Sick Daze


Not me. My kids. Two of them are wandering around the house in various states of moan. Nobody is vomiting–this is what luck feels like. They ache, they leak, they cough, and they remind me of sweet, listless zombies. Poor dears.

The house feels small and tight, not because of sick zombie children but because of snow banks. Look out the kitchen window at the front yard and you need to crane your neck slightly to see over the mound of snow to the street. Look out the back and you’ll be confronted by a porch full of the white stuff (we really should shovel that off) that renders the back yard invisible. We are being slowly buried. There are tunnels that lead us to the driveway, and we discovered last weekend that we could exit via Barno’s bedroom window and jump off the porch roof if we need to escape (or just for fun, as you do on a Saturday afternoon) but downstairs it does feel like we’re animals in holes, waiting for a spring that might not come.

And it’s cold. I went for a run yesterday, out of desperation, and oh, it was bitter.

Apparently, the Grand Canyon is in Arizona. We are thinking of going there for April vacation, which is a mere six weeks away. We are not the kind of people who plan well. But at least now I know what state we’re aiming for.

Is it warm in Arizona in April? Will we be able to stand outside without hunching our shoulders and wincing? Will there be T-shirts and sandals? A desire for salads? Will I have to pull my hair back so the wind can find my neck? Because to hell with scenic vistas and educational sightseeing. I just want to feel not cold for a couple of days.

I think I’ll make a chicken pie. It’s been a while since I made a chicken pie. The older I get, the less I like to cook. But chicken pie–that’s a perfect meal for the cold tonight. And I know at least one kid likes it.

Stay warm, dear ones.


Book Woes


I’m reading a very terrible book. It’s a review book, so I can’t tell you what it is or who wrote it. I can’t even warn you not to waste your time! Not yet, anyway. But please know, I am suffering for the sake of readers everywhere. I am taking on the unpleasant task of slogging through these burdensome pages so that you don’t have to! Rejoice!

What kills me especially is that I have a stack of books, lovely hardcovers, that I got for Christmas, and the heartbroken looks on their pristine spines is nearly too much to take. “It’s not you!” I want to reassure them. “It’s me! I have to meet this deadline and earn my fifty bucks so I can buy more of you!” Not that they aren’t enough to keep me reading for a month, maybe two, but there’s always room for more. Poor new books. They’re just going to have to wait another couple days.

My book addiction waxes and wanes. I’m always reading, but I go long periods of time, we’re talking years, without buying. I have libraries, bookseller friends, review copies, and a life’s worth of previous purchases to keep me in words long after I’m dead. Some people do drugs, I do books.

But this time of year is tricky. After all that holiday shopping, I’m in the buying mode. My credit card just slides so easily out of my wallet. And T has ensemble rehearsal in Hanover every Saturday this month, and what does one do to while away the time while one waits for one’s child to be done with rehearsal? Why, one heads to the bookstore right down the street.

And these writers, these lovely writers, keep writing more books! If they would just pause for a year, I could catch up.

I know, I know, these are not real problems. Some people can’t read at all. Some people can’t afford food, never mind books. I should read my terrible book and be grateful I have eyes. Sigh. Fine.

But let me tell you, as soon as I’m done, as soon as I’ve written 225 words about the terribleness of this book, I am going to read five really good books in a row. So there.

Happy Birthday to me. And to Rebecca, and to Barbara Kingsolver.


“High tide! Time to move out into the glorious debris. Time to take this life for what it is!”

-Barbara Kingsolver

It’s raining today, and cold, and birthdays are great.

Even this one, which is mostly marked by leaving work to pick a sick boy up from school. Luckily, he’s not that sick. And a more appropriate way to take this life – at least, my life –  for what it is doesn’t exist.

A friend sent me that Kingsolver quote on Facebook, and another Facebook friend mentioned he still had some greeting cards I had made as a child. My best-friend-at-the-time (his daughter) and I pressed flowers and stuck the results under clear contact paper and sold the cards at a local general store called Bramhall’s. It was a general store in the old-time sense of the phrase. They sold penny candy (for only a penny!) and ice cream cones and local produce and lobsters. And antiques. And our greeting cards. We were WV Designs and so proud. I don’t remember how long we lasted, or how much we sold the cards for, or why we eventually quit. We were eleven, maybe twelve, so that was probably why. Other things, like horses, awaited us.

I learned a few days ago that the man who owned Bramhalls, Wedge Bramhall, died. I think of cancer. His wife was my preschool teacher and they were both very kind people who later had four kids, who, I imagine, are terrific kids. I remember him studying our one sample greeting card that we presented with shy confidence on a summer day, the oak shade doing not much to dispel the heat rising from our heads after our bike ride from Sarah’s house. This was in the days before helmets and we were wind blown by a hot breeze. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “I’ll stock your cards. Fifty-fifty.”

I don’t actually remember his exact words or the percentage he offered. I do recall his face and his willingness to say yes to awkward middle-schoolers who were desperate to do something that mattered.

I’m not cooking dinner on my birthday. Instead we’re ordering Chinese food and eating in front of an episode of Doctor Who. Boys will fight over who gets to sit next to their mom, and while most nights this annoys the hell out of me, tonight I will find it endearing and I might even get a little teary because yesterday I looked at old photos of my boys as babies and, gack, I miss them even though they’re right here with me. We will eat and I will have a glass of wine and later we’ll pile into the big bed and I’ll tell them the next installment of The Color Children, which is about five children of different colors – indigo, periwinkle, orange, green, and pink – who live together with no grownups in a big house that eats their enemies. It’s a really great house.

The glorious debris – I am surrounded by it, and so, so grateful.



Sunday Afternoon and Life Is the Opposite of Malaise

We aren’t an active family. I mean, we do stuff. Just not a lot of stuff. Sometimes it feels like a lot of stuff. But usually it feels that way because it’s a lot of stuff at the same time.

But today, oh, today. Today is…fine. It isn’t great, it isn’t bad, it’s just a very reasonable fine. We saw old friends this mornings, we cheered L at a basketball game early in the afternoon, and now we are home, and a chicken is roasting in the oven. The younger boys made popcorn. The older boy started a movie. The dogs are half-asleep on the couches thinking this is exactly the way life should be all the time and mostly I think they’re right.

Maybe not all the time. I like the highs, and while I can’t say I like the lows, I do see why they are necessary. They remind us of how much worse things could be.

And even the fact of Philip Seymour Hoffman and his stupid death–even that can’t quite puncture my general feeling of the opposite of malaise. What is the opposite of malaise? Webster’s offers antonyms like joy, well being, calmness, cheer, but none of those are, well, French enough. Joyeux? Still doesn’t cut it. You know what I mean. There must be a word out there that means “a French word directly opposite of malaise” and that’s exactly what I am right now.

I think I might go build a fire. And read a book. Tallis has a music thing every Saturday morning and it’s right near a bookstore, which is wonderful for the bookstore and not so wonderful for my bank account. I am trying to be good. But! Have you heard of A.S. King? She write really great YA books. I am reading all of them. You should too.

I wish for you all a Sunday like mine. Warm, cozy, just active enough. Perhaps with a roast chicken.

Kicking the Ass of the New Year


I used to love swimming, and then I didn’t. We’d go the beach and I’d be happy on the sand, maybe wade up to my thighs. I rarely even took off the sundress slipped over my bathing suit (or, more usually, the yoga top paired with skirted bikini bottoms). Was it a body image thing? Am I really that careful about UV rays? I don’t think so. I think it was a control thing. In the water, there’s less of it. And it’s rare for me to go to water without having to think at least a little about keeping boys alive. So, I stayed dry. For years. Even after my kids gained enough ability (except for my oldest, who still can’t swim) that I didn’t have to worry quite so much about accidentally turning them into floating corpses.

But here I am, on a Sunday night, feeling if not water logged at least pleasingly spongy. I went swimming twice this weekend. In a really big pool. In my new bathing suit. Which is black and even a little pretty.

Maybe this level of pride is unreasonable for this wispy accomplishment, but hell, I’ll bask. Our world, have you noticed? is not conducive to accomplishment, unless you play video games. Which I don’t, not because I think they’re objectionable; I just haven’t found one that truly speaks to me and life is too short to settle. And by accomplishment, I mean this easy kind: you decide to do something and then you do it. Ah. Maybe it’s only me who has this trouble? The deciding and then the never doing? Anyway, I decided to start swimming, I bought a bathing suit, and then I, yes, went swimming.

The first time was yesterday evening when M and I escaped for a date, thanks to my visiting parents who were willing to babysit. The nice people at the pool gave us a discount. We swam for half an hour and then sat for a few minutes in the hot tub, and then went to dinner at a restaurant that has a fireplace. It was… a really good night. Until we came home to a lame dog and then M threw up a lot. But still! Date night! Hallelujah!

And then today I took the kids, the ones who swim, and while it was less exercise it was still fun.

And I’m going to swim again on Tuesday, because after my eyes are dilated at the eye doctor’s I won’t be able to read and write for a couple hours and what else is there to do in this world?

What to do with all this money?


This is a problem I’ve never really had.

Yesterday I went on a school field trip with my oldest son, and the ride home took two hours longer than usual for a total of four hours on a shrill, cramped, steamy school bus.

(Oh, how I appreciate my own particular kids after spending the day and much of the evening with the offspring of others. Is it me? Is it them? Do my children spring horns when they’re out of my range? I don’t suspect it, but if so, let me know. While T and I drew our own version of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips on the translucent windows, children around us fought and mouthed off and tossed trash hither thither. I was proud of my quiet, respectful kid.)

Around the three hour mark I finished my book and T dozed off against my shoulder. The woman on my other side offered me a can of espresso, for which I wanted to kiss her. We talked. We talked about how convinced we were that we were crap at our jobs, how difficult it is to stay married while renovating your house, how setting fire to your yard isn’t the best way to clear the land for a vegetable garden. Then she told me she’d recently gotten a promotion and to celebrate, she’d bought her husband a mustang.

I thought, but did not say: “When my husband got a raise we each bought new pants at J.C. Penny.”‘

I liked her a lot, and that can be unusual for me – I’m reserved and shy and a tiny bit suspicious about new people, so when I find someone I can connect with fairly easily I’m thrilled. But – a mustang? “Mustangs are so expensive!” she moaned to me. “Of course it costs way more than my raise!”

I’ve heard about this trend on the news. The consuming trend. But she was so coherent of it. She knew buying the mustang was a bad idea, and she did it anyway. She didn’t mention plans to sell it, but maybe that’s just not part of the story she told me. I hope they sell it. Sell it and put the money in the bank. Or invest the money in their house, because it sounds like they are barely able to survive their oddly modeled bedrooms and the weirdly situated kitchen and the flooded basement.

I only just met her, but I’m worried about her.

But, what’s that thing about that which we despise in another person is that which we see in ourselves, something something? While no mustang will ever appear in our driveway we do splurge perhaps too often on takeout Chinese food. And M bought an afghan he didn’t need today. And I do find it easy to click PURCHASE when I mean to click READ FREE SAMPLE. I am far from innocent. I completely understand what my new friend was reaching for when she bought that car. For just a moment to feel successful, accomplished, worthy of the admiration of her family and friends. Of course it only lasts a day or two, until the payment comes due and once again you are a woman approaching forty who has never, ever earned more than $22,000 a year.

Dear woman on the crowded school bus: let’s make a pact and avoid the shops for a while.

And thank you, again, for the espresso. It made all the difference.


Here’s a short story I wrote. Actually it’s the first chapter of a novel I’ve given up on. It was previously published on an online literary site I should’ve researched more thoroughly before submitting to.


Twenty years later, Samantha wouldn’t remember his face.

She wouldn’t remember the slight cleft in his upper lip, or the v-shaped image of concentration on the bridge between his eyes.

She wouldn’t quite remember his name: Kurt? Bart? Something mono-syllabic, short. Once sweet, then a curse.

Twenty years later Samantha would try and fail to recall his clothing – jeans, white T-shirt, black flannel jacket – and even his smell wouldn’t quite come to mind, though at the time, lying under him on the damp grass, it was an overpowering and effective scent. And when she smelled it two days later at school she had to fight not to vomit right there in the hallway with a hundred other kids milling around as if it were just another gray, awful Monday.

She wouldn’t remember his hair. His hair was blond and wavy, slightly too long for his thin face, but he had a habit of tossing it out of his eyes that had been the first thing to catch her attention. He sat in front of her in history class at Belchertown High School. Whenever he looked up after reading or writing on his desk he had to do that, flip his bangs out of his way, and every time the motion pinched Samantha hard and a slight gust of breath escaped her chest.

His hands: rough, chapped, lacking grace. Twenty years later Samantha wouldn’t remember how sharp they felt when they shoved up inside her, further up than her own fingers had ever explored in the safe darkness of her bedroom, under a protective layer of blanket and sheet. And now this, in the open dark of her own backyard, a boy’s fingers, uninvited, intent on their own needs. Those fingers were the first sign that time had split into a Before and an After.

She wouldn’t remember his mouth. She wouldn’t remember that Before she had thought his mouth sensuous and kind, the kind of mouth that would always listen before uttering anything unforgiving. And that After, after their first date, after a sweet walk along her own street where safety had always been a suffocating given, that his mouth would change into a sneer that didn’t know anything about kindness. His mouth had turned into an extension of his terrible fingers but she wouldn’t remember that twenty years later.

A mist had started down. Already parts of her were wet: her hair, her calves, her feet. Her feet were bare; one sandal was hooked around her ankle and the other was gone, somewhere between the gate to the street and here, this spot on the grass where one summer she had set up a wading pool that had killed dead the grass underneath. Her mother had been mad.

Now she felt him grasp her breast. She had an inkling that she could rise and walk away if only she could move her limbs – but his weight. His weight had her pinned against the scrawny grass that every spring her mother nagged her father about aerating and replanting and fertilizing, the grass Samantha had killed one summer with a kid’s wading pool. The pool had been blue and made the water inside blue like the ocean even though it was only a scant foot deep.

One hand squeezed her breast and the other shoved and shoved and shoved and pinched.

Now his hand moved to the other breast. Like he’d find something different.

Twenty years later she wouldn’t remember his breath, the way it caught and held and exhaled into her face, how he smelled like the greasy french fries they’d shared at the mall.

Her parents – if she could scream, she could wake them up. They were in the house over there, her house, the house dark but for the pale pink glow that marked the upstairs bathroom, a night light that had burned every night Samantha could remember. Could she scream? Her mouth was open but felt filled with a plug of tamped air, an invisible gag. She hadn’t know this part of nightmares was true, this muteness.

Her hands – violent, grasping, poor desperate hands – reached his face and started to scratch whatever she could feel. She wanted to feel the squish of popped-out eyes but now she was distracted by a low, muffled growling. The growling was her. Finally, some noise, but not loud enough to attract any help and Hart reacted, dragged the blousy tie-died scarf from her neck – the scarf was the only article of clothing she ever borrowed from her mother – and stuffed it into her mouth and grabbed her hands and stretched them way over her head which almost hurt more than his fingers had in her crotch and now she was more afraid.

Hart held a finger to her stuffed mouth and whispered “Shhh.” She could smell herself on his finger – a seaweed smell; it took effort not to gag around the scarf. Her gorgeous, powerful scream that would have raised armies of dead to come save her transformed into a snort that burned her nose.

They had had a good time. Three hours ago Hart had arrived on time at the end of her driveway to take her to the mall. They had wandered, found friends, recognized much of the crowd, speculated about strangers. They discovered they both liked horror movies and could quote a few classics at length: “They’re dead, they’re all messed up.” They’d driven home with salsa music loud on the radio, dancing in their seats like they actually liked it. When they’d arrived back in front of her house she’d wondered if he’d simply let her out and drive away and she thought that would be okay; she liked him, but something in his face made her unsure if he liked her back. He was polite, he was kind, but a few times he seemed to be listening to a sound that wasn’t her, that she couldn’t hear.

Twenty years later she would forget most of the events that transpired there in her backyard, beyond her ability to stop them. She would remember the barking dog a few houses away. The dog’s name was Charlie and two summers ago she’d walked and fed the thing while its family vacationed in Florida. The dog had peed on the living room rug and the family blamed Samantha and never paid her as much as they’d agreed to. That Halloween Samantha left rotten eggs in the mailbox. Now the dog wouldn’t shut up. Samantha wondered if he was trying to save her, protect her.

Quiet above her. Samantha opened her eyes. She realize she’d closed them. Hart wasn’t looking at her. The hand not busy holding her arms above her was jerking on his belt, unzipping his fly.

Her eyes closed again on their own, as if to save her in some small way.

In her own dark space Samantha felt her tissues split and gaseous bile rose up. He might not let her turn her head to vomit and she’d choke and that would be preferable to this. Now something else was inside her, not fingers, something more blunt, something that burned.

The breathing above her turned rhythmic, short. He seemed to reach a fast edge and whimpered, like he was falling. Then, violently, he tore himself from her and she was left wide open to the now soaking rain.

Eyes still closed, she heard him shuffle his pants up and run away from her, then the gate squeaked over by the house and he was gone.

She waited. The rain – she imagined it washing away his remnants. Hair, skin and sperm running off her body into the ground, soaking into the grass and dirt below, leaving her clean. Her jaw clicked when she dragged the scarf out of her mouth and closed her lips against the rain. No reason now, to scream.

On shaky legs she wobbled to the house, underpants pulled up and skirt pulled down with liquid fingers. A chilled gob ran down her leg. She grasped the top bar of one of the decrepit, second-hand lawn chairs her father was proud to have found. She smoothed her hair. At the kitchen sink the running water felt like a flood against her hands, a safe flood, and she lifted fistfuls to her face again and again and felt parts of her returning, parts that had escaped when Hart first hooked her ankles with his and caught her as she landed on the grass. At first she wondered if this move was a less graceful chapter in their story, precluded by the one tender kiss they’d shared at the gate to her yard, a kiss that made, she’d thought, a kind of promise of mutual patience and slow swimming toward an easy goodnight. But then Hart changed. Like an asymmetrical face that suddenly turned its ugly side to her. He’d tripped her.

She wanted to shower and then she wanted to sleep. And then she wanted to wake up and have no memories.

Samantha’s mother waited in the dark living room and spoke when Samantha went through to the stairs. “Well, hi,” Evelyn said in a low voice.

“Jeez, Mom, you scared me,” Samantha said, her body tensed and electric. I cannot take one more shock, she thought.

“So, have a good date?”

“Fine. Waiting up for me?”

“Well, yes. I am the parent.”

“You don’t have to wait up for me.”

Strange, Samantha thought, how we fall right into this conversation, the same one we’ve had so many times before. As if everything was exactly the same as it had been earlier this evening when Evelyn raised her eyebrows at Samantha’s short skirt, sparking a rally of comments and defensive comebacks until Samantha stormed out to meet Hart at the curb, his car humming benignly in patient wait.

“Obviously, I do.” Evelyn pointedly scanned Samantha’s body with her eyes. Samantha did not have to glance down to know that her clothes were skewed, her legs were smudged with mud, her mouth was red and raw. She looked, she knew, like she’d had sex in the backyard. And she had, but not the kind her mother thought.

“You don’t know anything,” Samantha said, hating the shake in her voice. She should just tell her mother the truth, that would shock that superior look off her face. But the truth, somehow, would not come to the surface.

“I know enough,” Evelyn answered, rising from the chair. “I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same, missy.”

Samantha was left alone in the dim light of the living room. That feeling of aloneness would last and she’d remember it twenty years later and debate about forgiving her mother, forgiving herself. The boy would fade, as tragedies do, but the harsh taste of her mother would last a long, long time.