It is too soon, I think, to imagine the bare trees of December and it is too warm this August to contemplate a steaming oven, but it is time to think of Christmas dinner. It is time to make the “Christmas pickles” for our holiday celebrations.
I have been putting up “lazy pickles,” using an old fashioned mustard pickle recipe from my mother. And “lazy” they are, requiring no muggy processing or boiling brines or any special equipment. Read more
My son, Sam, graduated from high school in June—ending his last, restless weeks of 12th grade and beginning his final summer vacation—that nebulous time between high school graduation and the start of his first year of college.
It is an uneasy, transitional time for us all. We are a close-knit family, and I know I will miss him a lot while he is gone. It will take some getting used to. Read more
The New Yorker’s summer fiction edition arrived in my mail box last week—it is a publication I look forward to all year. Included in this year’s issue is a series of essays about childhood reading and specific books remembered from childhood. It is the kind of personal history memoir that I love to read. Read more
Wildflowers made me who I am. One of my first memories is of a walk in the woods to see the first May flowers—the pin-striped blooms of the spring beauty and the delicate, fur-stemmed hepatica. The trout lily and trillium, blue cohosh and wild ginger were all old friends to be visited each year in “The May-Flower Woods” as I grew up on our old farm. I know where to find them still in their same, specific spots in that same woods along Neering Road. Read more
The school bus stops outside my front door each morning at about 7:30 to pick up my daughter. She emerges from the warmth of the house, usually with her coat slung over her arm and sometimes walking on the heels of her sneakers, which are not quite on her feet. “I’ll tie them on the bus,” she tells me. “Right,” I say, remembering the great catch-up time for homework and hair braiding that was the bus ride to school each morning. Read more
As this election year wears on, there has been a resurgence of that ever mysterious phrase: “I want my country back…” I hear it trotted out in polite and not-so-polite conversation, and I see it presented as a rallying slogan in the scroll of my Facebook page, a post from one or another of my more conservative friends.
But what does it really mean? Back from whom? Who had it in the first place? Is it back as in time? Is it back to a time of supposed simplicity like the post-war boom of the 1950s, with its segregation, McCarthyism, and obligatory hats and white gloves for women? Read more
My 50th birthday is coming up at the end of this month. I’m told this is a momentous birthday—a milestone. It is a time for reflection. And, bluntly, it is the tipping point in life where most people are closer to death than birth.
Considering that sometimes I can’t remember what age I am without adding or subtracting from my birth year, 1966, I have some mild relief at having arrived at this memorable number. But I wasn’t really fazed by turning “half a century old” until I received that AARP membership card in the mail. Read more
We have a new kitten, a bouncing, tail-chasing three month old “silver tabby,” now named Ralphie. He came to us from the litter of a friend’s cat after months of relentless sweet-talk and wheedling from my 13-year-old daughter.
He wasn’t always named Ralphie, but an R-starting name complemen-ted the names of our other two cats, named Rocket and Raven. (Giving your children names that all begin with the same letter is a practice I’ve never really liked, but it works well with animals.) Read more
Sam has learned an awful lot in the past two years reporting for Hancock’s weekly paper, The Hancock Herald. Reporting on planning board hearings and football games to house fires, giant hog weed and CheCheTheClown, he has gotten a great introduction into the workings of a community and what makes a good story. Read more
I have been planting hyacinth and daffodil bulbs during these first unseasonably warm days of November—digging the husked, bulging roots into the dirt beneath the shriveled, crunchy leaves flooding my garden. I work with the image of pungent purple and yellow trumpeting flowers in my mind’s eye.
This fall I have been thinking about and looking for the earliest signs of spring, and I think that I have found some. In fact, we could say spring is already here in the bulbs in the ground, in the velvety bud scales of the magnolia’s autumn buds and in the blooming witch hazel. Read more