At 1301 West 38th Street in Indianapolis sits the Woodstock Club. The West Fork of the White River is a stone’s throw away and that rivers meanders through Indiana and then falls into the Wabash River. On the night they made me, my father took my mother to the Woodstock Club to a Holiday Dinner Dance for Wabash Men and their Ladies. Besides dinner and dancing, there would be a raffle, a video highlight of the 1982 undefeated football season, and a presentation to honor the Wabash Man of the Year. The invitation also mentioned “Dress Optional” and they certainly did dress before they undressed.
Annette wore a black bouclé dress that Les had bought her at Davidson’s on the Mall in Glendale, where he picked out clothes for her and then watched her try them on. That evening, she looked beautiful, but more importantly she felt beautiful.
On their way to their evening of dinner and dancing, Les stopped for his Lucky Strike cigarettes. As she watched him walk across the parking lot, she was so in love and enamored by his handsome swagger. He walked with the confidence of a man who knows he is handsome.
They did not win the raffle or watch the video highlights—they dined and drank, danced and dashed. From the Woodstock Club, they headed south to Route 40, a sleepy old highway that at one time went from coast to coast—Atlantic City to San Francisco—but now ends near Park City, Utah. Annette soon discovered that she had a little too much fun, a little too much drink, and she got sick all over her black bouclé dress. So they took a left at State Road 9 in Greenfield to Les’s house on Michigan Street, where he washed her dress for her.
If they had taken a right, though, and then a left on Route 52 they would have come to the Bluebird Lounge in Morristown. Across the street from the Bluebird Lounge is the more-dressed-up Kopper Kettle Inn Restaurant, where they often had family meals as children and where they would one day take their own family and where, a day further on, Annette would host the bridal shower for the baby girl they were about to make. But, about twenty years earlier as young teenagers, it was the Bluebird Lounge they went to on a date.
Their dinner had been pre-ordered for them by their parents, and it began with a fruit entree of watermelon. They joked about how far they had come from their playhouse days, remembering when Annette was ten and Les was nine, and she wrote a letter home while visiting her aunt on the East Coast. It began with a brief paragraph for her mother before instructing her mother to “give the letter to Les.” At the bottom, she wrote:
“Dear Les, I hope your [sic] getting along. The playhouse must be getting along. Love, Annette.”
She ran a tight ship even then, and perhaps little Les ran out to check on the state of things. Or perhaps he didn’t, a sad foreshadowing of the mistakes they would both make that would cause their grown-up marriage to crumble.
They enjoyed their watermelon entree before life would take them different ways after high school and through their twenties. Then they would find their way back to each other, all grown-up but not so different from the kids they were in the playhouse.
After Les cleaned Annette’s dress, they made their way back to Route 40 and continued on through Knightstown and Lewisville and Straughn until they reached Dublin. A right turn at Johnson Street which becomes South Street at the dogleg, and then (stay with me) a left on State Street which becomes Golay Road after Hunnicut, will bring you to the family farm Annette had known all her life. That is where they were headed. In case I lost you, here’s a map:
It was a true homestead, made up of a farmhouse and a smaller adjacent house, as well as a barn and farmland. Annette’s family had come up with quite clever names for the big farmhouse and the smaller house, names that they still go by to this day in our family—the Big House and the Little House.
The Big House and barn:
The Little House (Polaroid photos from the 80s):
They made love in the Little House, and then sat naked outside on the screened-in back porch, smoking his Lucky Strikes. In the morning, as she watched him leave from the window upstairs, she had a moment of her life, a moment of euphoria, where she thought, “I will never be this in love again.” Perhaps she really knew or perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but either way she would come to know another type of love—the love between a mother and a daughter.
An ultrasound was not commonplace in the 1980s, but one was not needed as she was sure she was having another boy. After four boys, she decided her fifth one would be named James. She did not even ponder names for a baby girl, except she knew she did not like Les’s suggestion of Aimée. It was not a baby boy, though, but a baby girl that arrived far too quickly for her to have an epidural. After she recovered from both of these shocks, she held me in her arms and named me Jennifer. A God-given name, she has suggested, as it came to her so suddenly, as if He sent an angel to whisper it into her ear. I don’t have the heart to tell her it was the most popular girl’s name of 1983. A new lifelong friendship began, and she took me home to the Little House.
So while watching my mom make it, I asked her to explain her gravy rules for a cooking simpleton like me.
This is what she said:
If you don’t want your gravy to taste like milk, you use water. Fried chicken dinner, you would want to use milk. I also use milk for a ham loaf. Water is used for beef dishes usually.
I can see my mother now, mixing up her flour and water in a glass. Half a glass of water and a tablespoon of flour. You want the flour mixed into the water like you’re making a paste, you don’t want the flour resting at the bottom.
Examine the bottom of your pan where you cooked your meat. You must be careful that there’s not too much fat. You want about two tablespoons of fat, so if there is more than that, remove it from the pan. This will be enough gravy for about four people.
Then you add it to the pan that you cooked your meat in, and scrape the bottom to blend the flour water with the drippings.
Turn up the heat until thickened.
(Note: At this point, my mom used the word “fond” here, which was beyond my understanding. I questioned her as to whether that was a real word, and researched it later on wikipedia. “In the culinary arts, fond is a contraction of fonds de cuisine which is loosely described as ‘the foundation and working capital of the kitchen.’ It refers to the flavorful solid bits of food stuck to a pan or pot after cooking. These bits are deglazed with a liquid in order to produce a gravy, stock, broth, or sauce.” So it is a real word, only further confirmation that my mom knows what she is talking about.)
You can add dashes of things, like Worcestershire or Kitchen Bouquet (seasoning in a bottle).
I used to use this special flour called Wondra.
Most of your flavor comes from what’s in the pan.
I hope this helps you on your gravy journey. And if you have your own tips and tricks, you know I will take them.
Forty really came in swinging last year, letting me know in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that I am aging.
At first there were little signs like the sudden ability to sit and stare at a bird feeder, watching the birds come and go and getting a real thrill when a new birdie showed up. “Oh! Is that a turtledove? Where is your partner?” This is said out loud as if I expect the turtle dove to answer me.
Or when I get home, I find I need to immediately slip a sweater on like Mr. Rogers. And every time, I say to myself, “I get it now, Mr. Rogers.”
My eyes are in a mutiny and reject contact lenses after wearing them since I was ten. I save them for special occasions or playing sports. Then my eyes get all dramatic, and not in the good way like with smoky eye shadow but rather by getting all puffy and swollen. Same goes for mascara, even the super-expensive-sensitive kind.
I soon began to notice that random cuts or scratches take approximately 743 days to heal. Like even my skin is too tired to patch things up the way it used to.
Then forty hit hard in June when I ruptured my achilles tendon. A real sucker punch because I wasn’t even looking—no previous pain, no warning that it was about to happen. I took a quick step during a basketball game and heard a sound behind me that made me think someone fell on the court. I felt pressure around my ankle, and asked my team if someone fell on me. They informed me that no one did, and using my detective skills, I figured out that the sound I heard was my tendon snapping. A tiny piece held on for dear life, but it was almost a complete rupture.
I have sprained many an ankle and am used to rehab and recovery. I expected something similar until I mentioned to people that I ruptured my achilles and their reactions made me realize I had a long road ahead of me. One friend said, “Dear God, that is a serious injury.” And I was all, “Is it???” It is.
But the (white) icing on the cake concerns my Canadian resident card. I have to renew it every five years, and for the first time this year, my photo was rejected due to “poor quality.” As this wasn’t my first rodeo, I carefully reviewed the photo and thought it looked like all my previous photos. Except I noticed that now my white hair and the white background sort of merge together in a weird way. But unless I was going to dye my hair, no amount of retakes would fix it. So I added “I_have_white_hair” to the file name of my photo and re-uploaded it to Canada. Lo and behold, it was approved.
I am not bitter yet although I can quickly see how bitterness seeps in. When I get home and get my sweater on and then look out the window to check for birds, I often see someone going for a jog or bike ride (or even just walking without a limp). I have to push the jealousy away; sometimes it’s a light shove but sometimes I have to wrestle her to the ground (carefully, though, so as not to re-injure myself). I keep things light by calling to the people, “Have you thanked your achilles tendons today? Do you know how much they do for you?” And then I usually sit and brush my white hair, fifty strokes on each side.
Thanks to this beautiful team for taking care of me on the night of my injury and getting me home. We played in a summer league made up of much younger teams (15-20 years younger than us, the other teams nearly all child-free and still in school, so we were pretty much the mom team). I am glad we used our age-old wisdom to go with “Time Out Squad” instead of “Victorious Secret” because the other teams had sporty names like “Elite Girls” and “Team Swoosh.”
Things got rough in a few games, what we call “scrappy” in basketball, but we held our own. I mean, we also yelled things like, “We have kids to take care of and jobs to go to tomorrow! Stop playing dirty! We can’t get injured!” In the end, this team won it all, which confirms what we all know: moms are champions. So you’re never too old and all that, except for when you rupture your achilles.
I am working hard in physiotherapy so I can get back to my hoop dreams. Here’s a fun fact: While my foot was in the aircast for three months, the inside of my skin became attached to my calf muscle, so my physio has to massage and separate them and that’s a lot of fun. But I endure it so I can get back to this crew on Tuesday nights, hopefully this season. Until then, play hard and box out and enjoy the quieter games without my hoops and hollers.
I will sign off by sharing one perk of my injury. Being immobilized makes you look for activities that don’t require movement. Would you look at this gorgeous spice drawer? Since I cannot run, an activity that helps me process life, I sometimes just open this drawer to silence the chaos in my mind. So thanks for that, Oregano.
Once a week, I go to library time for my son’s kindergarten class. The children like to take turns asking me to read a page from a book. This is a French school, so all the books are in French, and the best way to describe how I sound when I read in French is…hmmmm, how do you say…intéressante (interesting). As I read, the children watch me in amazement (or maybe shock and awe). Once I finish a page, these are some of the questions they have asked me in their sweet, little French voices:
-“Est-ce que vous êtes allé à l’école?”-“Did you go to school?”
-“Est-ce que vous parlez français?” -“Do you speak French?”
-“Quel âge avez-vous?” -“How old are you?”
One time when I finished a page, the little girl looked up at me with a sympathetic smile and I asked her:
-“C’est un peu bizarre quand je lis en français, oui?” -“It’s a little bizarre when I read in French, yes?”
And bless her heart, she just raised her eyebrows and shook her head “no” but her face expression definitely said “yes.”
After I check out their books for them, I sit on the carpet with my son’s class while a book is read to us.
Afterwards, he loves for me to walk with him back to their classroom before I leave. So I get in single file line with the class. The school has these cute stickers on the ground for the kids to follow (see below), which of course he wants me to do with him. I do them (and I do them quite well). Sometimes I see older kids look at me in the hallways with that same sympathetic smile, and I point down at the stickers as if to say, “Look how good I am at these things.”
This entire experience makes me feel like Billy Madison, the title character in the classic 1995 comedy movie starring Adam Sandler. I think he should make a sequel where he goes back to school in French. I have lots of material.
On Friday, I go with my daughter’s class, which is scarier because they are first graders. One kid likes to repeat everything I say, which at first gave me a boost because it meant my French was good enough to have a copycat. But when I get annoyed with it, I just switch to English and he stops. Before the end of the year, I want to be brave and read a French book to them so that they can correct all my mispronunciations. See, Mr. Sandler? There’s a scene right there.
Tiffany Anne Cottrell June 15, 1984 - August 11, 2023
In front of the Golay Community Center in Cambridge City, Indiana, there is a flag pole next to a rock, the type of rock that’s big enough for kids to climb on and jump off. Before we were old enough to walk home, this is what Tiffany and I would do while we waited for someone to come pick us. We took turns jumping from the rock and swinging around the flagpole. We spent so much time together that we could fight like sisters, and she pushed me off that rock once and was immediately sorry for it and I immediately forgave her and we got back to it.
The day I found out she died, I went looking for my bag of her letters, many of them carefully folded like tiny origami. This was the first one I opened, and the memory of that rock came flooding back. My kids kept themselves entertained, and I opened each one and fell back into my childhood with her.
I’m sorry for anything/everything I’ve ever did to you. (Even pushing you off of the rock!) Ha! Ha! I hope I never do that again.I hope we have a lot more fun times. Actually I know we will. I’m ALWAYS here for you FOR ANYTHING!
We were in Mrs. Debolt’s 2nd grade class together. I had just moved back to our small community, and we had a vague feeling that we already knew each other, like we had played together before. Before my family had moved away two years earlier, I had attended kindergarten for a couple of weeks, and we realized that’s how we knew each other. Old friends already at the age of seven.
My first letter from her
We spent hours playing basketball together, either at the Golay or on the hoop in her driveway. She was the center to my guard. We had a strong bond on the court, and I loved to weave passes her way. Whether she was under the basket or at the top of the key, it was usually a guaranteed assist for me as she had a great shot. She was often a high scorer under the basket, but given the chance she could also sink three-pointers.
Our houses were within walking distance of each other. I would walk from Gay Street, take a left on Delaware, right on Lincoln Drive, and then there was a little, nameless alley that led to her house that she shared with her dad, John (but everyone called him “Fuzzy”). That alley was spooky at night, and when it was time to go home, she would walk me halfway. Once we decided it was about halfway between our houses, we would count to three and then run our separate directions, a little less scared because the other one was there, running the opposite way but still there.
She had lots of Barbies and the Barbie house and the Barbie car, and we tried to play with them. We lasted only a few minutes before we would wander out to play ball or make an obstacle course through her house. I have a scar on my left leg from taking a corner a little too fast and cutting myself on a table by one of the doorways. It wasn’t a very deep cut, but because I never treated it, it got worse and scarred. We were more concerned with deciding whether I should restart the course at the beginning or keep the time I had and continue from the table. We didn’t focus on the right thing.
A lot of letters have the phrase “It’s a glamour competition!” I think it was a line from a Barbie commercial. We were in her driveway playing basketball, mimicking the line over and over in ridiculous voices while making equally ridiculous poses, and we laughed until it hurt. For years, if we said that phrase to each other, we would still laugh.
We had so much fun at 6th grade camp when a group of brave teachers and chaperones took our entire class to McCormick’s Creek State Park to camp in cabins. We climbed this lookout tower. Here is one of those brave chaperones, Mike Munchel, standing in the way (he explained) to keep us from falling down the stairs. He was very dramatic about it, telling us to be careful and saying he would catch us if we fell, and made us all laugh.
Our letters had the usual in-depth discussions about who we liked and whether we should tell the person or if we thought the person already knew, but our letters were mostly about two things: sports and the music on 99.5 WZPL. If we listened to the “Hot 9 at 9:00,” we told each other what songs we loved and which song was #1.
When I was 11, I got a karaoke machine and had the brilliant idea that we should record messages to each other on a cassette tape and pass it back and forth.
One of my messages is about making plans after school. We wanted to go to Frog’s Cafe but they closed at 3:00 so I suggested we go “to the restaurant Worl’s or Worlies or whatever it’s called” and then we’d go to the library and then we’d go look around at Veach’s. One of her messages is about two library books that she is worried about finding because they are under my name and she was afraid I’ll get a notice and then I won’t be able to take out books for six months and “that won’t be good.” Then she used the other side of the tape to record songs from the radio for me (“All My Life” by K-Ci and JoJo and “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia).
She called homework “homey” and many letters informed me as to whether it was done or not. There would often be a paragraph about an upcoming basketball game and who the best players were that we had to look out for. Our season was long because we played for school and AAU, so I have many scouting reports from her. When we traveled on the weekends for AAU tournaments and my mom couldn’t go, I would go with her and Fuzzy and stay with them at the hotel. We loved those road trips together.
If we weren’t discussing our games, then we were discussing the careers of our favorite players: Reggie Miller (her) and Grant Hill (me). We reported on their games and also kept each other informed if we obtained a new trading card.
Did you watch the All-Star game? Reggie and Grant was on the same team. Right now they’re winning by 11. Did you know Michael Jordan is 32. And Magic Johnson’s wife’s name is Cookie. Grant Hill’s # is 35 on the East.
At some point, we decided we needed nicknames for our letters, in case these important letters were ever intercepted. She became “TAC” and since I don’t have a middle name, she dubbed me “JJ,” which eventually gave way to “JB.”
Our other mutual sport was volleyball and we loved to pepper together—bump, set, spike. We had a good rhythm. She was the first one on our team to figure out how to spike over the net, and I watched her to try to improve, but she made it look too easy. She couldn’t really explain how she did it, she just knew how to do it. Seventh grade volleyball meant that we would have our first (posed) sports photo taken, and I cannot begin to explain how excited we were. For days, we discussed which pose we would do, and we both agreed we had to use the ladders in some way.
7th grade volleyball
We went undefeated that season with Coach Masters, and they put our team picture in the middle school office window. Kathi’s serves always started us off strong, and when the other team was able to return the serve, the point was usually done after a good pass, a set from Christy, and an attack from Tiff.
7th grade basketball – Oh, the pride we felt from wearing those beautiful blue uniforms.
8th grade volleyball – Her spikes led us to another undefeated season.
8th grade basketball
My mom convinced me to cut bangs in the 8th grade, and Tiffany did everything she could to reassure me that they looked good. I asked her if she wanted to cut bangs, too, but she said no. I grew them out immediately.
We were obsessed with these *blue with gold pinstripe* warm-up outfits. They were handed down to us from the high school varsity team, and we felt very, very cool in them.
I am not sure what kind of play we’re running below, but I bet I am looking for her. They have two people guarding her, and I’d make another bet that she was able to get open. We played this tournament in the high school gym and were really happy when we won.
I am so glad I wore these cool sunglasses indoors. This photo was clearly taken before the bangs situation.
In middle school, we ran track in the spring and our letters would confirm whether we would meet that night on the high school track to run a mile.
7th & 8th grade track
I always loved her signature “K-?-K-!” It was so much cooler than just saying, “Okay?”
I loved when she folded a letter and wrote a message on each fold. I can’t share the contents of this particular letter because as you can see it’s for my eyes only.
Here we are having a ball at our 8th grade Hawaiian luau mixer.
8th Grade National Honor Society
8th grade choir field trip to King’s Island
Tiffany loved music, and she loved to sing. For our 8th grade vocal contest, I think we sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” in this ensemble. We’re the two with our hands clutched in front of us.
In high school, we played JV volleyball and basketball together.
JV volleyball – We decided to do twin poses that year.
JV basketball
We were next to each other for our last team photo together. She didn’t play basketball the next year, but our childhood dream of playing varsity together still came true. Towards the end of our freshman season, we got to dress for the varsity team. They were so strong that year (21-2), led by the Joslin twins. We were psyched to even be on the bench with that team and were very nervous when we occasionally got to go in for the last minute of a game.
We divided in the spring—I played tennis while she played softball. She covered her third base with ease, and I can still see the way she would casually drop her head to run the bases after yet another home run.
A lot of the letters aren’t dated, but there are clues that help me know the year. We both got contact lenses when we were 11 or 12 because we hated playing sports in glasses, so there are a number of letters about ripped contacts and burning eyes, a lost contact and wondering if it was still on our eyeball somewhere, whether we should go see the eye doctor, etc.
Some letters are typed, so that’s when she got her first computer, and we all wanted to type anything and everything. But she must have preferred handwriting her letters because I only have a couple of typed letters.
In one letter, she references a new store at the mall called Claire’s, and they had an entire rack of smiley face accessories and she was going to collect them all. I went through a phase where I loved the word “Groovy,” and she supported my passion by getting me any and all accessories that had “Groovy” written on them. I still have two of them.
I can also tell what grade we were in because we would sign off by writing who we loved.
Here is the classic W/B at the end of a letter to say “Write Back” (and proof that just like with texts nowadays, I was a little slow with replies even then). I’d like to tell her it took me “a 1/2 year” to put my love and memories of her on paper.
And another classic: LYLAS (Love You Like A Sister)
When I took a family trip for spring break, she let me borrow her Walkman and some tapes and made sure it had fresh batteries for me.
She started to slip away when we were fourteen. We talked about the problems she was struggling with. We tried to figure them out in our letters. But then the problems got bigger, and I didn’t know how to help except to listen and try to understand. She dropped volleyball and basketball, sports that we had dreamed about playing together throughout high school.
The letters completely stopped our sophomore year, probably because we waited to get home and dial up to the Internet and chat on AOL Instant Messenger.
The last letter is dated September 20, 1999. She writes “Hey, sweetie!” and is sitting in Geometry, taking a break from her assignment. There is a paragraph about our friendship, how she is sorry that she is barely around anymore, about how we don’t meet at the track anymore. There is another paragraph about one of her struggles, and she tries to explain what it feels like, but ultimately says that no one understands.
So I asked her to meet me at the track that night like old times, and I told myself I wouldn’t let her leave until I convinced her to come back to basketball. I had hope that basketball would be a good influence and bring her back to me but more importantly bring her back to herself. Maybe we could fix things together. We were at the track for two or three hours, walking in circles and then standing next to my car. She kept repeating that she had messed up and it was too late to fix. She was only fifteen.
I understand better now. I understand what it’s like to be trapped in your head with something that feels insurmountable. I understand how you will try to find what works for yourself to make life manageable, at least it feels like it’s being managed. I understand that you can be surrounded by people who love you but their love cannot fix the problems that plague you.
We had fun in high school, doing silly things like pooling our money to rent a limo and drive on Broad Street in New Castle (back when the art of cruising was still relevant). I don’t even want to think about how many hours I spent lifeguarding to pay for that, but the memories are priceless.
She had a pretty epic dance party in her basement once. And, of course, there were fun sleepovers.
I guess blue jeans were popular then.
We made classic high school memories together.
Homecoming Powerpuff Football (Freshman, Sophomore, Senior)
Lunch table
Winter Formals (Freshman & Junior)
After high school, we stayed in touch over email every few months. She sent me an email when her dad died with a photo attached – Fuzzy is standing in their kitchen, looking the way I always remembered him.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
MY DAD
John “Fuzzy” Cottrell
December 12, 1950- April 22, 2004
I came to see her after that. She was trying to figure out her next step. It was August, and she was going to begin her studies to be a nurse and showed me her school books that she had just picked up. I was about to leave to study abroad for a semester and said I would find something special for her.
At an artist’s market in Krakow, Poland, I saw a blue wooden box with a beautiful iridescent pattern on top. It made me think of Tiffany, and I gave it to her the last time we were together in-person.
A few months after that visit, we had a happy email exchange. She was going to be a mom to twins.
July 10, 2005 – Hey girl, it’s Tiffany! Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I have been bombarded with tons of things. Life is full of fascinating things! Thank you so much for the birthday card. Even though, I FINALLY turned 21, I couldn’t go out and drink. That was kind of a bummer. Let me give you the reason why: PREGNANT WITH TWINS! After I thought about it for awhile, you have twin brothers. It went right over my head at first, so you have to tell your mom the news. She’ll probably freak! I need some advice from her. lol. I just can’t believe I’m pregnant, and pregnant with twins! It’s craziness! Well girl, get back with me. I think I am going to lay down and take me a nap. Call if you are ever in town. Talk to you soon girl! Tiffany*
We talked about baby names and she sent me ultrasound photos. I could feel her excitement. This period of her life, as she waited for her baby girls to arrive, is where I have the most emails from her.
July 17, 2005 – Here are just two of the ultrasound pictures that I have. These are 3D. You can really see their faces. The doctors say they are two baby girls.
July 20, 2005 – Well now it’s 5 months and 2 weeks! 🙂 I know. I can’t believe I’m that far along either. I really didn’t find out until I was 14 weeks, I thought I was, but really didn’t know for sure.
I have just been taking everything one day at a time, and go from there. I am trying not to stress over all the little things or big things for that matter. In the beginning when I first found out, I was totally stressed, and I figured, I am not going to put all that stress on the babies, so I have to just settle down.
Tell your mom I said hello as well. Possibly if you come up before November we can all get together or something. Have a bite to eat and just catch up. She can give me some advice and tips on parenting twins! 🙂
Take care girl.
September 14, 2005 – My exact due date is November 25. Day after turkey day this year. TURKEY BABIES!!! Well, I will have the girls by December, probably before their due date as well, so as soon as you come up, you’ll have to get ahold of me, so you can come visit for a little bit. I have moved, so I’m not living at the same house you saw me at last time. It’s not hard to find. I mean I live in such a huge town! 🙂 haha. Take care girl!
They arrived and she was so happy.
March 8, 2006 – Sealy is on the left and Morgan is on the right. They are so much fun. I love them to death. Wouldn’t change it for the world. I am getting more sleep this past month. They still want that bottle through the night, but we’re getting on more of a schedule. I’m making it. Take care.
September 21, 2006 – Hey girl! Good to hear from you. Can’t wait for that reunion. Let me know when it’s going to be. My girls are so awesome! They are night and day. Best babies I could ever ask for. I’ll send you a pic when i get a free minute. 🙂 well, i gotta run. keep in touch.
Over thirty years, we went from writing letters to AIM to emails and then to Facebook Messenger. I was sad to find I lost all our Messenger conversations when her old account got hacked and she closed it. She had two more babies, Payton and Levi. She loved to tell me about her children. We always stayed in touch and knew where we could find each other, always promising to see each other soon.
Tiffany, after six months of blocking out time to sit with your letters, track down our photos, and piece my memories together, I dreamt about you last night. So I come back to this today to finish it. In my dream, you were a teenager again, thirteen or fourteen. You were smiling at me, and I began to cry as I wrapped you in my arms. I was caught in the magical realism of a dream, knowing that you were gone in real life but very much alive here in this dream, and you are young with your whole life ahead of you. And I wanted to tell you that this time, life will make more sense, life will be easier, life will be better. I wrote this to remember you, to honor our friendship, and to grieve. I also wrote it for your four children that you loved so much, to share a part of your early life with them. Rest in peace, TAC. You are loved.
A lot of John Irving’s books are adapted into movies, but as I read The Hotel New Hampshire I thought, “This one has too many bizarre things going on for it to have been adapted into a movie.” A lot of his books have bizarre things going on, but I was sure this one couldn’t work as a movie. Namely that one of the characters pretends to be a bear, in a bear costume, and people really think she is a bear. And I thought, “Who on this planet earth would ever believe a person could be a bear?” I finished the book and ONE DAY LATER this news story broke:
One day later! Crazy coincidence.
When I finish one of his books, I always miss the characters – they are so well-developed and intriguing that they feel like actual people in my life. So I did an Internet search to try to fill the gaping void in my heart and discovered it is a movie with Jodie Foster, Rob Lowe, and Beau Bridges, and I just have to see how they fit this story into a movie.
Our Endless Numbered Days taught me to always research a book before suggesting it for your book club to read. I can handle disturbing endings, but this one felt like a sucker punch to my brain. I am surprised my book club didn’t kick me out.
I also learned that Mary Poppins and Tinkerbell are pretty mean and intense. I feel like Julie Andrews softened up Mary Poppins a bit because there was definitely no “spoonful-of-sugar-helps-the-medicine-go-down” going on in the book. Also did anyone else know that Tinkerbell told the Lost Boys to shoot at Wendy when she was flying into Neverland and they hit her with an arrow and almost killed her?
Suite Francaise was an honor to read, especially considering the circumstances under which it was written and how it took 60 years to be found and published.
The Namesake was another Jhumpa Lahiri re-read because I was traveling and wanted to have an old friend with me.
I loved the David Sedaris book, as I knew I would.
And, lastly, I learned it’s okay to lie to your children in certain situations. Like if you agree to show your children any pictures that come up while you are reading to them from the hallway, but you have to walk over to their beds and use a flashlight because their rooms are dark, and the pictures look like this…
…it’s okay to tell them these pages did not have pictures so as not to give them nightmares. This was our second time reading Ollie’s Odyssey, and I waited for the part where the kid describes what adults are like at weddings. Too funny, too accurate.
When your child reaches the Rainbow Loom stage of life and you feel so clever for reusing an old veggie tray to organize them, make sure the lid is always snapped on.
This clean-up has become a regular family affair to the point where if my little boy and I hear my little girl cry out,
Oh no, help! I spilled them!”
we know what awaits us. Even their father has participated, as we didn’t want him to feel left out.
To help pass the time while we sort! hundreds! of! tiny! rubber! bands!, we talk about how there will be a lot of hard things in life and they need to be there to help each other through.
Then we usually discuss the fastest sorting strategy which invariably leads to my little boy dropping colors in the wrong places to try to make his sister’s head pop off. It’s feeling festive around here!
I was doing a pre-k exercise book with the kids. I read the instruction before looking at the picture and gasped. I thought we were going to have to cross out five dead animals in the pet store.
They really could have worded it a bit better. The bold font only made it more dramatic.
coming full circle 