It was one those moments. The kind you want to store under glass, the kind you wish could go on and on.
Such an ordinary moment, just a group of friends sitting around at the end of a day talking. Nothing special, nothing that would make a stranger walking past even pause.
And yet you do…
Read MoreAfter The Miracle, I envisioned myself a cook. For days when I looked into the mirror, I saw Julia Child. I dreamed about scallions and leeks. I pored over the food section in the papers. I cut out recipes. I actually thought about subscribing to Gourmet magazine. I believed I was a changed woman.
The Miracle had convinced me. I'd had a dinner party, and it had been a success. The smoke alarm hadn't gone off. No one left the table with stomach cramps. I didn't have to serve Tums for after-dinner mints. I'd done the impossible: I'd cooked a meal people had actually swallowed and enjoyed.
Read MoreThey are freezing to death.
Old people in a home on the outskirts of Sarajevo, wrapped in sweaters and coats and blankets, shiver in their beds, their hands and feet black from frostbite, waiting to die. They have been without heat, electricity, water and food for months.
Read MoreIt's the first capitulation. Totally understandable. Maybe even warranted. But it's a surrender, nonetheless, of ideals and perhaps even goals.
President-elect Bill Clinton has decided to send his only child, Chelsea, to private school. Who can blame him? Who, in his position, wouldn't do the same? He is the president. She is his daughter. Why shouldn't she have the best?
Read MoreI used to be compulsive about New Year's Day. About all beginnings: beginnings of days, weeks, months. I figured if I could somehow make everything perfect on this one day, on this first day, then the rest of the days would obediently follow.
If I didn't get the light on the way to Dunkin' Donuts on a Sunday morning, and I did get a parking space, and the line was short and not long, and they had powdered lemon donuts honey-dipped sticks, then the week would be wonderful. If not, well…
Read MoreThe positioning of the trivial with the tragic distorts both, takes what is important and what is fluff, puts them into a blender and mixes them up. Makes it impossible to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Newsweek is a perfect example. On the cover of the Jan. 4 issue there is a photo of two young girls crying, and this headline: "A Pattern of Rape - War Crimes in Bosnia." Open the magazine, though, and what do you see? A two-page spread for asprin-free Bayer Select. People in pain, now pain-free because of Bayer. A page later there is the table of contents, which is itself a mishmash of serious and frivolous:
Read MoreA little house-cleaning before the new year begins. Way back in September, I wrote a what-do-you-think column. Who, I asked, has made the greatest contribution to the 20th century?
People I had already spoken with had mentioned Gandhi, Pope John XXIII, John Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther King, Jonas Salk, Henry Ford, Mother Teresa, and Albert Schweitzer. I gave my vote to Walt Disney. But I wanted to know what you thought, and I asked you to write. And you did.
Read MoreShe was just a baby, maybe a year old, sitting in the back seat of a car traveling along Route 128 a week ago. I never saw her before and I'll probably never see her again. I know nothing about her - not her name or where she lives, or where she was going, or whom she was with, though I assume the woman driving was her mother.
I only glanced at her as I was speeding past. But the glimpse made me smile and pause and reflect. It makes me smile still, days later, because she was so full of naked wonder that it was like walking along a street in the cold past a store whose door opens briefly and blankets you with warmth.
Read MoreDear World:
I understand you don't believe in me. You call me a figment of the imagination, a charade inflicted upon children. I corrupt youth, you argue, and inspire greed. You say that I'm a farce.
Ah, but you're wrong. I am neither a figment nor a farce. I am as real as you. In fact, I am you.
Read MoreI called it my Protestant tree because we bought it at the Episcopal church instead of at the Knights of Columbus and because a few hours after I'd decorated it, with strung popcorn and cranberries and hand rolled-gingerbread men and frosted cookie stars and angels, the tree fell, crashing to the floor.
I wailed and moaned because never before had I gone to such effort for a tree. Never before had I strung cranberries or popcorn, or even sugar cookies. The effort was entirely new.
Read MoreI called it my Protestant tree because we bought it at the Episcopal church instead of at the Knights of Columbus and because a few hours after I'd decorated it, with strung popcorn and cranberries and hand rolled-gingerbread men and frosted cookie stars and angels, the tree fell, crashing to the floor.
I wailed and moaned because never before had I gone to such effort for a tree. Never before had I strung cranberries or popcorn, or even sugar cookies. The effort was entirely new…
Read MoreA friend stopped by with a book she suggested I read during Advent.
"It will open doors for you," she said and it has, although I've only just begun it.
"Two From Galilee" by Marjorie Holmes is not a new book. It was published 20 years ago. But it's new to me. So is the idea behind it.
Read Moret's all so trivial. I recognize this. It doesn't matter that Christmas is a week away and I have so little done. No gifts for my son, my daughters, my husband. Not a present under the tree. No cookies baked. Only a handful of cards written.
Who cares. Is everyone healthy? Yes. Is everyone going to be home for Christmas? Yes. Do we have a roof over our heads, heat, lights, running water, a telephone and cars that start in the morning? Yes, yes, yes, yes!
Then why am I feeling great waves of get-me-a-paper-bag-I-can't-brea
Read MoreMy daughter, the 21-year-old, calls them "noodle necklace gifts," the Christmas presents you open every year that you have to pretend to like.
"You know how in school little kids make necklaces out of noodles and bring them home and wrap them up and give to their mothers on Christmas day and mothers act as if they're the best present ever?"
I know. We all know. A noodle necklace from a child is a great gift, a combination of ziti, glue and love. But a noodle necklace from a boyfriend or a husband, a grown man who's supposed to be perceptive and warm and considerate - this is a whole other story.
Read MoreYou read the statistics and look around and count the number of couples who are no longer couples, who live miles apart or in the same house, who pledged to love one another but are now indifferent strangers, and you know there is no happily ever after.
But you believe in it anyway. A lifetime of love songs and fairy tales can't be undone by other people's unhappy lives.
"It'll be different for us." That's what every bride tells herself as she walks down the aisle. "Our marriage will always be loving and romantic and ideal."
Read MoreIt wasn't fear this night. It was more subtle.
It was dark and late and I didn't know the neighborhood. I was in Providence. What did I know about Providence? The walk from the theater to the parking lot was just two blocks, but who knew what lurked on those blocks?
So I asked someone to walk me to my car. I felt foolish making the request. And yet, I wouldn't have walked alone.
Read MoreMy friend Anne's daughter died of cystic fibrosis eight-and-a-half years ago. Amy was 11, in the sixth grade, and my daughter Lauren's best friend. We knew Amy was going to die, everyone knew, but we knew it intellectually the way we know that someday we'll grow old, and someday babies not even born yet will have gray hair. We didn't believe it, couldn't imagine it. Someday was theory. Amy's death was an eternity away…
Read MoreI met them the first time when they walked into my mother-in-law's house with their parents on New Year's Day four years ago.
"My brother's daughter, Jeannie, is coming with her family to visit all the way from New York. Won't you stop by and visit, too?" my mother-in-law phoned to ask.
I bet I groaned about having to visit someone I hardly knew. I bet I complained about all the things I had to do: take down the tree, vacuum up the pine needles, get my life in order, ready the slate for the new year.
I know I went to my mother-in-law's intending to stay just a little while. But that was before I met Jessica, Tabitha and Xena.
Read More"Is he still handsome?" That's what people always ask. That and "How old is he?" and "Can he still sing?" and "Is he really as nice as he seems?"
Yes, he's handsome. He has thick gray hair, twinkley eyes, a great smile and a younger man's trim build.
How old is he? He's 30-50, my sister-in-law would say. Eighty is how the world translates it. But the number deceives.
Read MoreIt begins with a tickle in the back of the throat. Nothing to worry about. Just a tickle. Probably a dog or cat hair lodged in the esophagus. There are dog and cats hairs all over this house. I drink orange juice and hot tea to dislodge it. I say it is nothing, that it will go away.
"No it won't. You're getting a cold," the chorus around me sings. "There's a terrible cold going around and you're getting it."
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