For years, I strived to host perfect holiday parties, as if they were an exam to pass. Hours before guests arrived, I dressed the table with my porcelain best, each item set precisely in its place.
Lessons in Physical Education Lines of freshmen girls intersect at the locker room door, making way to second period Phys. Ed.
I reached over the Suburban’s front seat, rummaging through our sweatshirts in the back, my butt in the air. My husband rolled the SUV to an incomplete stop at the end of our quarter-mile long driveway, ready to turn onto Russell Road and make the two-hour drive to Cape Elizabeth for our sons’ high school state track meet.
When I was a high school freshman, I approached my English teacher, Mrs. Richard. My appetite for words urged me to ask her where I could buy one of the books we used in class—The American Heritage Dictionary.
Last Friday, we sat crowded in the doctor’s office beneath white lights and the weight of a new cancer diagnosis. My in-laws, husband and I waited for the doctor to arrive and deliver my father-in-law’s pathology report.
The Commotion of Christmas While Sunday, November 29, starts the Advent season, the world around me tries to tell me otherwise.
“Write as if you were dying,” pens Annie Dillard. My relationship with dying began in 1978, the year I entered nursing school.
Change is the stuff of life, but transitioning is the art of life. ~Karen Swallow Prior The other day I drove home from work and welcomed the season’s changes.
As a young girl, I loved climbing the enormous Weeping Willow tree in the corner of our backyard. My brother and I competed to see who could scale the highest—and get down the quickest.
Mom sat across the table, picking at her chef’s salad. “Will you shave my head when my hair starts falling out?” she asked.