It’s an iconic photo in our family album: Henry, age seven, and I are standing face to face in a deserted Times Square. It is about 8 a.m. on a summer Sunday morning. Bits of trash, empty soda cups, and old newspapers lie at our feet. His face wears a rare, uncharacteristic pout. I am bending over, leaning in toward my small son and, in a rare, uncharacteristic gesture, I’m waggling my finger at him, trying without much success to make a point: Broadway shows are not like videos. The fact that seeing “Beauty and the Beast” yesterday had been…
January 16, 2012 – 3:24 pm
I am in Florida this month, enjoying my own private writer’s bootcamp for one. By the time my sons went back to school after Christmas, it was pretty clear to me that if I had any hope of making my book deadline in March, I was going to have to take drastic steps. So, my husband booked me a plane ticket, and here I am, holed up in my mother’s quiet guest room, with no distractions, no responsibilities, and nothing to do but write. My mom doesn’t care if I go for twelve hours without speaking. She has her own…
Note: If you received this post in your e-mail yesterday, it was probably unreadable, because the photo was oversized. My apologies! I’m posting it here again, for those subscribers who were unable to read the first version. Sorry for the glitch. For years my friend Maude has been saying that we should go to her little cabin in Maine. Somehow, although we talk about it every summer, we’ve never actually managed to set aside the time to make the trip. Leaving home means finding someone to water the garden, tidying up the desk, answering the emails, making sure that kids…
For years my friend Maude has been saying that we should go to her little cabin in Maine. Somehow, although we talk about it every summer, we’ve never actually managed to set aside the time to make the trip. Leaving home means finding someone to water the garden, tidying up the desk, answering the emails, making sure that kids and husbands and dogs and all other commitments are covered. Easier to murmur, “someday, maybe,” and put the adventure off for another year. I’m so glad that this time, when she asked, I just said yes. It’s a five-hour drive door…
He didn’t need training wheels anymore, but there was no way our cautious little boy was going to let us take them off. My husband didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking: “The kid will be twenty, and he still won’t know how to ride a two-wheeler.” Up and down the driveway they went, Steve patiently urging him on, a hand at his back, seven-year-old Henry earnestly pedaling. It was past time for this bird to fly. But he was afraid to test his wings. So, we did what we always did in our old neighborhood: we…
