Memoir

Brian Wilson’s Songs Of My Life

“Are you going to the prom?” a high school friend asked me on a warm May afternoon in 1966. In the background, Brian Wilson’s perfect falsetto crooned, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.”  It made me think of my boyfriend, Ricky, at the time.  We were hot teens and I was a good Catholic girl. “Not this one,” I replied, hinting disappointment.  It was my own senior prom. “Can’t you bring Ricky?” my friend asked. I thought about our last date at the local []

An Anniversary Card To Spouse

Serendipity introduced me to my first husband at age 17.  A week after our meeting he promised that we would marry some day.  I laughed out loud.  At age 27 I was his widow with two children. I lacked a life-plan.  And on that late summer day when my children’s father unexpectedly died, helter-skelter reintroduced itself. I involuntarily joined the Hapless Young Widows Club (HYWC).  HYWC isn’t a chartered nonprofit organization.  But HYWC does chart a rugged path of misjudgment and denial, and []

429 Anti-Inflammatory Flames of Good

This floodgate of what I now call “sparks of light from the prism” amaze me. It is everywhere. I find good deeds in my newspaper’s letters to the editor, on Facebook, in books I’m given, and from random discoveries. A heightened awareness of good seems to foster more good. It also spins my Irish temper into an Irish toast. What would once have given me cause to jump all over some nincompoop now coerce me into smiles and humor.

An Ugly Box With A Beautiful Gift

Sparkling ribbons and paper swathed the holiday season with excitement, expectation and surprise.  Tenderly, I removed each ribbon so that it could be reused–a sentimental and frugal habit. Then like my grandchildren, I ripped through the colorful wrap and held my breath anticipating the moment I would hold something special purchased or made for me by someone I love. A gift card for my favorite clothier, grandchildren smiling in a framed photo, a box of French cookies, a book, fragrant lotions and a shiny []

The yin and yang of writing

And that, perhaps, is the purpose of memoirs. Really, who gives three flying pigs about my life? Much more interesting tales have and will be told. But at the same time, the writer in me wishes to connect with her readers and render that commonality we share. You know, ring a bell, strike a chord, hit a nerve.