I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Face Only a Mother Could Love?
Somebody actually told me that Nalu has a face only a mother could love. I, of course, know this to be untrue, but take a look for yourself. Have you ever seen a cuter ladybug? The pictures start on Halloween and journey back in time to Nalu's first trip to Beak and Skiff, apple orchard extraordinaire in Central New York, her peeking over Aunt Nell's boots back in May, her first trip to the beach in April, and her first day with us, on April 12. For anyone who's considering getting a puppy, it is just as much work as everyone says, but it is also endless joy. The smiles on our faces are no coincidence--it's hard not to smile when I look at her. Try it, I dare you.
I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!
I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Step by Step
Four summers ago, on an afternoon when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, I sat down at my computer with an irresistible urge to write a story. I felt overwhelmed, because I knew that I wanted to write a novel, and it felt like an impossibly large task. But I heard the thought “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” and I took a deep breath and started writing.
Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.
My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.
But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”
After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.
Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.
My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.
But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”
After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Flyin' Narberthian
I learned to be a Phillies fan the way probably most kids in the Delaware Valley did—from my dad. So as the frenzy builds about our second World Series in two years, I’ve been thinking a lot about baseball and my dad, which are inextricable in my mind.
My dad played baseball from sunup to sundown every day of the summer when he was a kid, at the Narberth playground just down the road from where I live. He went on to play in high school, then in college at St. Joe’s, a Division 1 school, where he held the record for stolen bases until just a few years ago. He even appeared in Sports Illustrated. Baseball was his life.
He got married at twenty-two and had four kids in short order, and though he stopped playing baseball the love affair continued through coaching Little League, following his Phils, naming my brother after Richie Allen, and taking my brothers and I to games whenever possible, where we sat in the bleachers at the very top of The Vet. When in my eighth grade year my St. Bernadette’s varsity softball team lost our coach, my dad stepped in. He said he knew coaching girls would be different when we insisted on voting whether or not to get hats for the team, and decided not to because they messed up our hair.
My dad was a great coach, and under his leadership and the fantastic arm of our pitcher Katie Weinrich, we had a storybook season, making it to the playoffs and into the Archdiocesan Championship game. I had been sick with the chicken pox for the playoffs, but came back for the final game, no longer contagious but still pock covered. I was our starting first baseman, and hit fifth or sixth in the lineup—a solid, consistent hitter (at least in my memory.) Late in the game, we were within one run, with two outs and one runner on base, and I was up to bat. The pitch came, and I smacked a ball hard, that kind of contact that you know is a good hit as it happens, but my dream of being the team hero shattered as I looked up to see the shortstop snag it out of the air, ending the inning. I burst into tears, as a 13-year-old girl will, and threw my helmet, as an Owsik will, but my dad hugged me and said, “That was a great hit. You should be proud of yourself.”
We lost the game, by one. I didn’t know it at the time, but that season would be the pinnacle of my sporting career. And though it didn’t have a heroic Hollywood ending, it had something better--the knowledge that my dad loved me and was proud of me whether I won or not.
Thank you, Dad, for passing on your love of baseball to me, for taking me to games, for coaching my team, and for showing me in so many ways that I am your beloved daughter.
Go Phils!
My dad played baseball from sunup to sundown every day of the summer when he was a kid, at the Narberth playground just down the road from where I live. He went on to play in high school, then in college at St. Joe’s, a Division 1 school, where he held the record for stolen bases until just a few years ago. He even appeared in Sports Illustrated. Baseball was his life.
He got married at twenty-two and had four kids in short order, and though he stopped playing baseball the love affair continued through coaching Little League, following his Phils, naming my brother after Richie Allen, and taking my brothers and I to games whenever possible, where we sat in the bleachers at the very top of The Vet. When in my eighth grade year my St. Bernadette’s varsity softball team lost our coach, my dad stepped in. He said he knew coaching girls would be different when we insisted on voting whether or not to get hats for the team, and decided not to because they messed up our hair.
My dad was a great coach, and under his leadership and the fantastic arm of our pitcher Katie Weinrich, we had a storybook season, making it to the playoffs and into the Archdiocesan Championship game. I had been sick with the chicken pox for the playoffs, but came back for the final game, no longer contagious but still pock covered. I was our starting first baseman, and hit fifth or sixth in the lineup—a solid, consistent hitter (at least in my memory.) Late in the game, we were within one run, with two outs and one runner on base, and I was up to bat. The pitch came, and I smacked a ball hard, that kind of contact that you know is a good hit as it happens, but my dream of being the team hero shattered as I looked up to see the shortstop snag it out of the air, ending the inning. I burst into tears, as a 13-year-old girl will, and threw my helmet, as an Owsik will, but my dad hugged me and said, “That was a great hit. You should be proud of yourself.”
We lost the game, by one. I didn’t know it at the time, but that season would be the pinnacle of my sporting career. And though it didn’t have a heroic Hollywood ending, it had something better--the knowledge that my dad loved me and was proud of me whether I won or not.
Thank you, Dad, for passing on your love of baseball to me, for taking me to games, for coaching my team, and for showing me in so many ways that I am your beloved daughter.
Go Phils!
Friday, October 16, 2009
Two Julies and Julias
I saw the movie Julie and Julia last night, with my mom. It was a good movie, I enjoyed it, so why, when I got home, did I burst into tears? Well, it’s been a tough week for a few reasons, but mostly it was the green-eyed monster. Why were things so easy for that bitch Julie Powell? In the movie, which is based on a true story, she starts a blog, with an admittedly great idea—-in one year, she would make all the recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and write about it. I haven’t read her blog, so I don’t know, but let’s say that it’s smart and funny and well-written. Fine. But then, with apparently no effort at marketing or self-promotion, within MONTHS she becomes the number three blog on salon.com? And then reporters start calling her, she gets a front page article written about her in the New York Times Food Section, and then hundreds of agents and publishers call her asking her to write a book? While her fairy tale story unfolded all I could think was “Fuck you Julie Powell.”
Interestingly, I did not resent Julia Child’s success. The movie showed her early years, when she learned how to cook French food, then stumbled into a cookbook project which consumed eight years of her life, which was then rejected by publishers before finding a home at Knopf, and going on to worldwide acclaim.
Going in, I knew that both Julie and Julia had happy endings of tremendous success, so why did I feel happy for Julia and resentful of Julie? I, like each of them, embarked on a quixotic, uncertain quest. Like Julie with her blog and Julia with her cookbook, I couldn’t say why I had to write the novel, I just knew that I did. Maybe I resented Julie because her success seemed to happen so quickly and easily, with so little effort on her part. Sure, she cooked a lot and wrote a daily blog, but I’ve been working my tail off on this novel for two and a half years and no one is banging on my door to publish it. Where is my happy ending?
As I sat in my kitchen, crying, I realized that I also have a Julia--Julia Cameron. So I took out one of her books and flipped at random. In the section about artistic integrity she writes that artists have an inner meter that tells us if our work is good or not, and that we need to listen to that voice within, and not the marketplace. This thought comforted me. What matters most is that I created something of worth, in my own estimation, and I have. Maybe that’s my happy ending. Or if not an ending, it is at least something that should make me happy.
I’m sorry, Julie Powell, I’m sure you’re a lovely person who worked very hard for your success. I will try to be happy for you, to believe that whatever is best for me and my work is what will happen, and to remember that I can choose to be happy, right here, right now, with or without a published book.
Interestingly, I did not resent Julia Child’s success. The movie showed her early years, when she learned how to cook French food, then stumbled into a cookbook project which consumed eight years of her life, which was then rejected by publishers before finding a home at Knopf, and going on to worldwide acclaim.
Going in, I knew that both Julie and Julia had happy endings of tremendous success, so why did I feel happy for Julia and resentful of Julie? I, like each of them, embarked on a quixotic, uncertain quest. Like Julie with her blog and Julia with her cookbook, I couldn’t say why I had to write the novel, I just knew that I did. Maybe I resented Julie because her success seemed to happen so quickly and easily, with so little effort on her part. Sure, she cooked a lot and wrote a daily blog, but I’ve been working my tail off on this novel for two and a half years and no one is banging on my door to publish it. Where is my happy ending?
As I sat in my kitchen, crying, I realized that I also have a Julia--Julia Cameron. So I took out one of her books and flipped at random. In the section about artistic integrity she writes that artists have an inner meter that tells us if our work is good or not, and that we need to listen to that voice within, and not the marketplace. This thought comforted me. What matters most is that I created something of worth, in my own estimation, and I have. Maybe that’s my happy ending. Or if not an ending, it is at least something that should make me happy.
I’m sorry, Julie Powell, I’m sure you’re a lovely person who worked very hard for your success. I will try to be happy for you, to believe that whatever is best for me and my work is what will happen, and to remember that I can choose to be happy, right here, right now, with or without a published book.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I Wrote A Book
Back in June, I set a goal for myself: by mid-September I wanted to have a complete manuscript of the book. At that point I had 300 pages of material, I had a beginning, and parts of a middle, but the work had large gaps and no ending—it was not a book. I created an ambitious work schedule for the summer and adhered pretty closely to it, and after giving myself an extension to October 1st, am amazed to say I achieved my goal—I wrote a book.
Getting there was intense. Almost every day I spent hours, barely conscious of the real world, living in the fictional one I was creating. It became easy to get into the fictional world, but harder to get out, some part of me staying there, reluctant to leave until it was finished. While writing I was hardly aware of my actual surroundings and for hours after each session I still felt only partly present in the here and now. The process felt similar to a migraine episode, just thankfully without pain.
The work reached a fever pitch in September, when I realized how much was left to do to meet my goal. I worked harder, longer, flying through the many tasks on my to-do lists for each section of the novel, slogging through chapter after chapter, version after version. On September 25 disaster struck when I spilled coffee on my laptop and the “genius” at the Apple Store told me it was almost certainly dead. Per his instructions I waited 72 hours, and prayed a lot before trying to turn it back on, very grateful that I had backed up all my important work on the book. And when it miraculously turned back on, undamaged, after many prayers of thanks, I got right back to writing and editing.
By September 30 I was not satisfied with everything in the book—I don’t know that I ever will be—but I had a beginning, middle, and end, without major gaps. I had a piece of work, a book, of which I feel very proud.
I. Wrote. A. Book.
Yes, there is still editing to do. But for the first time, I feel like if I were to die today, someone else could finish the book and it would remain mine. It has an essence of its own, is no longer just living within me. I have given birth to it.
Which leaves me…tired, depleted, proud, empty. Not empty in a bad way, but as if this thing that has occupied most of my mental and psychic energy has let go of me, moved on, leaving room for something else. And now that it’s let go of me, I have a sense that I will be able to let go of it. This journey has been incredible, but it’s nearing the end, and though I don’t know what comes next, I’m almost ready to find out.
Getting there was intense. Almost every day I spent hours, barely conscious of the real world, living in the fictional one I was creating. It became easy to get into the fictional world, but harder to get out, some part of me staying there, reluctant to leave until it was finished. While writing I was hardly aware of my actual surroundings and for hours after each session I still felt only partly present in the here and now. The process felt similar to a migraine episode, just thankfully without pain.
The work reached a fever pitch in September, when I realized how much was left to do to meet my goal. I worked harder, longer, flying through the many tasks on my to-do lists for each section of the novel, slogging through chapter after chapter, version after version. On September 25 disaster struck when I spilled coffee on my laptop and the “genius” at the Apple Store told me it was almost certainly dead. Per his instructions I waited 72 hours, and prayed a lot before trying to turn it back on, very grateful that I had backed up all my important work on the book. And when it miraculously turned back on, undamaged, after many prayers of thanks, I got right back to writing and editing.
By September 30 I was not satisfied with everything in the book—I don’t know that I ever will be—but I had a beginning, middle, and end, without major gaps. I had a piece of work, a book, of which I feel very proud.
I. Wrote. A. Book.
Yes, there is still editing to do. But for the first time, I feel like if I were to die today, someone else could finish the book and it would remain mine. It has an essence of its own, is no longer just living within me. I have given birth to it.
Which leaves me…tired, depleted, proud, empty. Not empty in a bad way, but as if this thing that has occupied most of my mental and psychic energy has let go of me, moved on, leaving room for something else. And now that it’s let go of me, I have a sense that I will be able to let go of it. This journey has been incredible, but it’s nearing the end, and though I don’t know what comes next, I’m almost ready to find out.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Open Road
My unwitting but effective strategy for warding off end of summer blues has been to spend as much time as possible in the car these last weeks. This included five hours to get to Syracuse on Wednesday, another five to Brooklyn on Saturday, two hours to get from Bay Ridge to the East Village and back on Sunday, three hours to get to Queens and back to Brooklyn yesterday, then another two to get home from there.
When at 11 pm last night we pulled up to our sweet little twin house, on our quiet street in our small town, my newly-planted hydrangea in the yard, tomatoes ripening on the vine, our own bed waiting for us inside, I had never felt happier to be home. Then I remembered that we’re off to Boston on Friday for the weekend—another ten hours of driving ahead of us.
At least Carl and I fixed the car radio, which had been cutting out unpredictably, because though this may surprise you who know us, we do eventually run out of things to say to each other. After an entire summer together and approximately 300 hours in the car, we can still kill a few hours with conversation, but even we have our limits.
So maybe the trick to being happy at home is to occasionally leave it for long enough that I miss it. We have been mostly at the shore for July and August, because we are very very lucky, and though I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of the shore or surfing, I do start to miss my friends and family after awhile. (Especially on days when I can’t surf.)
The joys of the road included visiting Carl’s family in Syracuse and upholding our annual tradition of attending the Great New York State Fair, where we ate Gianelli sausage, drank chocolate milk, sampled the mysterious Pizze Frite, and watched our niece Alyssa jump and somersault in one of those crazy harness contraptions. Then it was off to New York City to visit Dan, admire Baby Courtney, and attend the U.S. Open, where this lifelong tennis fan was inspired by the unknown players battling for a shot at their dream and at the best players of my generation displaying grace, greatness, complete dominance. Sharing the experience with my husband, parents and little brother made it all the sweeter.
After Boston, I will settle back into our fall routine. For today, I’m grateful for a good night’s sleep, for reconnecting with some faces I hadn’t seen all summer, for walking Nalu on our regular morning route, and for the prospect of cooking in my own kitchen—the joys of home.
When at 11 pm last night we pulled up to our sweet little twin house, on our quiet street in our small town, my newly-planted hydrangea in the yard, tomatoes ripening on the vine, our own bed waiting for us inside, I had never felt happier to be home. Then I remembered that we’re off to Boston on Friday for the weekend—another ten hours of driving ahead of us.
At least Carl and I fixed the car radio, which had been cutting out unpredictably, because though this may surprise you who know us, we do eventually run out of things to say to each other. After an entire summer together and approximately 300 hours in the car, we can still kill a few hours with conversation, but even we have our limits.
So maybe the trick to being happy at home is to occasionally leave it for long enough that I miss it. We have been mostly at the shore for July and August, because we are very very lucky, and though I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of the shore or surfing, I do start to miss my friends and family after awhile. (Especially on days when I can’t surf.)
The joys of the road included visiting Carl’s family in Syracuse and upholding our annual tradition of attending the Great New York State Fair, where we ate Gianelli sausage, drank chocolate milk, sampled the mysterious Pizze Frite, and watched our niece Alyssa jump and somersault in one of those crazy harness contraptions. Then it was off to New York City to visit Dan, admire Baby Courtney, and attend the U.S. Open, where this lifelong tennis fan was inspired by the unknown players battling for a shot at their dream and at the best players of my generation displaying grace, greatness, complete dominance. Sharing the experience with my husband, parents and little brother made it all the sweeter.
After Boston, I will settle back into our fall routine. For today, I’m grateful for a good night’s sleep, for reconnecting with some faces I hadn’t seen all summer, for walking Nalu on our regular morning route, and for the prospect of cooking in my own kitchen—the joys of home.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Top Five of Summer
1. My Little Brother’s Wedding
Allow me to set the scene—a horse farm in bucolic Pennsylvania, a white tent set up in a pasture, the historic farmhouse in the distance, nothing but fields surrounding it. Upon entering the tent you enter a world complete with bar, cocktail tables, lounge areas with real sofas, a large wooden dance floor, the tent entirely draped in espresso brown and baby blue fabric, tiki torches lighting the border, floral arrangements and hurricane lamps gracing the tables, Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceilings.
Most amazing was that the bride, along with a crack team of expert decorators, and a few friends and family members, transformed the space from empty white tent to wedding wonderland in 24 hours. Seeing that transformation and helping it to happen was one of the highlights of the weekend for me.
Other highlights: Going to the liquor store with the groom to pick out the wine and liquor, him saying to the sales woman, “Anyone drinking White Zin doesn’t know anything about wine, so just give me the cheapest one.” Driving the groom to the wedding in Grandmom’s Caddy; giving a surprise toast to the bride and groom, as the groom had done at my wedding; having the DJ (unprompted by me) dedicate a song from me to the rest of the party; dancing the night away with my niece, with the bride and groom, brothers, aunts, parents, friends, my husband, by myself.
Best of all was seeing my little brother so happy, and knowing that he has married the perfect woman for him, a woman who is warm, kind, funny, loyal, sweet. Nothing could be better than that.
2. My Brother-in-Law’s Wedding
The Ackermans don’t mess around when it comes to weddings. This was not just a wedding, it was a ten-day affair, complete with a visit from the California Ackermans (see below), a week at Camp, the Ackerman Compound on Lake Ontario, barbeques, brunches, a rehearsal dinner, all culminating in the wedding on July 11. The wedding ceremony and reception were beautiful, of course, but for me, the highlight was the dance floor. Not since my own wedding had I seen a dance floor jam-packed from song one until the last song of the night. And never had I seen a deejay bow to the crowd’s request for one more song at the end of the night. But Mike “the magician” Corbett, played an encore of “Big Pimpin” at the special request of the bride. If you had seen the bride, you’d know why. She was stunningly beautiful, regal, but in an accessible way, floating around the dance floor with her subjects. I was truly in awe of her, which only increased when she chose Big Pimpin to end her wedding reception.
3. The Novel
I have been working my hiney off on the novel this summer, with great result. Since July I have plowed through editing the second two-thirds of the manuscript, and am close to having a quasi-finished product, which is as scary as it is exciting. Being able to focus exclusively on the novel again for a few months has been amazingly productive and satisfying.
4. Surfing after Hurricane Bill
My surfing has really come together this summer. Not only can I stay up on the board, I can paddle for and catch waves, at least some of the time. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could go out on the day we had eight to ten foot waves during Hurricane Bill, but I did go out the day after, when they were still quite large. It was the furthest out I’d ever been, and the waves, though giant, were breaking gently, allowing me to hop on at any point, have some killer rides. It was my best day of surfing ever, yes, epic.
5. 4th of July Weekend with Sophie
Sophie, my beloved niece who lives all too far away in California, came to Narberth with her parents and her Uncle Dan for 4th of July. Our little town prides itself on its 4th of July celebration, complete with a fair and a kick ass fireworks display. We hosted a barbeque, watched the fireworks from my Grandmom’s yard, and capped off the fun by a visit to Ocean City. Sophie makes everything fun. My favorite quote of the day was my friend Melissa saying, “Jewel, I knew you were obsessed with Sophie, and now I know why.”
What’s your top five of summer?
Allow me to set the scene—a horse farm in bucolic Pennsylvania, a white tent set up in a pasture, the historic farmhouse in the distance, nothing but fields surrounding it. Upon entering the tent you enter a world complete with bar, cocktail tables, lounge areas with real sofas, a large wooden dance floor, the tent entirely draped in espresso brown and baby blue fabric, tiki torches lighting the border, floral arrangements and hurricane lamps gracing the tables, Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceilings.
Most amazing was that the bride, along with a crack team of expert decorators, and a few friends and family members, transformed the space from empty white tent to wedding wonderland in 24 hours. Seeing that transformation and helping it to happen was one of the highlights of the weekend for me.
Other highlights: Going to the liquor store with the groom to pick out the wine and liquor, him saying to the sales woman, “Anyone drinking White Zin doesn’t know anything about wine, so just give me the cheapest one.” Driving the groom to the wedding in Grandmom’s Caddy; giving a surprise toast to the bride and groom, as the groom had done at my wedding; having the DJ (unprompted by me) dedicate a song from me to the rest of the party; dancing the night away with my niece, with the bride and groom, brothers, aunts, parents, friends, my husband, by myself.
Best of all was seeing my little brother so happy, and knowing that he has married the perfect woman for him, a woman who is warm, kind, funny, loyal, sweet. Nothing could be better than that.
2. My Brother-in-Law’s Wedding
The Ackermans don’t mess around when it comes to weddings. This was not just a wedding, it was a ten-day affair, complete with a visit from the California Ackermans (see below), a week at Camp, the Ackerman Compound on Lake Ontario, barbeques, brunches, a rehearsal dinner, all culminating in the wedding on July 11. The wedding ceremony and reception were beautiful, of course, but for me, the highlight was the dance floor. Not since my own wedding had I seen a dance floor jam-packed from song one until the last song of the night. And never had I seen a deejay bow to the crowd’s request for one more song at the end of the night. But Mike “the magician” Corbett, played an encore of “Big Pimpin” at the special request of the bride. If you had seen the bride, you’d know why. She was stunningly beautiful, regal, but in an accessible way, floating around the dance floor with her subjects. I was truly in awe of her, which only increased when she chose Big Pimpin to end her wedding reception.
3. The Novel
I have been working my hiney off on the novel this summer, with great result. Since July I have plowed through editing the second two-thirds of the manuscript, and am close to having a quasi-finished product, which is as scary as it is exciting. Being able to focus exclusively on the novel again for a few months has been amazingly productive and satisfying.
4. Surfing after Hurricane Bill
My surfing has really come together this summer. Not only can I stay up on the board, I can paddle for and catch waves, at least some of the time. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could go out on the day we had eight to ten foot waves during Hurricane Bill, but I did go out the day after, when they were still quite large. It was the furthest out I’d ever been, and the waves, though giant, were breaking gently, allowing me to hop on at any point, have some killer rides. It was my best day of surfing ever, yes, epic.
5. 4th of July Weekend with Sophie
Sophie, my beloved niece who lives all too far away in California, came to Narberth with her parents and her Uncle Dan for 4th of July. Our little town prides itself on its 4th of July celebration, complete with a fair and a kick ass fireworks display. We hosted a barbeque, watched the fireworks from my Grandmom’s yard, and capped off the fun by a visit to Ocean City. Sophie makes everything fun. My favorite quote of the day was my friend Melissa saying, “Jewel, I knew you were obsessed with Sophie, and now I know why.”
What’s your top five of summer?
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