Letting go

 

Fortino is mowing my lawn. For the past four years that I have lived in this house, I’ve watched Fortino every Friday mow the lawn of Jackie, the neighbor who lives behind me. He and his crew are quick and efficient, mowing, trimming, and cleaning up. Sometimes Jackie asks him to put in new flowers or take out old plants. He nods and complies. If I am out in the back yard, I wave, and he waves back. When he comes around to this side of the block to mow Gus’s lawn next door, I see him again or one of his crew, and we wave. Once, when I was about to sweep up after mowing my front lawn, one of his crew stepped over with the leaf blower and offered to do it. Took twenty seconds. All done.

I’m not mowing the lawn today. I’m writing. Someone else is pushing the mower, swinging the trimmer, and cleaning up the mess.

I started mowing my own lawn in 1980, when I was married and we lived in Chino and my then-husband was too busy pastoring a church to do it. 

When we divorced, I took the mower and edger.

With the exception of the six blissful years I lived in a cabin in the wilderness, and a few years when I somehow hooked up with another husband who was often too busy to help with chores but would, on occasion, do yard work, I mowed my own lawns. For forty years.

My lawns here are small and, if I hustle, I can knock out the mowing, trimming, and clean up in under an hour. But that hustle has begun to evaporate as time has started to take its toll on my body. Sometimes, when my sciatic nerve is screaming at me, thinking about mowing the lawn can nearly reduce me to tears.

Some weeks ago, I had a conversation about this with my cousin Kathleen, who is my age. She’d had a conversation with her doctor, who’d told her, “Kathleen, listen to me, you can’t be doing that anymore.” By “that,” he meant sliding her major appliances out to clean behind them. Did I mention that she’s my age? Look, I saw my mom do a lot of chores when I was a kid, including stripping and waxing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees. I never witnessed her moving the stove out to clean behind it. And now I can’t unhear that, so for the rest of my life, I’m going to feel like my house hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned. Unless I do “that,” and I’ll be honest, I’m not about to, so if you happen to come for a visit, please overlook it.

Kathleen told me this: "We can’t keep doing the same things we’ve always done in our lives." Ironically, a week after my conversation with her, I found myself working on a short piece of writing for a story call-out about “elder care,” describing how difficult it was convincing my mother to give up driving. Of course, she was 86, not 66, but still. It brought to mind Mom’s fierce independence, how she kept insisting that she could get herself and her walker into the car and out again without my help. But she really couldn’t, not without risking injury. And I heard Kathleen’s truth ringing in my ears. “We can’t keep doing the same things we’ve always done.”

I can’t mow my lawns anymore. Not without risking injury. Last week, when Fortino mowed Jackie’s lawn, she told him I wanted him to start mowing mine. He came by after he finished Gus’s yard, and we stood on the porch and talked.

“I see you,” he said. “You work hard.”

“I see you,” I said. “You work very hard.”

He shrugged. “It’s my job. You need to take care of yourself.”

So I am. I’m doing all the exercises my physical therapist gave me, taking the walks my doctor told me to take (even though I was already walking at least 30 minutes a day when she said that, but okay), and right now, Fortino is mowing my lawn, and I’m doing this. It’s my job.

Coming Back

It beckons, doesn't it? An oak leaf strewn trail in early autumn, shaded from the still-warm sun by overhanging branches. The only sounds heard that of a scolding jay and an equally annoyed woodpecker.

As I step onto this trail in mid-morning, I immediately smell apple pie baking at the adjacent apple farm, and my stomach rumbles. I have an apple and a way-too-healthy protein bar (made from a paste of dates, raisins, bananas, cashews, etc) in my backpack, but dang. Who wouldn't want a huge slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee on this glorious morning? And what better place to get both than in Oak Glen, California? Thank you, Universe, that such blessings exist, such opportunities are available. But today I am hiking. And off I go.

Here's the thing about that sign: Ever come across road signs that say, "Flagman ahead. Prepare to stop" but then you keep driving and see no one for like two miles? Yeah, so, this is like that. The truth is, the trail winds down a very pleasant downhill path. Very pleasant. Very...downhill. So it's easy to keep going, keep wondering what you'll see as you round the next bend. The "steep" part is in the last third of the loop, at which point you reach a set of steps carved into a steep hill and it's just up and up and up for a quarter of a mile. For those of us with holey lungs (and I mean that most literally--hole-y), much panting is required.

Dear Cousin (because I know you're reading this, looking at this sign, wondering if I'm safe, if I'm crazy), I will admit to pausing for a few minutes before continuing down the trail. Now, I've been down this same trail a time or two or three--but this time was the first time walking the entire trail without my son or my friends or my dog. (No, Thomas wasn't with me, sad to say.) So I stopped to ponder my fate, reflect upon my life, my odds of survival, my need to still take a few risks at this age (66, if you're keeping track), how I might defend myself (hiking stick)--or call for help (cell phone, yep, still got reception). As all this was zinging through my mind, I heard another hiker on the trail, coming from the opposite direction, talking loudly. I saw why when she came into view, saw me with my mask on and paused her conversation to pull hers up. I thanked her, at which point the beautiful gray and white pit bull she had on a leash lunged across the trail at me, wagging his tail furiously, dancing from foot to foot, telling me excitedly "We're doing walks! We're doing walks! I smelled stuff everywhere! I peed everywhere! We're doing good walks!!!!" I petted his head and he slobbered all over my hand, which I accepted as a Holy Dog Anointed Blessing, and I moved on down the trail in the direction they had come up. I mean, let's face it; had there been a mountain lion around, it would have slunk off when Loud Lady and Big Dog showed up.

I assume this was true for the bear, too. Oh, there was definitely a bear. I followed his fresh (as in, still glistening) piles of scat down the trail, sighting four in a half-mile stretch (and yes, each one appearing more fresh as I went). What does a bear's poop look like if said bear is lucky enough to live near all the apple farms of Oak Glen? Why, it's sort of its own type of, er, apple pie:

At this point in the trail, I stopped again. In the movies, this is where the mountain lion would be lurking, hanging off that tree trunk bent over the trail. In real life, of course, mountain lions behave like cats, hiding in tall grass and thick brush, blending in--until they pounce with incredible speed and force (unless you have a large dog with you and you're making a lot of noise, which I didn't and I wasn't, so I started singing instead).

When you reach the top of the trail, this is what you see now: Ashes. The hills above Oak Glen, all the way around the town, from Cherry Valley to Yucaipa, are burned down to rubble from the El Dorado fire, which is still burning this morning and only 68% contained. How firefighters kept that fire from destroying the entire town, I have no idea. I just know that they're amazing.

The trail tops out at Oak Knoll picnic area and, lest you think you've survived the trail unscathed, best mind your feet all the way across to the parking lot; rattlesnakes live here. The last time I walked through it, my son and I spotted a baby rattler (gasp!) coiled around a grassy tuft, with people sitting a few yards away, enjoying a picnic, kids running everywhere. We warned them and everyone else around, and a brave soul used a very long stick to encourage the baby snake to take a nap somewhere else.

This is how I celebrated upon returning to my car: Apple cider mini-donuts and a cup of coffee. O, how joyous!

Just what was I celebrating? Being able to walk again. I have been struggling for many weeks with another bout of sciatica, unable to do the most basic chores around the house, unable to garden, just barely getting a short walk in with Thomas before needing to lie down on the living room floor and stretch my back. Slowly in the last two weeks, I've felt better. I was able to walk a bit farther every day. This was my first real hike in a long time, and I felt great. Thanks, Universe. I needed that.

 

Notorious

 

Ruth Bader Ginsburg, photo courtesy of New York Magazine

Why is the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg so monumentally heartbreaking for me at this time?

Because I don’t want her to be remembered as the Supreme Court justice who couldn’t quite hang on long enough, whose death ushered in a new era of life-altering decisions that no longer hold toward the middle but are now staked to a court with a far more restrictive agenda.

But I don’t want to talk about that. Her body has not yet been laid to rest. I don’t want the discussion of what might happen next to overshadow the enormous legacy of this woman’s valiant advocacy for other women and for those disenfranchised by the majority.

Why was her life, long before she became a Supreme Court justice, so meaningful to me?

Because I was the gender-fluid female who was told no repeatedly, from the time I was a small child, when I was told not to wish for certain Christmas and birthday gifts because they were for boys, through high school where I was not allowed to take wood shop or auto shop because those classes were for boys, and long into adulthood and even in my church, where I was told that even though I led the congregation in singing, I could not be considered the “Music Minister” because I wasn’t male.

Hard to believe, isn’t it, that this paragon of women’s rights began her professional career by teaching the law instead of practicing it, because despite graduating first in her class from Columbia Law School, no law firm in New York would hire her. Because they simply wouldn’t hire a woman.

Their loss.

Though she was known as liberal in her interpretation of the Constitution, Ginsburg was also highly respected for her sense of fairness and her acute knowledge of the law. She was also known for her sense of humor and her ability to get along with everyone—including Justice Anthony Scalia.

How she did is a mystery to me. In law school, I loved reading Supreme Court opinions—unless they were written by Scalia. I hated his world view, and seethed openly at his words. (Ask Mike, my law school study partner, who good-naturedly endured my rants against Scalia.) Yet Ginsburg, once she was on the court, not only found a way to engage with him civilly, she actually befriended him, proving herself a role model for me in yet another aspect.

When I began my writing career in 1975, I used my first and middle initials on by-lines when I submitted work for publication, as many other women writers did before me. We knew, as females, that our work would be taken less seriously by publishers if they knew our gender. As much as I would love to document our advance in this arena, make no mistake; this is largely still the case across the board, with women writers being paid less than men, and some women writers still opting out of revealing their gender to potential publishers until they have established contracts of equal value.

We still have a long way to go. But Ginsburg began to turn this ship around in 1971 when she argued and won her first gender discrimination case. (I was still in high school then. Had her success been on my radar, I would have quoted her arguments for my counselors; that was the same year I was denied entrance to the all-male industrial arts classes.) She went on to present the case against gender bias again and again, all the way to the Supreme Court, where she would one day sit as “a jurist of historic stature,” as Chief Justice John Roberts said of her.

May this be her legacy, not that she died too soon, but that she finally took her much deserved rest after devoting her entire life to the difficult and demanding task of bringing about substantial change in the quality of life for women and others. May her legacy be remembered always, and may she rest in peace—after she has a sweet and long-awaited reunion with her beloved Marty and perhaps a good laugh with Anthony Scalia about all of our shenanigans down here in the wake of her passing.

Blessed

 

Yesterday was one of those very rare days in which I hear from all four of my kids in the same day. That usually only happens on Mother's Day and my birthday (and sometimes not even then). My kids are busy living their best lives, and I can appreciate that. I didn't call my mom very often when I was their age. Then again, my mother and I had an entirely different relationship than I do with these amazing people.

It was my youngest grandson's birthday yesterday. Jordan turned eight. Or, as he put it, "I'm becoming eight today." Yes, sweet boy, I hope we are all "becoming" our best selves. His mother (Younger Daughter) and I chatted for an hour about life and her plans for the future, near and far. When I walked out of my den and looked out the kitchen window, I saw a gigantic plume of smoke--another out-of-control wildfire is burning in the next town over. Here we go again....

An hour or so later, I received a text from Younger Son (who currently lives in Ohio): "Hey Mom, are you doing okay?" Checking in, because he heard about the fire. Then Older Daughter did the same, concerned about the air quality down here. She and Hubby live and teach in Lake Arrowhead. They were getting ash drifting down on their deck. Several hours after that, Older Son called from the Bay Area. "So, you have another fire down there?"

My kids will not know (unless they read this blog post, and they seldom read my blog posts, because they are busy living their best lives) that I went to sleep last night with a bit of a happy glow about me.

I am blessed. All of my children lived to adulthood. (Dang, tho, with my boys, it was dicey at times, I'm not gonna lie. You see that gray hair in the photo above? My girls didn't give me that. My boys did. Whew.) All four were employed--until the pandemic, when two were laid off, but Younger Daughter has just been offered a new job, so she'll be working soon, and Younger Son has a nice cushion of savings, and he will resume work after the pandemic--when he returns to California permanently. (Yay!)

Most important, though, they are good, kind people. No, we do not always agree on everything. (Boy howdy!) No, they do not parrot back my own belief systems. (If only!) But dang... in spite of the haphazard parenting I did at way, way too young an age, these guys turned out to be stellar human beings, and sometimes I'm just in awe of that. They are all ethical people of sound integrity who think for themselves and are not afraid to voice their opinions and stand up for what is right and justice. Damn, I am so proud of them. (Sorry, can't help it. Shameless Mom boast. Hang on--it gets worse.)

My happy glow rekindled this morning when my junior-in-college granddaughter sent me a text: "Hey Nana, how is it over there?? Are you doing okay?? Do you need anything??"

So yeah, my grandkids--all six of them--are also stellar human beings. Well, okay, Jordan is just now "becoming eight," so maybe he'll turn out to be a thief or a thug, but he's already an animal lover, and his best friend is his black cat, "Lucky," and he loves to read, so I think his mama is on the right track with him.

 All that is just to say this:

Parenting is hard. Damn hard. We struggle blindly, wishing for a crystal ball so we can really determine what is "best" for them through any given crisis or major decision or, lord help us, meting out of consequences, but there is no instruction book, and each one is absolutely different than his/her/their siblings. We just do the best we can, often throwing up Hail Mary passes, and we pray, we pray really hard, that they will "turn out all right." And when they do, we are amazed. And blessed. Really and truly blessed.

B: P4 Longmire

 

Land of Wolves, the most recent offering in Craig Johnson’s engaging Longmire series, came out last fall. Although I have been following the series since 2018, and I was pleased to know that a new episode in the saga of Sheriff Walt Longmire had been released, I didn’t order it right away. And when I did, it remained stacked on top of my to-read list for weeks, then months. I couldn’t bring myself to crack it open, and I didn’t understand why. Until last month. And now I know.

My buddy John introduced me to the Longmire series when we met for a lunch date in 2018 that was anything but casual. John and his wife Lisa wanted to break the news to me that John had been diagnosed with IPF—Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. In layman’s terms, his lungs were hardening, and doctors could point to no specific cause. Like my bronchiectasis, IPF is progressive and irreversible, but its progression is much more rapid. Day by day, John was slowly running out of oxygen as the disease robbed him of more and more lung capacity.

But let me tell you about John. I met him in my first full year of teaching, and we bonded over crazy pants, those crazy-patterned, ballooning trousers with elastic ankles and waistbands and way too much room in the crotch. Remember those? Lordy, I am deeply grateful no photographs exist of me wearing them. John was a body builder back in the early 90’s—a serious body builder—and I was somewhat of a gym rat, and we’d both wear our crazy pants to work sometimes. I never saw a guy smile so much. Even when John began the tumultuous journey through a tough divorce, he kept his sense of humor, his smile in place. We talked a lot in those days, because he knew that I had just gone through the same, and when you’re navigating hell, it’s always nice to shout out to the guy that’s on the boat just ahead of you, just to be reassured you still might make it through. 

When he finally did make it through to the other side, Lisa was right there waiting for him. She was also a friend made through teaching and shared experiences, and we are so alike we are sisters in spirit. Like John, Lisa has a smile that never quits, no matter what trauma she’s working her way through. She has been friend, confidante and counselor to me, and when the two of them got together, it was a match made in heaven, no doubt about it.

Years after their marriage, on the day the two met with me to give me an education on IPF and explain John’s limited chances of survival, there they both were, sitting side by side, still as deeply in love, still smiling. And after we finished our serious talk of lung disease, John asked what I was reading, and when we discussed books, he told me how much he’d enjoyed the Longmire series. A sheriff in Wyoming who, like John, is one of the true good guys? I’m in. And I was really in after I read The Cold Dish, the first in the series.

So why, when I finally had the most recent book in my hands, couldn’t I bring myself to crack it open and read it?

Because the last time I saw John and Lisa in person, at dinner with a group of friends, John was not doing well at all. He was thin and weak and had to carry portable oxygen with him at all times. Lisa explained that they would be heading to UCLA Medical Center soon to consult with doctors about a lung transplant. 

A lung transplant. Damn.

That dinner was the last social engagement I have participated in to date. Immediately after it, we were locked down due to the pandemic, and my worry for John—what with COVID-19 drifting about, plus the delay in medical procedures and appointments, increased a thousand fold.

And then, suddenly, in the midst of a pandemic, when all the world seemed to be imploding, John was approved for a transplant. Shortly thereafter, some other family somewhere—strangers to us—incurred some tragedy that robbed them of a loved one, but did not strip them of their humanity; a lung was donated, and John went into surgery, and I got busy calling, texting, and messaging friends to please pray, light candles, chant, think positive thoughts or whatever they could conjure up that would help John make it through. 

And he did. Boy howdy, he did. Within days after his surgery, he was back on Facebook, posting positive messages, participating in discussions on the Longmire page, and joking about being ready to spike his orange juice with something that had a bit more kick to it.

That was in June. By July, John was back home with Lisa, taking daily walks (early in the morning, wearing a mask, of course), making his great, creative videos, and spending a good portion of each day encouraging others who are battling IPF.

One night in mid-July, when I went looking for my next book to read, I saw Land of Wolves. I smiled and picked it up, settling in for the good read I knew was ahead of me, and I realized why I hadn’t read it before. I had to know that John was going to be okay. Of course I know that, as a transplant recipient, life will never be the same “normal” for John that it was before his IPF diagnosis. He will face challenges in the years to come—but that’s the miracle of all this; he has years now, with Lisa, to face all the challenges ahead of him, and he’ll be doing so with that great smile of his, let me tell you.

 

B:P3 Early Departure

 

 

 

In Memoriam: 

Scott, you left way too early, honey. There was still so much good stuff....

 

Some time ago a friend mentioned the book A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole, in a way that made me feel as if I'd been missing something without knowing it because I hadn't read it. Instead of buying the book or at least putting it on my to-read list, I started reading about the book instead. I quickly learned of Toole's suicide--prior to the book being published. Sigh....

 

The mythology within the literary community is that Toole was so despondent over his failure to find a publisher for his book, he killed himself, at which point his mother took up the cause, eventually finding a publisher who agreed to take it on--to great success. Toole was awarded a Pulitzer Prize posthumously for the book. It was first published in 1980 but today is still an Amazon best seller.

 

The truth about Toole is far more complex, of course.

 

I have yet to read A Confederacy of Dunces. But I did read Butterfly in the Typewriter by Cory MacLauchlin, which details the life and death of Toole. (The title comes from writing by Toole himself, who described himself at one point as a butterfly being smashed to death by a typewriter key, an accurate reference, I suppose, to the fragility of many creative minds.)

 

I'm not here to recommend MacLauchlin's book. (Sorry, fellow author.) It's far too long and rambling for its purpose, a bit repetitious and not well edited. (Sorry again. Truly.) Something happened, though, just as I was getting to the part of the book I'd wanted to read, the part about Toole's suicide, the part that explained what he did and what led up to it.

 

Just about the time I read about Toole's mental collapse and subsequent suicide, a cousin called to tell me that our youngest cousin had killed himself. He had a wife and kids and grandkids, but his mental anguish, his degree of depression, his "psychache," as Edwin Shneidman, founder of the American Association of Suicidology, would put it, had become unbearable, so he took it upon himself to end it.

 

I cried for days. At his loss (at Toole's as well), at the grief his wife and children will bear for the rest of their lives, at the agony he must have endured in the weeks, months, years before he felt he could no longer go on.

 

The "if onlys" come hard and fast during these times. If only we had a one-dose-fits-all pill to cure debilitating sadness. If only he could have waited just a little longer, until that dark depression eased its grip on him a bit. Because it always does. It always gets better eventually. Ask anyone who has contemplated an early departure but decided against it, and they will say the same: "I was in a very dark place then, but I'm glad I lived to see/to hear/to experience...."

 

I'm glad I lived.

 

If I had taken my life at 15, I never would have experienced the ineffable joy of watching my children grow up... then my grandchildren. I would never have known how powerful and heady it can feel to set a difficult and far-off goal--publish a book, earn a degree--and keep slogging forward until it has been reached. I would not have experienced the humbling yet noble and rewarding duty of guiding young people toward their own goals and aspirations.

 

Yes, sadness still haunts me at times. I still struggle to shrug off that heavy coat of my heart-crushing childhood. (Butterfly... typewriter....) But this is what I know: As stormy as the night may be, the morning always comes. The sun will rise, the light will shine, spring emerges after winter and brings warmth, relief, and new growth. I have a thousand things to look forward to, still. I'm glad I lived.

 

If you have come upon this post in a state of deep sadness and you have considered or are considering making an early departure, please, please, I beg of of you, talk to someone first. Just... talk. No, there are no easy answers, there is no magic pill. It's hard. Damn hard. But it will be so worth it if you can just hang on another day. There are people out here who care. I promise.

 

Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255 

Books, Part Two: Finding the Shadow of the Wind

Back in December, before Christmas, before the pandemic shut-down, in those chilly, blissful days when Dark Time came early, and I would hustle the cats inside to cuddle up and read with me, my book club made a donation of books—some new, some used—to a local group home that serves children who have been separated from their parents due to abuse. The residential facility, located on beautiful, sprawling acreage, was just getting its library reorganized after some renovation, so the books were greatly appreciated.

 

Most of the books were purchased new from money we’d collected in a bake sale, but we did have several boxes of books donated. A small group of members went through these donations, checking to be sure they were appropriate for children and teens, and also making sure the books adhered to the guidelines we’d been given by the group home: No dark subject matter, no gratuitous violence, no themes of death or dying or separation from parents. We ended up with a small box of rejected books that sat on my kitchen floor, just inside the door, until well after Christmas, New Year’s, and maybe even Easter, if I’m being honest.

 

My intent was to donate those books, a few at a time, to the Little Free Library I mentioned in my previous post. And I did. Every time I took a drive up to drop something off for Harry or his cat, Asher, I took another few books. Finally, there was one book left in the bottom of the box.

 

I pulled it out when I was getting ready to head up to Harry’s again, intending to put Sophie Quire in the library as well. But you know how that goes if you’re a bibliophile; we’re always curious. I flipped it over and read this on the back of the book:

 

Barcelona, 1945: A city slowly heals from its war wounds, and Daniel, an antiquarian book dealer’s son who mourns the loss of his mother, finds solace in a mysterious book entitled The Shadow of the Wind, by one Julian Carax. But when he sets out to find the author’s other works, he makes a shocking discovery: someone has been systematically destroying every copy of every book Carax has written. In fact, Daniel may have the last of Carax’s books in existence. Soon Daniel’s seemingly innocent quest opens a door into one of Barcelona’s darkest secrets—an epic story of murder, madness, and doomed love.

 

Intrigued (who wouldn’t be?) I opened the cover and read the first paragraphs:

 

    I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked through the streets of a Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over Rambla de Santa Monica in a wreath of liquid copper.

    “Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today,” my father warned. “Not even your friend Tomas. No one.”

    “Not even Mommy?”

    My father sighed, hiding behind the sad smile that followed him like a shadow through life.

    “Of course you can tell her,” he answered, heavyhearted. “We keep no secrets from her. You can tell her everything.”

    Shortly after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had taken my mother away. We buried her on my fourth birthday. I can only recall that it rained all day and all night, and that when I asked my father whether heaven was crying, he couldn’t bring himself to reply.

 

And then, as the saying goes, I was hooked.

 

My desire to read the huge tome (of 487 pages in very small font) created a bit of a dilemma. If you are an avid reader who loves nothing more than to spend an afternoon browsing through a used book shop, please take a moment here to close your eyes and take a nice deep breath. As you exhale, thank the Universe (or whomever you would like) that you do not have a lung disease. Because if you were me, you wouldn’t be able to have that joy, that luxury, of walking through the aisles with row upon row of titles, pulling first this one, then that one off the shelf, loading up your arm or basket or bag with 5 or 6 or 10 because they’re priced at a dollar a book.

 

I can’t do that. Dust will kill me. Dust in books is really, really bad. And this book in particular was very, very old and very, very dusty. Just reading the first page started me coughing. So I did what I’ve learned to do in that situation. I put on the N95 mask I use for cleaning the house, took the book in the bathroom, plugged in my blow dryer, and blew the dust out while flipping through the pages. Works like a charm.

 

I’m so glad I did. Because when I finally started reading it, I needed it desperately. I needed its rich, dense prose, so carefully crafted, to lose myself in. I needed the twists and surprises of the plot to keep me turning pages. (I didn’t really need to be staying up past my usual bedtime every night, but that’s okay; I’m a grown-up. I have choices.) I needed to have that story to look forward to as cases of the virus continued to climb and the country went into lockdown and I couldn’t go to my book club meetings or have tea with friends or see my kids or grandchildren. In the days that I slowly made my way through it, savoring every page, that one author’s craftsmanship kept me from despair.

 

It's amazing how powerful books can be, isn’t it?