Two small salmon swivel rockers sat in front of the family room window. For the last ten years of her life, I took up residence in one of those chairs, listening intently as she reminisced about the past and asking questions about her youth. That swivel seat afforded me time to know her not only as my grandmother, but as a… Continue reading Front row seat
I pushed the heavy door open, slowly, and a bit reluctantly. The room was somber and devoid of sunlight. I could see my aunt caressing my grandmother’s thin white hand while gently cradling her face with the other. My grandmother appeared strained, tired, absent. I gingerly walked into the room finding my place at her bedside. She… Continue reading Behind that door
We were sitting near the electric fireplace in the lobby. I had pulled a chair close to his wheelchair. I opened the newspaper that he encouraged me to take home and read because, “there’s a lot of good stuff in there,” and found an interesting article about an artist who uses old wine barrels to make… Continue reading A Few Quiet Minutes
What if it was me lying in a hospital bed, staring up at a stark white ceiling; unfamiliar sheets and blankets pretending to comfort me, unfamiliar noises interrupting my sparse thoughts, unfamiliar smells taking me farther from home? What if it was me and my thoughts were jumbled, but sometimes they weren’t, and I felt alone and misplaced;… Continue reading What if it was me?
Celebrate with me! Enjoy my first published piece, as seen in Country Magazine, August/September 2016 issue. ~I asked my 77-year-old mother, Lois, to accompany me last summer on a road trip through northern New England, where quaint narrow back roads weave in and out of secluded historic small towns, and towering green giants and… Continue reading Road-Tripping with Mom
I stood back, by the end of the bed and let the two of them say goodbye. I couldn’t see my twenty-five-year-old daughter’s face, but I could see my grandmother looking adoringly at her great-granddaughter; the two faces mere inches apart. It was eerily sweet; she couldn’t take her eyes off her. It was as if she was memorizing her glistening… Continue reading Every last moment.
When I was a kid, shoe stores were privately owned small businesses with names like Matthew’s and David’s. There were no mega shoe stores with boxes displayed within customer reach. Back then, you picked a shoe and asked the clerk, who you probably knew by first name, to get it in your size, and then he spent the time… Continue reading ‘Running’ the risk