It’s a rainy April day here in the northeast. As many of you know, I love the rain: the way it sounds and looks and smells. Last night walking in TriBeCa with a young friend I told her that I could smell rain coming. No, she insisted, you smell flowers. But I convinced her that since there were no flowers in sight, that sweet smell was indeed rain. It is lovely sitting on Amtrak, as I am now, watching the rain. And thinking about all the usual things that I think about and write about.
Most important of these is the loss of my beloved mom, Gogo. Tough as nails, she survived a heart attack in January and by early February was referring to it as her “so called heart attack.” She was back to making meatballs, hitting the casino, and even smoking. Do we have premonitions about these things? I believe I did. When Michael and I decided to get married, we had vague thoughts of a September wedding. But something led both of us to act sooner—love, of course; as Michael said, quoting a famous movie line, When you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start today. We both wanted to be sure Gogo saw us get married and saw our happiness. She had seen me through a lot of unhappiness, and from the moment she met Michael she knew I was loved and cared for finally. For our first anniversary, Michael gave me a gorgeous wedding album he’d made for me, filled with not just photos but a narrative and all of the poems read at the wedding and Laura Lippman’s lovely readings. There, in that book, is Gogo looking happy and confident. “My Ann,” as she called me, “is going to be ok.” She was right. I’m more than ok, enjoying a relationship of love and trust and laughter and poetry. But oh how I miss my mom! Recently I became unfortunately involved in someone’s messed up psychology, the very behavior Gogo can spot a hundred miles away and advise me on the smartest course of action. Without Gogo, I felt momentarily lost. How to handle such an attack? How to stay out of dysfunction? But then I felt calm, hearing Gogo’s wise words imparted on me over a lifetime.
She was my valentine this year. We went to lunch and laughed and gossiped. We went to Target and the grocery store. All normal and loving. Interesting that I’d baked her madeleines. That night she was rushed to the ER with what we later learned was a bowel obstruction, and my big loving family gathered in that ICU for ten days, taking turns sleeping on the vinyl sofas. Sam and his friends came from nyc. Friends of mine flew in from VA and Alabama. We cried together and laughed together, Michael fed us and this group of people reminded me what love really is. Gogo knew that. And she knew that she was surrounded with it until the very end, and beyond.
It will come as no surprise that I am knitting a lot—ferryman mitts from Churchmouse Yarn and Teas on Bainbridge Island with yarn from the great yarn store in McKinney TX. Next up, five baby hats for babies coming in August, and then a big summer project of a sleeveless pullover, another Churchmouse pattern. And I’ve been reading a lot—the Greenglass House series with Annabelle, Anita Brookner novels, and How to Behave in a Crowd beautifully translated from the French.
Michael and I spent our anniversary weekend doing the other things we love to do—see plays (we saw six!) and eat good food. We recreated our wedding lunch at Barbuto, took Sam and Katherine to Claro in Brooklyn (Oaxacan food, in preparation for our upcoming trip to Oaxaca in May), The Oxbow Tavern with friends, The Reade Street Bar for burgers with friends, and lots of Michael’s poached eggs on toast and homemade chicken soup, my ultimate comfort foods.
In Abingdon Square Park, the tulips bloomed yesterday, announcing spring. They were in full bloom for our wedding last year. We have much to look forward to. My YA novel, She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah comes out in June and was picked a Best Summer Read by Publisher’s Weekly. My new memoir, Kitchen Yarns, a collection of essays about food with recipes comes out in December. And I finished a new novel yesterday. But writers know that when you type THE END it only means the beginning of revisions.
April too means the celebration of both of my most wonderful kids, and the sad anniversary of losing Grace. When you read this, play a Beatles song for her. Buy tulips. Knit something for someone you love. Read a good book. Stay away from people who hurt you or attack you or make your brief precious life anything but lovely. Kiss everyone you love. Remember Mary Oliver’s wise line from a poem: What will you do with your one wild and precious life? Then do it.
Most important of these is the loss of my beloved mom, Gogo. Tough as nails, she survived a heart attack in January and by early February was referring to it as her “so called heart attack.” She was back to making meatballs, hitting the casino, and even smoking. Do we have premonitions about these things? I believe I did. When Michael and I decided to get married, we had vague thoughts of a September wedding. But something led both of us to act sooner—love, of course; as Michael said, quoting a famous movie line, When you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start today. We both wanted to be sure Gogo saw us get married and saw our happiness. She had seen me through a lot of unhappiness, and from the moment she met Michael she knew I was loved and cared for finally. For our first anniversary, Michael gave me a gorgeous wedding album he’d made for me, filled with not just photos but a narrative and all of the poems read at the wedding and Laura Lippman’s lovely readings. There, in that book, is Gogo looking happy and confident. “My Ann,” as she called me, “is going to be ok.” She was right. I’m more than ok, enjoying a relationship of love and trust and laughter and poetry. But oh how I miss my mom! Recently I became unfortunately involved in someone’s messed up psychology, the very behavior Gogo can spot a hundred miles away and advise me on the smartest course of action. Without Gogo, I felt momentarily lost. How to handle such an attack? How to stay out of dysfunction? But then I felt calm, hearing Gogo’s wise words imparted on me over a lifetime.
She was my valentine this year. We went to lunch and laughed and gossiped. We went to Target and the grocery store. All normal and loving. Interesting that I’d baked her madeleines. That night she was rushed to the ER with what we later learned was a bowel obstruction, and my big loving family gathered in that ICU for ten days, taking turns sleeping on the vinyl sofas. Sam and his friends came from nyc. Friends of mine flew in from VA and Alabama. We cried together and laughed together, Michael fed us and this group of people reminded me what love really is. Gogo knew that. And she knew that she was surrounded with it until the very end, and beyond.
It will come as no surprise that I am knitting a lot—ferryman mitts from Churchmouse Yarn and Teas on Bainbridge Island with yarn from the great yarn store in McKinney TX. Next up, five baby hats for babies coming in August, and then a big summer project of a sleeveless pullover, another Churchmouse pattern. And I’ve been reading a lot—the Greenglass House series with Annabelle, Anita Brookner novels, and How to Behave in a Crowd beautifully translated from the French.
Michael and I spent our anniversary weekend doing the other things we love to do—see plays (we saw six!) and eat good food. We recreated our wedding lunch at Barbuto, took Sam and Katherine to Claro in Brooklyn (Oaxacan food, in preparation for our upcoming trip to Oaxaca in May), The Oxbow Tavern with friends, The Reade Street Bar for burgers with friends, and lots of Michael’s poached eggs on toast and homemade chicken soup, my ultimate comfort foods.
In Abingdon Square Park, the tulips bloomed yesterday, announcing spring. They were in full bloom for our wedding last year. We have much to look forward to. My YA novel, She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah comes out in June and was picked a Best Summer Read by Publisher’s Weekly. My new memoir, Kitchen Yarns, a collection of essays about food with recipes comes out in December. And I finished a new novel yesterday. But writers know that when you type THE END it only means the beginning of revisions.
April too means the celebration of both of my most wonderful kids, and the sad anniversary of losing Grace. When you read this, play a Beatles song for her. Buy tulips. Knit something for someone you love. Read a good book. Stay away from people who hurt you or attack you or make your brief precious life anything but lovely. Kiss everyone you love. Remember Mary Oliver’s wise line from a poem: What will you do with your one wild and precious life? Then do it.
