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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
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?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Vocation All I Never Wanted
One of my greatest fears growing up was that I would get The Call. In Catholic school we learned about three vocations: The Call to religious life, (priest if you’re a boy, nun if you’re a girl), the married vocation, and the dreaded single vocation. Fr. Wright told us if you got The Call and didn’t follow it, you would never be happy. I remember praying, “Please let me get the married vocation. Please!”
Thankfully, God answered that prayer. But though I escaped the call to the nunnery, my path has had its own difficulties, which I was feeling last week. My writing group had critiqued my work again, and once again I felt discouraged and overwhelmed, like I would never finish the book, like it’s a fool’s errand, like maybe it’s all been a big waste of time and I should grow up and go back to my real career.
The morning after my critique, as I drove to Syracuse to spend a week with family and celebrate my brother-in-law’s wedding, tears streamed down my face, grief and discouragement merged into one big ball of yuck. Somewhere past Allentown I had calmed down enough to strategize. What could I tell people about the book? How could I explain that though I was struggling, I was still committed to it?
By the time I crossed the border into New York, I’d come up with an analogy. If writing a novel is a marathon, I’m on mile 16 or 17—-more than halfway there, but with the end nowhere in sight. I will finish, but I can’t think about the end, just have to put one foot in front of the other. Pretty good, though it still left unanswered why I had started running, and why if it’s so hard, I persist.
But the marathon sound bite was more than enough information for most people, so it wasn’t until the wedding reception, sitting next to Fr. Pat, who asked some probing questions about my protagonist and my process that it hit me—the novel is my Call. That’s why I do it. That’s why I persist. Because Fr. Wright was right—-when I ignored the Call I wasn’t happy. Something was missing, was off. And like any other vocation, it has its challenges. So even though sometimes I want to give up, to say forget it, to do something else entirely, I know I am called to do this, so I keep going.
As for the married vocation, congratulations to Ted and Moriah, who followed their call and tied the knot last weekend. I hope your marriage is like your wedding—full of family, friends, love, laughter and lots of dancing.
Thankfully, God answered that prayer. But though I escaped the call to the nunnery, my path has had its own difficulties, which I was feeling last week. My writing group had critiqued my work again, and once again I felt discouraged and overwhelmed, like I would never finish the book, like it’s a fool’s errand, like maybe it’s all been a big waste of time and I should grow up and go back to my real career.
The morning after my critique, as I drove to Syracuse to spend a week with family and celebrate my brother-in-law’s wedding, tears streamed down my face, grief and discouragement merged into one big ball of yuck. Somewhere past Allentown I had calmed down enough to strategize. What could I tell people about the book? How could I explain that though I was struggling, I was still committed to it?
By the time I crossed the border into New York, I’d come up with an analogy. If writing a novel is a marathon, I’m on mile 16 or 17—-more than halfway there, but with the end nowhere in sight. I will finish, but I can’t think about the end, just have to put one foot in front of the other. Pretty good, though it still left unanswered why I had started running, and why if it’s so hard, I persist.
But the marathon sound bite was more than enough information for most people, so it wasn’t until the wedding reception, sitting next to Fr. Pat, who asked some probing questions about my protagonist and my process that it hit me—the novel is my Call. That’s why I do it. That’s why I persist. Because Fr. Wright was right—-when I ignored the Call I wasn’t happy. Something was missing, was off. And like any other vocation, it has its challenges. So even though sometimes I want to give up, to say forget it, to do something else entirely, I know I am called to do this, so I keep going.
As for the married vocation, congratulations to Ted and Moriah, who followed their call and tied the knot last weekend. I hope your marriage is like your wedding—full of family, friends, love, laughter and lots of dancing.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Life Goes On
Life goes on, dear readers. It must. Although part of me feels like life should stop, at least for awhile, it’s good that it doesn’t. It’s good to have to put on a party dress, go to a wedding, focus on something else for awhile. I still miss Grandmom every day. I still have moments that steal my breath, like when I came across her name in the contacts list of my phone. I know I’ll keep having moments like that, I know they will hurt. I also know some things I can do to help. Here is a partial list:
Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.
Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.
Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.
Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.
Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.
Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.
Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.
Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.
Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.
Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.
Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.
Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.
Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.
Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.
Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.
Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Things Left Behind
Last Thursday I went to Grandmom's house for the first time since she died. It was difficult to walk into her house knowing she wouldn’t be there, that she would never be there again. But being there helped me to realize that she’s really gone, because there is no way I would be rifling through her dresser or her closet if she were alive. Even still I felt a little weird about it.
But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.
It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.
The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”
Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.
But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.
It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.
The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”
Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.
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