Our Relationship to Reading

While so much in my life has changed over the years the one constant has been my love of books. A passion for reading is a thread that connects me to so many friends, extending all the way back to elementary school where my friend Julie Rucker and I shared our love of books.

Recently Julie shared an essay she wrote on reading that reminded me of how important it is to share our favorite stories with each other. Like most of us, Julie has gone through lots of changes over the years, while husbands and jobs have come and gone, her boo

k collection and emotional connection to the stories remains true. I hope you will connect to her passion as much as I do and please feel free to share your thoughts as well...

Julie's Reflections on Reading

Read-such a simple word that has so many implications, connotations, emotions and goals. There should really be eighty unique words for it, like the Inuit have terms for types of snow. There are casual reads and forced reads, private reads, and those done for the appearance of privacy like on a crowded airplane, administered purposefully to avoid talking with the guy in the seat next to you. Where did the peaceful exploration of a new novel go with its fresh, inky smell and crisp virgin pages? “No time to read,” “Have to read,” these are the phrases going through my mind now. I long for the time when the hubbub of the day was merely interference to settling down with that novel that my sister just sent in the mail. But chaos runs its course and I know another novel will find its way to me. Maybe simply out of exhaustion I’ll put down the tools of the job of daily living and pluck one of the many mysteries from high upon my plant shelf, plump a pillow and be absorbed by a new place, another time, and an exhilarating adventure that I just would not otherwise have time for.

Growing up, books were everywhere in my family’s house. Mom and Dad were always building or dragging in new book cases for the ever expanding library. Each holiday, birthday, and any day for that matter, books were customary gifts for us. Even the tooth fairy brought me a book once. It was Nothing Ever Happens on My Block. I still have it. I still have nearly every book ever given to me which explains the plant shelf overflow. There’s an entire novel assortment given to me that I’ve nearly made a dent in and books categorized by subject. My library is noticed immediately, but not always favorably by those entering my home. Several people have suggested I get rid of them, but with the exception of gifting one now and then, the collection remains. It has outlived two husbands (they’re still alive, just no longer my husbands) who just could not fathom why I would keep a set of encyclopedias published in the 1950’s. Either you get it or you don’t. I’m sure there’s still valid information in those resources that not only did my older siblings and I use to do school reports, but my own kids have used them as well. And why would I keep those novels given to me by a dear elderly friend? Alright, some books are kept for sentimental reasons, but I swear I will get around to reading them someday.

There is a beautiful consumption that swells over me when I’m immersed in a new book. Almost obsessively I cannot wait to return to it again, and it’s such a rewarding moment when reading that last page. That is true of the good ones, anyway. For those that border on lame the compulsion is an optimism that it will get better, so I finish those too, generally. But that lovely, faraway place between the pages might as well be in someone else’s house when life gets just too darn busy.

Why isn’t reading a priority? It certainly should be. It calms the body and sharpens the mind, an anecdote to the stressors and pressures of all those other things like working and raising children. The read does take a back seat to the looming responsibilities. I think if there is indeed a literary crisis today that it is an issue of time management, not so much empathy for the practice. Understandable too is the interference of stimuli such as electronics. If I am not currently absorbed in one tale or another I’m more likely to turn on the television or play a game of Texas HoldEm on the computer to end the day. That is really a little surprising to realize given that just a few months ago those lonely novels were my sleep aid of choice.

It was a passion for a while of which I give the credit to a childhood friend who had just published her first novel. I couldn’t attend the debut and book-signing, so I sent my sister from New York in my place. Soon after that I received my autographed copy of The Last Bridge by Teri Coyne in the mail, and I gobbled it up like a box of Cheez-its. The read launch me into a whirlwind of books, one after another. That era continued for quite a while. Looking back, it may have ended right around the time that I lost my job. Also my rickety, old, wooden ladder broke, so I couldn’t reach the plant shelf anymore.

Come to think of it, there must be plenty of dust up there. Note to self- buy a new ladder and start reading again; the dust can wait.

The perk that unemployment has awarded me is the freedom to return to school, thus the forced read comes into play. I was awaiting my Mentor’s arrival at the café and reading bits and pieces from a book on a Pueblo ruin that I had just picked up at a used book store in town when he arrived. Having chosen a text for his course that won’t arrive for another week, he asked me to finish reading the one in my hands. “The whole thing?” I said to myself. While it is my desire to absorb the information, I planned for the technical compilation to be a behind the scenes reference support, not an assignment. Alas, the forced reading has begun. It’s funny the way components of life fall in to place.

Already this LAS class has been good for me. It has reminded me of a constant throughout my life-books. I can picture the day Mrs. Heinz took our first grade class to the Washington Elementary School library where I watched Caps for Sale waiting for me on the shelf while the librarian spoke. (Teri Coyne was there too.) I remember a Fiction and Fantasy class years later when my proposal for the subject of a book report was denied because The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe was too short, so I wrote the report on the entire seven books in The Chronicles of Narnia series. I can recall my Mother telling the story of how she and her cousin, Dolly, would make butter and lettuce sandwiches, gather a stack of books, and read for hours. Reading is a wonderful thing, really. It transcends time, binding humanity together in the literary universe.

I’ve always admired those who take, or make as it were, the time to sit down with a good book. It’s a pleasant past time for sure, but there is also a certain beauty in coming across someone reading; they appear serene. I imagine others notice the peace in such a view. When my daughter was learning to read, and struggling with her fluency and expression, I heard her talking one afternoon on the back porch. As I came closer to the door, I noticed that she was not only seated beside the littler boy from next door, but that she was reading to him. Her words flowed like music. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I crept away and snatched up my camera to capture the glorious event on video.

She, like her mother, wrote her name completely backward for the longest time. My mother used to marvel at the way my writing was in a complete mirror image of how it should be. While teaching Gracie, I often thought if Mother wondered if my dyslexic ways would carry on or subside. Eventually and gradually letters face in the right direction, and someday the little girl will be sharing the wonders of a book with another child, maybe her own. For now, she’ll keep mixing her d’s with b’s and p’s with q’s just as I did, but before she knows it she’ll be engaged in a forced read for a college class, eating a butter and lettuce sandwich.

One door closing...

On Thursday I said good-bye to my New York apartment and moved everything out to my house on Long Island. Although I was ready to make the move, I did not expect it to be as difficult as it turned out to be.

I lived in that apartment for over fifteen years and before that I lived in the studio next door. Moving to that building was a big step in my adult life. I was in my late twenties and until then I had lived with roommates from the time I came home from the hospital with my mother. I was afraid of living alone, I wondered what I would do with myself without someone to eat with, make plans or be annoyed at.

The movers were barely in the lobby before I realized that living alone was one of the most fantastic experiences I would ever have. I loved my L-shaped studio and reveled in the luxuries of being independent including drinking the milk out of the carton and knowing whatever I left in the fridge would stay there. Television and movie choices were not negotiated and I never had to wait for the phone to free up or the bathroom to be empty.

When the one bedroom next door opened up I was ready for more space and moved myself in by dragging my furniture across one threshold to another. I brought my boxes and my memories and settled in to a space that allowed me to have more guests, space and freedom. I had four large closets in that apartment and over time I filled them with stuff, lots and lots of stuff.

When I turned forty I yearned for more outdoor space, to be more connected to a community and to finally own something of my own so I bought my house and instead of moving everything out of my apartment I gradually brought the essentials and left the "stuff" there.

It was only a matter of time before I started to realize that I wanted to be at my house more than I wanted to be in my apartment and in the city and last year after losing my job and getting my book published I knew it was time to let go.

The process of packing forced me to go through the documents, trinkets and mementos of my life. I found my college ID and remembered that first day at NYU when I wondered how I was ever going to find my way in the city and a few papers I had written with incredibly supportive comments from my professors that helped me see my own potential. I found birthday cards, one from my father whose box-like distinctive printing made me tear up. It wasn't a big birthday just an average one, back when I thought we would never get along and he would be around forever.

I found my Aunt Rosemary's chocolate cake recipe which we thought was lost, in her hand writing that was so hard to read and so undeniably her. She is gone now and suddenly that recipe card felt more precious.

I found love letters, gifts, and incredibly sweet notes passed to me from men and boys I have loved and dated. Drawings from all the amazing children I have loved and I marveled at how silly some of their baby outfits were and how joyful my life became when each one of my nieces and nephews were born.

I found pictures so many pictures and so many good times spread out over so many years.

I found myself overwhelmed with sadness for all the people who have passed or have drifted out of my life (some for reasons I can't remember and others for hurts that still sting) and amazed at how fast all the years have gone.

I asked my Aunt Rosemary a few years ago on her eightieth birthday if she felt different. She said she didn't, that in her mind she was always the same young person in her twenties and often when she looked in the mirror she was surprised at what she saw.

I understand what she means, going through the small touchstones of your past it isn't so much remembering as it is reliving, as if the past is not gone but still with us, I am still that NYU college student and still a stand-up comedian, still me.

Yet, holding on can fill up too much space in your life can't it? And what if that leaves less space for more adventures and more love and light?

In the end, I took what mattered most, gave away a lot and tossed even more and a took a moment before closing the door behind me to say good-bye.

I would have stayed longer but the future is waiting.

Books Are Great Gifts

Books have changed my life. It is hard to measure the degrees or the effect, but it is clear, a good book has a way of altering or enhancing your life experience

I love getting books as gifts, especially from people who are passionate about the story, the author or the subject. I am always touched when someone seeks out a special book for me or takes a chance on a story they think I might appreciate it. Over the years some of the best gifts I have gotten have been books. While the list is long (and I am not in front of my bookcase at the moment) I thought I would share some of these treasurers. Feel free to share some of your best book gifts as well.

Next week I'll share some of my favorite books from this year with you (and please send me your favorites as well.) In case you haven't noticed I want you to BUY BOOKS!!!

The Razor’s Edge, W. Somerset Maugham – FIRST EDITION

I read this book right after college on the recommendation of a friend. It was an example of the right story at the right time. When my brother Patrick graduated two years after, I got him a copy and urged him to read it. Twenty years later, after searching for several years, he presented me with a first edition of this great story. When I opened it he said, “I never forgot how much that book meant to me at the time and wanted to give you this as a way of saying thanks.”

Miriam Webster Dictionary – with name embossed in gold on cover.
This was a high school graduation gift from family friends who owned a bookstore. At the time I thought it was kind of a silly and heavy gift but throughout college and even now I pull it out to look up a word or discover a pressed flower or two. Yes, the Internet gives me more options, but the heft and history of this book reminds gives it power.

The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkien Leather bound edition
On our way to South America for a family vacation, I picked this paperback up in the airport to have something to read on the long flight. I was twelve going to a foreign land reading a book about a magical world, it was a good fit. My mother bought me this leather bound edition for Christmas a few years ago, it took me back to that wonderful story and a life changing trip.

Very Personally Yours – Kimberly Clarke
Talk about the power of words. When we were given our big puberty talk in sixth grade the girls were given this special booklet produced by the Kimberly Clarke company (the makers of feminine hygiene products) as a way of introducing girls to their periods. This was the early seventies, the book had not been updated since the fifties and was filled with so much misinformation that it was funny to me even then. My intrepid friend Gwyn hunted down an original copy of this for my birthday a while back. It is a prized possession. (The link takes you to a scanned version of this booklet!)

Hatchet – Gary Paulsen
My oldest nephew Wyatt gave me this book as a young lad after reading it and loving it. It is a great story by a writer who knows how to write for young adults. I treasure it as an example of how a love a reading gets passed on from generation to generation.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues – Tom Robbins
I got this as a gift for my fifteenth birthday along with a red blank journal from another family friend. I immediately started writing in the journal and became a lifelong fan of Tom Robbins. The combination of the two felt like a promise of things to come for me as a writer.

A Portrait of the Theatre by Frederic Ohringer
This is a big sprawling coffee table book of black and white portraits of New York theatre people. It was in the window of Brentano’s on eighth street the first Christmas I was in New York studying acting at NYU. I wanted that book so badly but it was too expensive to consider. I worked as a secretary for a Professor at the time, his assistant bought it as his gift to me. I thanked him but hugged her!

Germinal – Emile Zola
I got this book from a friend in high school who said I had to read it. My father worked for the Steelworkers Union at the time and was active in the labor movement. This book about striking coal miners was one of the most heart wrenching and moving books I have ever read and to this day is one of my all time favorites. This one got passed around everyone in my family.

Like Wings – Philip Shultz
This was a book I bought for myself right after I met with Philip Shultz to get into his graduate poetry class at NYU. I studied with this great poet for a year and read the poems from this book at least once a year. As a teacher he gave me a lot of “tough love” that changed the way I thought about writing and about poetry. As a poet he never fails to get a deep sigh out of me.

Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice
My sister claims she did not find this book it found her. She passed it on to me and let’s just say I still think I see glimpses of Lestat in my window at night. I never got the appeal of vampires before this book and after reading it I got it. All this fuss about team Edward or Jacob? I’m on team Lestat and cannot WAIT to turn my nieces on to this book in a few years. I’ll throw in a night light with this one!

Back to the Future?

I'm heading to Pittsburgh this weekend for a few author appearances and to attend my 30 year high school reunion. As the date has gotten closer I find myself thinking a lot about the past and the girl I was in high school and how she became the person I am today.

I have to admit I have never been someone who lived in the past or thought very much about it. I don't believe in regret and strive to make the most of all my experiences both good and bad. I keep many stories in my repertoire and enjoy reminiscing every now and then but for the most part I am all about the future, often at the expense of the present.

Back in high school, all I wanted was to leave Pittsburgh. This started around the time I was twelve and was my primary focus until I landed in Greenwich Village in the fall of 1979. My focus was on my future, away from my town, my family and the pain of my childhood. I was sure my life was in New York and wanted it to begin as soon as possible. Every day I spent at home felt like time served before my release into the real world.

That drive affected how I approached everything from school to extra-curricular activities to relationships. Every test, homework assignment, paper and course needed to be good, my grades had to be the best they could be. When I discovered my creative passions, I knew they would be a lifelong pursuit and I wanted to make full use of the opportunities afforded to me. I took every performance seriously, studied every facet of acting and writing I could. Even in my relationships with boys I kept things casual. Although I had deep feelings for a few incredible young men, I didn't want anything to keep me from my goal.

Yes, I had good times, formed a lifelong bond with my friend Gwyn, and enjoyed my accomplishments but still, I was living for the future.

As news about the reunion spread to my classmates, I reconnected with so many wonderful people from that time, many of whom have commented that my life turned out exactly as they had thought it would and that I "haven't changed at all."

While this is incredibly flattering (especially the comments about still looking the same) it has made me think a lot about the past. It is one thing to have goals and another to not be present in the here and now. As I was focusing on the future, I was not seeing a lot of what was good in my life. I was waiting for my life to begin in New York rather than seeing it was already blooming in Mt. Lebanon.

On Saturday I will be doing an author talk at the Mt. Lebanon Public Library, the same library I used to ride my baby blue banana seat bike to on the weekends to return books and find new, exciting stories of women living adventurous lives in faraway places. I would sit back in the stacks imagining and manifesting my future, never knowing decades later my adventures would lead me right back where I started. I worried then, as I still do, that I will not get to where I want to go, that my dreams are not attainable. Again, it is hard to see what is when you are focused on what could be.

A few weeks ago I got an email from a young woman who had learned about my appearance at the library and went to my website. "Tell me more about yourself," she said. I responded and asked her about herself. She said she loved the library and was a dedicated reader and an aspiring writer, she told me about her plans, her goals and her dreams. She said she couldn't wait to get there.

I know she wouldn't have understood if I had said, "take you're time," anymore than I would have so many years ago. The desire to succeed, to make a name for yourself is a powerful one but as I am learning it should never come at the expense of standing still and taking in what is good now.

After my talk, I'll take a walk back into the stacks and think of that girl I was then and let her know she did okay...hell she did better than okay. I will take a moment to remind myself, as I do every day, that the journey is better than the destination and throughout the weekend I will do what I couldn't do back then, I will appreciate being home.

A Mother's Plan

I spent Mother's day with my mother this year for the first time in a long time. I came home to help her with the arduous task of cleaning out my Aunt's house after she passed away in December. My mother is no stranger to the hard task of closing down the affairs of a loved one, this is the third estate she has managed in the last ten years.

This one is the toughest though, as my aunt lived in the house my mother grew up in, and in cleaning it out, my mother is revisiting many memories from her childhood.

On Saturday evening we took a break and my mother invited my friends Gwyn and Lester and their teenage daughter Cameron out to dinner with us. Gwyn and I have been friends since our Sophomore year of high school and she and Les have been married since we graduated from college so they are part of our extended family and I consider their two children Wyatt and Cameron the eldest of my brood of nieces and nephews.

Cameron is fifteen and very mature for her age. When we got to talking about colleges she declared passionately that she did NOT want to stay in Pittsburgh and had a plan to live in England for a while, possibly Costa Rica, and was thinking of going to Sarah Lawrence.

She reminded me of me at fifteen.

From the time I was twelve I remember making all my decisions based on whether or not it would get me out of Pittsburgh. In high school I had intense crushes and deep feelings for a number of boys but no intention of getting so involved that I was tempted to stay. When I discovered a passion for acting that would draw me to New York, I too, declared I would be leaving and flaunted my desire in front of my mother every chance I got. "I hate it here!" I said repeatedly, "how could you have stayed here all your life? What is in Pittsburgh?"

I didn't consider my mother's feelings, that is not the charter of a teenager, in fact I often treated her as my jailer, undeserving of my compassion for what it must have felt like to have a daughter as determined as I was to leave home as soon as possible.

And I did. At 18 I left for NYU and never lived at home again (except for the summer of freshman year which sealed the deal against life in the 'burgh.)

At dinner on Saturday my mother asked Cameron questions, probing her about her interests and when Gwyn and Les talked about the expense of college my mother offered many suggestions and was encouraging about ways they could swing it.

When Gwyn said jokingly, "you can go to Pitt and stay here."

I responded by saying, "what did you think would happen? You took her on so many trips to Europe, you showed her the world. Did you think she would want to stay?"

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

My mother had done the same for me. She had worked hard to plan family vacations encouraged my father to take out a personal loan to take us on a once in a lifetime trip to South America, she exposed us to art, music and language. She taught us to read, helped us with our homework, typed our college applications and when the time came she packed the car and took us to college.
Here I thought all these years I had come up with the idea on my own. I had dismissed my mother's hometown as provincial and not big enough for my dreams...and all along my mother had made the space for me to have those dreams and had planted the seed in me to let me go.

Just as Gwyn is doing with her daughter.

How hard it must have been for my mother's mission to have succeeded as it did and how proud she probably was as well. When people talk about how tough it is to be a mother, that's what they mean, to love your children you have to let them go and to let them go you have to let them think it is their idea.

I guess that's also the amazing thing about a mother's love, the way a personal sacrifice becomes a daughter's blessing. I couldn't see that at 15, or 30 but am happy to see it at last at 48.

As for my feelings now about Pittsburgh? How do you think I feel about it? It's my home.

Beautiful Budapest

When it comes to my job I'm either complaining about it or not discussing it all. Most of the time when asked about how it's going I just say, "fine" or "don't ask." In addition to this year being a big one for me personally with the launch of The Last Bridge I am also embroiled in the planning and execution of two of the largest software initiatives a technology department can do in a law firm. We are changing our email and document management systems. There is not a lot to recommend about working on these projects except, it is steady work (albeit consuming and stressful) and it is a global migration which means we do get to make visits to our offices in some of the most beautiful places in the world.

This is what brought me to Budapest the weekend after my birthday. Donna, a friend and member of our project team was there for three weeks to assist with that office's migration. I spent a long weekend with her which included a day trip to Vienna as my birthday present.

Vienna was beautiful, with winding streets with hidden courtyards with large wooden doors welcoming visitors into quaint squares hugged by ancient buildings. We walked through the Hofburg Imperial Palace which, among many things, begged the question, "Just how many place settings does a head of state need?" Exhausted, we made it to the Sacher hotel to have a coffee and share a slice of their famous Sacher Torte.

On the train ride back we got confused about our stop in Budapest and implored a very handsome young Hungarian man to help us, not only did he speak English and understand our mangled pronunciation of Hungarian but he made sure we got off at the right stop. (Did I mention how cute he was?)

Vienna was lovely but a little sterile for my tastes. Budapest is a city with soul. From the lovely walkable streets, to the trolleys, boats, subways and buses that run efficiently (although figuring the transit fare system was a little tricky) to the bridges connecting Buda with Pest and the mighty Danube that made it all possible. It didn't hurt that the weather was spectacular and the people were friendly and proud of their city, their culture and their heritage. I went thinking it would be another place I could check off my list and left wanting to go back and wondering if it would be possible to live there for a time.

So next time you ask me how work is, remind me that in spite of all the stress, pressure and unreasonable expectations, my job has given me many wonderful opportunities. Budapest being one of them.

Birthday Bonus

When my sister Tami asked me what I wanted for my birthday the answer was easy...I didn't want diamonds, pearls or even a charming new boyfriend, I wanted my brother-in-law Giuseppe's homemade pizza. (In a perfect world it would be served to me by my charming new boyfriend!)

Pizza is one of my desert island foods. If I was trapped on an island for all of eternity pizza is on my list of one of the things I could eat everyday. It is one of the only foods that even when it is bad it's good.

Imagine my good fortune then to have a brother-in-law who is not only a great cook (we're talking amazing folks) but a determined one. A few years ago I asked him if he made homemade pizza and he said, "yes.: So began our annual tradition of a pizza making and eating party at my house out on the North Fork of Long Island.

Making good homemade pizza requires time. The dough, once it assembled, needs a warm dry place to rise. The anticipation of the pizza starts first thing in the morning when Giuseppe and his able assistant, my niece Sophia start the process of mixing, kneading and separating the sticky blobs into individual mounds.

This year, my sister plans on Saturday so they were coming on Sunday. "How will we get the dough done in time?" I asked, afraid we would have to scrap the plan.

"Don't worry," my sister said, "Giuseppe is on it."

Early Sunday morning in their west village apartment, Giuseppe got up (after being out to 2:00am at a party) and mixed the dough and placed each ball into a separate dish (seventeen in all) and then he put them in the back of their jeep and while they made the 100 mile trek east the little dough balls rested and rose under the warmth of his mother's hand crocheted afghan.

My friends Marc, Gina, Chris and Matt joined us for our pizza party. Giuseppe individually crafted each one as we sat at the table and waited for the next batch to come out of the oven. We stopped counting after ten.

Each time we make the pizzas, Giuseppe assesses the outcome and refines the process for the next time. He was disappointed in the dough, as it didn't make the drive as well as it had hoped.

I thought it was his best yet. How could I not? It's a blessing to have family travel for your b-day but pizza that comes with them...well if that ain't love I don't know what is.

Story Time

On Friday, I made good on a Christmas present I gave to my friend Gwyn and took her to the Story Corps booth at Foley Square in lower Manhattan to interview her as part of the StoryCorps project. As many of you know, this is one of my pet projects this year and one of my favorite organizations.

Gwyn and I have been friends since sophomore year of high school when we bonded in girls gym over a mutual aversion to running during soccer. Our friendship blossomed, and over the years we have ridden life's waves (some small ripples, others tsunami-like) and shared our stories.

The Story Corps booth is a small building that sits in front of the courthouse. There is a compact recording studio that just fits the equipment, facilitator and the interviewer and interviewee. After a brief sound check and directions, Nzingha, our facilitator gave us the go sign and the interview began.

At first it seemed like filling up 40 minutes of time would be hard but as Nzingha assured us, the opposite usually turns out to be true. It was, by the time she gave us the ten minute warning I felt like we had just gotten started.

Although Gwyn and I didn't talk about anything new, we also never had the chance to really talk about the details of some of the pivotal events in her life. I was struck by how my memory of some of the events in her life had glossed over a good deal of the reality. For instance when she talked about losing her sister and the trip to the hospital, I never realized that her kids were with her husband when he met her there. When she said that in the interview I thought, "of course they were, why don't you remember that?"

This is the most amazing thing about listening to someone tell a story, even if it is a shared event, there is always a fresh meaning to take from it, and a new way to understand.

Gwyn and I also talked about our friendship and what meeting each other at that time in our lives meant to us. Now that we are in our forties, that is something that is easier to see, and appreciate. It is hard to know now, or even imagine what road our lives would have taken had we not found each other on that soccer field over thirty years ago.

We wrapped up the interview and left a pile of used tissues in the basked (lots of crying -- apparently this happens at most of the interviews.) Nzingha took a photo of us as part of the project and burned a CD for Gwyn. We signed release forms to agree to have the recording entered into the Library of Congress and said our good-byes.

We left together. To the rest of the world we were just two women walking through the square, but to us, we were two friends who had taken the time to remember and cherish the gift of having each other.

Passages and Prayers

I'm going to officially welcome myself back to my blog. Although it is already January 19th, this feels more like the real start of the year, at least for me. There is no denying 2008 kicked every one's butt in some way. As with most things, only time will tell if the challenges of 2008 turn out to be the opportunities of 2009 and beyond. One thing is for certain though, I think I speak for most of us when I bid last year a fond farewell.

For me, last year ended on a sad note. My aunt Rosemary passed away on Christmas morning at my brother Patrick's house. Although she was having heart problems, we thought her new pacemaker would give her more time with us. We we wrong. Christmas was Rosemary's favorite holiday. She was a generous and loving Aunt who put a great deal of time and effort into her gift giving. She was my mother's older sister by ten years and was a stalwart and strong influence in all of our lives, throughout our lives. My mother said it best when she said, "I have never spent a Christmas without Rosemary." It may not seem like a big deal but in an age with change comes at us quickly, it was a comfort to know that Rosemary would always be there.

Our holiday together was definitely lower key than usual but instead of retreating into our old ways we did something we haven't done in a long time, we came together and laughed and shared our memories of holidays past and of Rosemary. My nieces crawled into our laps, held our hands and listened to our stories. We opened Rosemary's gifts and kept her with us throughout the day. In a way it was the best Christmas we have had in a long time. And I might add a fitting tribute to Rosemary.

At New Year's we all came together in Pittsburgh for the funeral and again, felt the impact of time and the passing of our last extended family member. Each of us contributed in some way to her send off and my mother arranged a beautiful service in the church Rosemary attended throughout her life. It was hard not to feel her presence and love that day.

I traveled home on New Year's day and tried to get back to the business of every day life, there are things to do, projects to finish, goals to accomplish. Time waits for no man? Isn't that what they say?

Yesterday, I let time go without me for a little while and just sat in my chair an let the sun warm my face and thought of how lucky I was to have been loved by Rosemary.

Safe travels Rory.

Red Skies Ahead...

I have a distinct memory of standing on the front lawn of our house on Washington road with my father around the time I was fifteen or so. He was watering the lawn with a hose and smoking a cigarette. I came out to tell him it was time for dinner.

"Take a look over there," he said point at the vivid scarlet sky. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.”

"Huh?" I answered.

"It's an expression meaning if we see the red sky tonight it will be a beautiful day tomorrow."

"And red sky in the morning means?"

"Danger. Storm is coming." Dad tightened the nozzle on the hose to shut the flow of water and let it dangle in his hands as we stood watching the sky over the tops of the houses on the other side of our busy four lane road that was the lifeline into town and out to the mall.

I was tired of my father by then. Sick of his drinking, his rage and the impact his moods had on our lives. I thought of my time with him as riding out the last years of a prison sentence. Every day that passed put me closer to freedom. I was full of plans and hungry for dinner and for my future.

What I hadn't planned was that brilliant red sky and on communing with him in those final moments when day turns to night. Years later, after I had gotten out of Pittsburgh and made a life in New York City, I learned that time of the day is referred to as magic hour, as the light has a unique clarity and brilliance. Magic indeed.

My father finished his cigarette and took me in his arms before I could resist. He held me tight and just long enough to remind me of what it was like to be his little girl. He kissed me on the forehead and we walked back to the house with his arm around me.

Today, I drove to Orient State Park and took a long walk on the beach just as the sun was setting. And like I always do on nights when the sky is scarlet red, I remembered that moment on the lawn when dad and I stood together and shared the promise of a beautiful day.