In the end, this is a kind of Mother's Day story. But it starts this way: When he was 16-going-on-17 my friend David, the atheist, ornithologist, environmentalist, and retired Fedex pilot, hitch-hiked from his Hudson River home to the Gaspé, where he spent the first of many summers watching birds. It was 1956, year of … Continue reading 16
In the back of her closet, behind the clothes, next to the dresser, were two shoe boxes, each of which held a pair of peau de soie-wrapped stilettos, one pair cream, the other bright kelly green, both size 7 AAAA. I'm certain about the cream colored pair, which were her wedding shoes. I'm less sure … Continue reading Matrescence.
For a handful of years in my early 20s my mother was my favorite date. She was divorced; I was yet to be either tethered or anchored. I had no boyfriend, no apartment, no career track, and no plans. Memphis was a temporary stop – a train station transfer, perhaps, if only I could figure … Continue reading Mother daughter dinner dance.
This year for Mother's Day I bought myself a SodaStream. ******** Two years ago, in my worst-ever performance playing the role of Mom, I did not receive the Mother's Day present I requested (for three years in a row), so I stormed down the stairs screaming, "I'll just buy my own damn Mother's Day present!" … Continue reading Mother’s Day, with gas.
Since May 2006, every year for Mother's Day my family has reluctantly agreed to be photographed. They, my husband in particular, are very unwilling subjects. They, my husband in particular, also know that photographing them makes me happy. When I'm happy, everyone's happy, or so I'm told. In college, my friend Steve once told me … Continue reading Happiness is.