of themselves behind.

So Violet befriends one of the younger broderers, manages to get her employer Mr. Waterman to allow her to attend the broderer’s Wednesday morning meetings, and begins to expand her life one stitch at a time. She goes on a summer walking tour alone. Dines out with new-found friends. She expands her role in Mr. Waterman’s office. And at long last stands up to her mother. Violet finds purpose in her work embroidering, while the group of women she meets anchor her.

Violet also finds herself drawn to the Cathedral bell ringers and their own mission. She meets Arthur, for whom bell ringing is just as much his life line as embroidery is hers, and bell ringing and brodering come to bookend the story. Quite literally.

If you are a needle worker, you’ll find the story especially engaging. A Single Thread both transported me to another time and place and connected me to this present moment where I’m grounded stitch-by-stitch.


* the brodery referred to in the novel is canvas needlepoint, not hoop embroidery–but the love of all things needle and thread is constant.

Great Pause #4

Depending on when you started counting, we’ve reached the forty day mark in this shut down, give or take a couple days. And just acknowledging that milestone makes this time feel epic. (Or apocalyptic, as the case may be.) It’s a number that carries much weight for People of the Book, be they Christian, Jews, or Muslims.

Forty. It rained on Noah. The Israelites wandered. Moses waited on Mt. Sinai. Jesus fasted. Muhammad received his revelation from Gabriel.

Isolated, all of them. Well, whaddayaknow!

So it’s no wonder that many of us are feeling the pull of this Pause–something calling us to turn inward and wait. Something Big is going to happen.

While it’s all well and good to await some sort of transformation, the Pause can also be rough. I want to use my time “productively” and so think I should be cleaning and organizing and painting (oh, wait … not that …) and doing all manner of spring cleaning. This is the time to finish the Great American Novel and fill reams of paper with poetry. Dive deeper into my relationship with my partner. Turn over a new leaf. Start afresh.

And there are some days when the stars align and all that is on the table. I strip the wallpaper. Bake the ham. Organize the junk drawer. Throw out the expired pantry items. (Sure jell with an expiration date of 2017–really?!) Walk in the park. Blog about the Great Pause. Read. And otherwise make myself useful.

Other days, not so much. There’s a heaviness that settles, some gloomy cloud of uncertainty. Days when my motivation dries up like the stink bugs belly up in my windows. I sit. I scroll through my phone. I read articles about the pandemic. I sit some more. It’s during these moments that I’m tempted to beat myself up for not being productive.

And then I remind myself: the world has shut down. There’s a virus loose and we don’t know who will catch it or how to stop it. We don’t know where it is or when if it will knock on our door. The business closed and the job dried up. In-come can’t keep up with the out-go. The future is uncertain.

Scary stuff.

So I am allowing myself a good measure of grace. If I tune out for a day (or two or three or …) so be it. I’m calling no harm, no foul. Just sit in the quiet and get through the Pause, I say. If the only thing I can claim after all this is over is that I came out on the other side physically and mentally healthy, it’s a win all-around.

“Let us embrace all this dithering and get in touch with our inner whim whams,” is my battle cry!

I have been reading, of course. Not always with great focus, but I do read on. (Is there any other way to get through life?) There’s been The Tatooist of Auschwitz for the cancelled book club meeting in April, a good story with writing that sometimes had a little to be desired. And The Keeper of Lost Things, a charming bit of chick lit that was diverting enough. Or how about A Man Against Insanity which looks at the early use of drug therapy at Traverse City State Hospital during the fifties. I’m about to start The Friend which has been sitting in my TBR basket for almost two years because the story turns on the death of a friend, a traumatized Great Dane, grief–and I’ll probably cry buckets. But it was a National Book Award winner in 2018, so it’s sure to be a great read. (And certain I’ll cry buckets.)

On a lighter note, I got my National Park Senior Pass in the mail and I am free (quite literally!) to go to any national park for the rest of my life. (Once they reopen, that is.) Please note I have no shame in declaring my possession of said senior pass because, come. on. Free national parks forevaaaaaaaa!

So I’m dreaming of my trailer and the open road and exploring beyond these four walls.

Great Pause #3

And then the gloom lifted and it was time to get busy.

Last week I sewed almost thirty face masks for friends and family. I haven’t used my sewing machine like this in at least three decades. But I’m not alone–an entire movement of home sewers has risen up. NPR featured a story on men and women sewing masks, dubbing us craftivists. A friend-of-a-friend who runs her own home business (shout out to My Lovely Muse!) donated ten masks to my daughter’s floor at the hospital–and then shared fifty yards of elastic with me so I could start sewing myself. (Elastic is out-of-stock at most fabric store online, so this was like gold.) I passed some of that elastic on to a friend who was sewing masks for a homeless shelter and more to a friend who was making them for a nursing home. Pay it forward, people. Pay it forward.

My husband and I walk nearly every day in some local park or another and I have every hope that walking will continue to be part of my new normal. Reading comes in fits and starts. (Sometimes the focus just isn’t there …) But I cook nearly every evening and it has become something of a (soothing?) ritual. We are eating like kings! Not rich or exotic food, but healthy and homemade: jambalaya, pork roast, shrimp curry, chili, shawarma chicken bowls. I’ve also gained a couple pounds, but that, I know, is the result of the cookies and doughnuts and chocolate I’ve allowed myself. Indulgence goes a long way.

Last Saturday, hubby’s clippers in hand, I cut my own hair. Yep, you read that right. It’s not pretty and I will owe my stylist an enormous tip when she gets me out of the mess I created–but it’s shorter, at least, and I feel at least a teensy bit more … presentable. (The question is, for whom?!)

I want to hug these little faces …

Not visiting my grand kids is killing me. I Face time them a couple times a week, but the experience leaves something to be desired. At five, three, and one, the calls are a dizzying display of the ceiling or flashes of arms, legs, and foreheads as the two oldest wrestle the phone from each other. Our best ‘conversation’ was during craft time one day–my daughter set the phone on the table while the kids colored and cut. Once a week I’ve become the Happy Meal Fairy, dropping off goodies I normally wouldn’t consider fit for consumption because it makes them so happy.

I blow kisses through the window and for now that has to be enough.