tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82183958873523137812024-03-13T12:37:41.164-07:00Wendy FrancisAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-79151199022108254822014-02-02T07:51:00.002-08:002014-02-02T07:54:37.881-08:00Welcome, February!Apologies for having gone missing the past few months. My only excuses are the holidays and trying to finish up my second novel, which will be coming out from Simon & Schuster in May 2015. In the meantime, here are a few of my recent posts on the Huffington Post. One about bake sale anxiety and the other about being an art docent in my son's kindergarten class. Enjoy! ~Wendy<br />
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-francis/my-first-and-likely-last-bake-sale_b_4219354.html">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-francis/my-first-and-likely-last-bake-sale_b_4219354.html</a><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-francis/i-dont-know-if-im-cut-out-for-kindergarten_b_3908721.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&ir=Parents&src=sp&comm_ref=false#sb=3497822,b=facebook" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><br />
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-francis/teaching-art-appreciation_b_4696464.html">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-francis/teaching-art-appreciation_b_4696464.html</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-57374614781609787922013-10-03T07:06:00.000-07:002013-10-03T07:06:09.686-07:00<br />
For any mother out there who has sent her child off to kindergarten and has felt a cauldron of emotions, here are my thoughts on the big day, as they appeared in the Huffington Post. "I Don't Know If I'm Cut Out for Kindergarten." Hope you'll enjoy. <br />
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<a href="http://huff.to/15A0rF6">http://huff.to/15A0rF6</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-5339014814677274572013-06-20T08:03:00.001-07:002013-06-20T08:03:38.579-07:00<br />
Some thoughts on getting through life's heartbreaks. . .and celebrating its joys. My son's fifth birthday: "Darkness and Light" as it appears on the Huffington Post. <br />
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<a href="http://huff.to/19O8bpu">http://huff.to/19O8bpu</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-48206071137109547642013-05-21T18:40:00.001-07:002013-05-21T18:40:15.213-07:00Thank you to the wonderful Dr. Nancy Harris for this profile and review in last week's Boston Globe:<br />
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<a href="http://b.globe.com/13oLAbp">http://b.globe.com/13oLAbp</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-78994173834774104782013-05-06T08:19:00.002-07:002013-05-06T08:19:15.068-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Congrats to Christine R., winner of "A Few Good Things" package for Mother's Day! Thanks to everyone who entered, and stay tuned for future giveaways over the summer. . .</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Happy Mother's Day to all the hard-working moms out there. May you get all the love, peace, and relaxation you deserve this Sunday and every day! xo, Wendy</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-46344598054834483712013-04-24T09:05:00.005-07:002013-04-30T04:56:17.110-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5qWjXerpfjA/UXf62B6Gg5I/AAAAAAAAADg/DFVPTWPe3PY/s1600/IMG_1109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5qWjXerpfjA/UXf62B6Gg5I/AAAAAAAAADg/DFVPTWPe3PY/s640/IMG_1109.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: x-large;">Win A Few Good Things for Mom!</span> </div>
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<em><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Mother's Day is Sunday, May 12th</span></em></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Enter to win this goodie package by Wednesday, May 1st.</span> </div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><em>Includes:</em></span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"> ~2 copies of the novel <strong>Three Good Things,</strong> which NYT bestselling author Susan Wiggs calls "warm, witty, and wise" </span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~Wire bread basket with yellow cloth napkin</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~4 ceramic measuring spoons</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~4 multi-colored spatulas</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~3 whisks</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~ 1 box of Godiva chocolates</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~1 box of Chai tea</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~1 Beach Pebble candle</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~1 Pie Crust Shield</span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">~1 "Dream" Stone</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: blue; font-size: large;"><em>Rules for entry:</em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3309" style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 11pt;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3308">·<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3310" style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3307" style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 11pt;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3306"><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3302" style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;">Enter to win between noon on Wednesday, April 24th, and 5 p.m. on Wednesday, May 1st (the “giveaway period”).</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 11pt;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3305" style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;">You must follow @wendyfrancis4 on Twitter to win.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 11pt;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3301" style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;">You must RT the Mother's Day "A Few Good Things" giveaway tweet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 11pt;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> <span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">One winner </span></span></span></span><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1366818425432_3294" style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;">will be chosen at random on Wednesday, May 1st, and will be contacted via Twitter Direct Message for a mailing address. If the winner does not respond within 48 hours, I reserve the right to choose another winner.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 11pt;">To view the book trailer for <strong>Three Good Things</strong>, please visit: <a href="http://bit.ly/SSnB5I">http://bit.ly/SSnB5I</a>. Good luck! ~Wendy</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-51959400452578019792013-04-17T10:32:00.001-07:002013-04-17T10:32:03.373-07:00The Boston Marathon: Split Time<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a crystalline spring day in Boston, many would say
the perfect day for a marathon. Clouds drifted across a brilliant blue sky while
planes with banners advertising local businesses circled overhead. As my
husband, son, and I made our way along I-90 to our marathon post, we watched
dozens of fans parade across the bridge to the Red Sox game. Finally, it seemed
spring had arrived, and with it all the hope and promise that comes with
watching some 27,000 runners fulfill their dream of running the Boston
Marathon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">An old college friend had flown in from Baltimore for the
weekend and we’d been ribbing him about how crazy he was to put his body
through 26.2 relentless miles. Still, there was something inspiring about listening
to him as he mapped out his marathon strategy. He was calculating split times
that would lead him to the finish line in about three and a half hours.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When our family arrived at the race’s half-way point in
Wellesley, we parked and planted our collapsible chairs on the sidelines. Nicholas, our
four-year-old, held a sign with our friend’s favorite mottos on it: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t talk about it; BE about it!”</i> And “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t quiver!” </i>We watched the muscular
wheelchair competitors zip by, soon followed by the elite women runners, and then,
the elite men runners, all looking as if they’d hardly broken a sweat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nicholas loved the runners’ flamboyant costumes–Irish hats, tutus
covering shorts, the funny man on stilts, the host of runners who had spelled
out their names on their biceps, encouraging cheerleading. It was a glorious
reminder of what makes the Boston marathon so special – a flock of thousands,
runners and spectators alike–bound together by bonhomie, perseverance,
dedication, hard work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All are values we
work hard to instill in our children, but it can be difficult to do so in the
abstract. When those values come visibly to life in a throng of runners, however,
it’s impossible not to be awestruck. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When our friend ran by us, we cheered like the crazy fans we
were. He shouted out to Nicholas, which made my son cheer even louder. This,
thankfully, is the thing Nicholas remembers most about the race. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually, with the news that he’d crossed the finish line
(we’d been tracking him on-line), we loaded up our chairs and headed home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once home, my husband and son headed to the
park to toss around a baseball. It was then that I clicked on the computer,
only to discover the horrific events occurring downtown. The newscasts were
even more terrifying, showing the searing first images from the blasts. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I texted my husband, then raced to the park when I couldn’t
reach him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Had he heard from Rodney</i>?
Like so many others, I told myself our friend was fine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my heart was sick with the uncertainty of
not knowing what had happened to him or the hundreds of others who’d been at
the finish line at that moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a few frazzled minutes, we realized Rodney had sent us
a text shortly after the explosions. He was OK. At home, we listened to the
news while Nicholas played in another room, our hearts sinking with each fresh
report. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, we learned that an
eight-year-old boy was among the fatalities. It struck us breathless, as it did
so many parents.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here we’d been tracking the on-line split times of our
friend, focused on a beautiful day, the triumph of spirit and sheer will. But
after we got word of the explosion, it was as if time itself split in two: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Before</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Twenty-four hours later we got the devastating news that the
mother of the boy who was killed is a dear friend of my husband’s cousin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tragedy seems incomprehensible. But now it
feels even more real, as if it has taken up residence just down the street. And
in the hours since, one heartbreaking story after another has spilled forth. So
many families have been shattered by this horrific event. So many Bostonians feel
a palpable pain. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, Boston is strong. Yes, the city is resilient. Yes, the authorities
will find the culprits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Bostonians, we
will help each other as we always do; we will lace up our running sneakers and
keep going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will try our darnedest
not to quiver. But countless families have been irrevocably broken. And for that, our collective hearts are
aching, our sorrow infinite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-22908722578244740602013-04-11T11:01:00.005-07:002013-04-17T10:34:26.916-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm excited to share the news that THREE GOOD THINGS has gone international! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Polish rights have just sold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other news today, I hope you'll check out my humble (and humbling) thoughts about being a first-time author on today's<em> Huffington Post</em>. Please share, comment, tweet, etc. Thank you!~Wendy </span><a class="twitter-timeline-link" data-expanded-url="http://bit.ly/10ZcSX3" dir="ltr" href="http://bit.ly/10ZcSX3" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" title="http://bit.ly/10ZcSX3"><span style="color: #009999;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="invisible">http://</span><span class="js-display-url">bit.ly/10ZcSX3</span></span></span></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-33602589655517537042013-04-07T08:16:00.001-07:002013-06-18T08:03:37.307-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to the <strong>Racine Journal Times</strong> in Wisconsin for featuring <strong>Three Good Things </strong>in its "Local Authors" section today! Here's the link:<span class="userContent"> <a href="http://bit.ly/YEn4op" rel="nofollow nofollow" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/YEn4op</a></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those visiting the site for the first time, please check out the book trailer for <strong>Three Good Things</strong>. Thanks! </span><a href="http://bit.ly/SSnB5I"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://bit.ly/SSnB5I</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's what Jen at </span><a href="http://www.novelescapes.com/"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.novelescapes.com</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> had to say about the book recently:</span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: blue;">"When real characters come
to life like in this book, it reminds me why I love reading so much: reading
about people I would love to meet in real life and learning more about myself by
meeting them."</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-40395264897930018042013-04-04T18:09:00.000-07:002013-04-04T18:09:28.278-07:00Top 10 Favorite Books. . .For Kids<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spring</span> at last! Or at least it finally feels that way in Boston. I love to see the crocuses blooming, the kids hunting for Easter eggs, neighbors coming out of hibernation to say hello. As anyone in these parts will tell you, it's been a long winter. And while I'm tempted to blog about any number of things on my spring "to-do" list (e.g. writing the next novel; organizing my closet; alphabetizing my recipe box for once), I'm much more excited to share a favorite books list with you all. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Not a list of my favorite books -- but my four-year-old's favorites -- because lately, my friends and I have been sharing books that have been hits with our kids. Granted, it's a random selection: some are classics, others less well-known.There are so many wonderful stories available, old and new. What are some of your children's favorites? Please comment and add titles below so we can share with other parents!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">1. <strong>Pirates Don't Change Diapers</strong> (by Melinda Long & David Shannon). Any of the David books would be a hit in our house, but the humor in this one is irresistible. The title says it all.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">2. <strong>Mrs. Brown Went to Town (</strong>by Wong Herbert Yee). The silly rhymes and watercolor illustrations bring this outlandish story to life. When Mrs. Brown lands in the hospital after a biking accident, the animals in her barn move into her house and have a party. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">3. <strong>The Kettles Get New Clothes (</strong>by Dayle Ann Dodds; illustrated by Jill McElmurry)<strong> </strong>The fashionable Monsieur Pip grows increasingly frustrated as he tries to outfit the unassuming Kettles. The French exclamations peppered throughout, the colorful illustrations, and the smiling baby Kettle, who seems to be the only one who shares Monsieur Pip's sense of style, will keep your child laughing. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">4. <strong>The Berenstain Bears and the Big Road Race </strong>(by Stan & Jan Berenstain). A classic that we've been reading together since my son was two. The memorable rhymes are favorites. It's a good book for your youngster to "read" to you after having read it several hundred times before!</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">5. <strong>And the Rain Came Down </strong>(also by David Shannon). Beautifully illustrated, this story follows a cast of characters who are grumpy until, that is, the sun comes out. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">6. <strong>The Lion and the Mouse </strong>(by Jerry Pinkney)<strong>.</strong> This Caldecott winner that's based on the Aesop's fable has no words but my son loves to "read" the story to us.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">7. <strong>Sammy the Seal</strong> (by Syd Hoff). I like this book and Hoff's <strong>Danny and the Dinosaur</strong> almost as much as I adore the Frog and Toad books (though my four-year-old has yet to warm to Frog & Toad). In <strong>Sammy the Seal</strong>, Sammy ventures out of the zoo for a trip to the city, where a seal can get into a lot of trouble. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">8. <strong>Hop on Pop </strong>(by Dr. Seuss). The silly rhymes of Dr. Seuss never get old. A fun book that belongs on any beginning reader's list, at least to my mind. (<strong>One Fish, Two Fish</strong> and <strong>Green Eggs And Ham</strong> come in a close second and third).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">9<strong>. A Day at the Airport</strong> (by Richard Scarry). A good book for traveling, but also a wonderful picture book for kids who are eager for information about the world around them. And what kid isn't?</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">10.<strong>Brady Brady and the Great Rink </strong>(and other books by Mary Shaw and Chuck Temple)<strong>.</strong> Nicholas happens to be a hockey nut, so when I stumbled upon this series in a hockey store, I knew I'd hit gold. The books feature the escapades of a little boy named Brady who likes to sleep with his hockey helmet on. Perfect for aspiring hockey players. :)</span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-91365899356641732272013-03-06T09:56:00.001-08:002013-03-06T09:58:31.518-08:00Today I'm happy to pass along this review/story from Becky A. Johnson, who tackled baking a kringle -- and with success! <a href="http://bit.ly/12sDoMI">http://bit.ly/12sDoMI</a> Includes pictures. She also captures the spirit of Three Good Things with this quote:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"It is through experiencing gratitude in the small things that </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
we truly find peace and purpose in our lives." </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Stay tuned for a book giveaway next week!!!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-11886843118201223102013-03-04T07:14:00.002-08:002013-03-06T10:00:49.743-08:00Delighted to share this "Just Read It" column that ran in the <strong>Wisconsin State Journal</strong> and features some of my favorite books. <a href="http://bit.ly/Vuwxhu">http://bit.ly/Vuwxhu</a><br />
<br />
If you're visiting for the first time, please take a minute to watch the book trailer for <strong>Three Good Things</strong> here: <a href="http://bit.ly/SSnB5I">http://bit.ly/SSnB5I</a>. Thanks!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-77496600057514004362013-02-18T18:53:00.003-08:002013-02-18T18:53:48.013-08:00Happy Presidents' Day! For those still enjoying the snow, here's my Huffington Post blog about how one couple approached the storm: "You Say Blizzhawd; I Say Blizzard" <a href="http://huff.to/Z6cMPo">http://huff.to/Z6cMPo</a>. Enjoy! <br />
<br />
And, if you're in town for school vacation week, please stop by Porter Square Books on Tuesday (Feb. 19th) at 7 pm for a reading/discussion for Three Good Things. Hope to see you there! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-9066851608641336512013-02-07T07:23:00.004-08:002013-02-07T07:25:13.021-08:00An Interview "In Threes"I wanted to share this interview "in threes" that I did for ChickLitCentral: <a href="http://bit.ly/UG5eiD">http://bit.ly/UG5eiD</a>. Hope it will give you some laughs. :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-28470118495895202452013-01-29T18:44:00.000-08:002013-01-29T18:55:35.239-08:00And one more post for this week: <br />
<br />
A fun interview with Cindy Wolfe Boynton at Literary New England, where we talk about kringles, sisters, and writing. Here's the link (go to about 4 mins in for Three Good Things):<a href="http://tiny.cc/zm5krw"> <span class="js-display-url"><u><span style="color: #009999;">tiny.cc/zm</span></u></span></a><br />
<span class="js-display-url"><u><span style="color: #009999;"></span></u></span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-56936181193991509842013-01-29T18:28:00.000-08:002013-01-29T18:28:15.907-08:00Book Trailer for Three Good Things!This week's blog is the book trailer for Three Good Things. Please take a look and share with your friends, mothers, daughters, sisters, and book clubs. . .<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bit.ly/SSnB5I">http://bit.ly/SSnB5I</a><br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-88778216715061921922013-01-09T10:46:00.000-08:002013-01-29T18:30:42.633-08:00In Celebration of "Late" Bloomers, Also pub'd in The Huffington Post!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about age. In particular,
my age, now on the flip side of forty. Maybe it’s because a New Year is upon us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps it’s because every time my four-year-old
meets new friends on the playground, the first question they ask each other is
not, “What’s your name?” but “How old are you?” As if revealing your age is a
secret handshake in the toddler-plus crowd. So long as you’re not a baby, you
usually have an “in.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">The other night when I was putting my son to bed, he
reminded me that he was turning five in June. I told him it was fine by me
if he stayed four. “Nope, five,” he confirmed. “Then I’m going to
kindergarten,” as if he could hear my heart breaking. When he asked how old I
was, I lied like any mom worth her age: “Twenty-two.” In less than a beat, he
exclaimed (and I quote verbatim): “Holy cow! I didn’t know you were<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> that</i> many years old.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">My husband and I joke that we’re “getting old”; we’ve both
thrown out our backs at various times, and though he continues to play hockey
and I try to run a few times a week, we’ve had to face the fact that we’re no
longer young whippersnappers. When my mother was my age, I was a sophomore <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in college</i>. I have a four-year-old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s enough to make my head spin. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">I’m also probably hyper-aware of my age right now because I
have a debut novel out this month. Most debut authors are in their twenties,
right? There’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New Yorker</i> collection
of writers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">20 Under 40</i>, after all. So,
I have to wonder: what about those of us who are debuting on the flip side of
forty? <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Ironically, I can recall the struggle of trying to be taken
seriously when I was an associate book editor in my twenties. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t like it, but the truth was, I still
had a lot to learn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age brings a multitude
of experiences – and with it, I now understand, comes perspective. If I had
written my first novel when I was younger, it would have surely been a story with
circumscribed borders, a limited perspective, a fair dose of naiveté.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">That’s not to say great writers don’t appear in their
twenties and thirties –to the contrary, they most certainly do. But for me, I
needed the years after college -- the years of living as a single girl in the
city, then as a wife and stepmom, and finally as a new mother -- to gain the
necessary perspective to tell the story that I do in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Good Things</i></b>. I
could have never written, for instance, the chapters of the younger sister,
Lanie, who has a ten-month-old baby, without being a mom myself. I also don’t
think I would have so readily identified with the older sister, Ellen, who tries
to start her life anew by opening a kringle bakery, if I’d imagined her when I
was younger. And let’s be honest, with age comes a stage in life (and, we hope,
some financial stability) that allows us to take a chance on writing, to take
that leap because we’re suddenly all too aware that life is short.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On her website, Claire Cook tells
the inspiring story of writing her first novel in her minivan while she waited
out her kids’ sporting events (http://www.clairecook.com/). She was forty-five.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she shares some illustrious company.
I stumbled upon the following post by the wonderful Randy Susan Myers that
lists debut authors over forty : (</span><a href="http://www.randysusanmeyers.com/2012/07/debut-novels-by-writers-over-40/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">http://www.randysusanmeyers.com/2012/07/debut-novels-by-writers-over-40/</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">).
I was surprised to learn, for instance, that Paul Harding, author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tinkers,</i> was 42 at publication, or that
Sue Monk Kidd, author of one my favorite novels, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret Life of Bees</i>, was 54 upon her debut as a novelist (though she'd published memoirs before that). Or that Laura Ingalls
Wilder wrote her first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House</i>
book in the series when she was 65. It’s enough to give the rest of us hope. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">And now we can thankfully turn to<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Bloom </i>(http://bloom-site.com) to read about noteworthy authors
over forty. Sonya Chung, founding editor, described her motivation for
launching<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Bloom</i> in a recent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Huffington Post</i> article: “The truth of
it is that the majority of writers take a lot of time to write their best book,
that detours happen, and sometimes those detours can be very fruitful.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reminded of this again as I was reading
a review of Katrina Kenison’s newly released memoir, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magical Journey</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our lives
are all journeys; what we make of them is up to us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Maybe it’s no coincidence that one my favorite childhood
books was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leo the Late Bloomer</i> by Robert
Kraus. The story was a comforting reminder that we all blossom in our own good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And maybe forty-something isn't "late," per se. A</span>s Tessa Hadley, author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Married Love and Other Stories</i>, says so
well on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bloom</i>: “Eventually you find
your own house and you let yourself in your front door.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">May we all find our own houses, our own front doors, in our own time. ~</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-17682592642405629742012-12-30T09:36:00.000-08:002013-01-01T06:47:49.929-08:00Look Up<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The
stockings had been hung by the fire with care; the presents were opened; the
carols sung. It was a lovely Christmas, despite – or perhaps because of – our attempts
to limit presents to five per person this year. My mother had flown out from
Wisconsin, a first, to spend the holidays with our family. There was much to
celebrate and be thankful for. The house still smelled of balsam, and a fire
burned in the stone fireplace near the dinner table. We’d played multiple games
of Bananagrams, Bingo, and Candyland. You might say it resembled a Norman
Rockwell holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And yet, to
be honest, I was feeling cranky, a post-holiday out-of-sorts, whose source I
couldn’t put a finger on. It wasn’t that my jeans had grown uncomfortably snug
over the past week or the usual sibling squabbling that comes with the vacation
infusion of togetherness. It hadn’t snowed, and so I couldn’t blame my
crankiness on cabin fever either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my
husband put his finger on it one night at the dinner table: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s not happy <em>until</em> it snows.” And, bingo:
he was right. We’d been missing a snow-covered holiday, heavy flakes drifting
down, the sound of shovels scraping and wind howling – what I’d grown up with
in Wisconsin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I was
little, I used to imagine myself as Laura Ingalls Wilder, snug in her house
made of dirt and sticks, snuggled under blankets, the bed warmer and wood fire the
only sources of warmth in her makeshift home on the prairie. Perhaps I had a
flair for melodrama, but it didn’t seem too far a stretch as I lay in my bed in
our small Midwestern house that backed up against a small woods. I imagined
wolves howling, lurking outside, and enjoyed the safety of our home even more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Boston had
been snow-free, and now it was December 28. The weathermen were forecasting a
storm for the next day, but I remained skeptical. Too often the prognosticators
got it wrong, the snow never arriving, or even worse, switching over to rain.
My four-year-old, like any child, shares my love for the white stuff, and had
been asking when he’d be able to stomp around in it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Maybe tomorrow,” I tried to reassure him, but
when towns west of us lit up on the weather map with storms and still we saw
nothing, we sighed in disappointment. Then, suddenly, a few flakes drifted
down, and my son was dancing what we dubbed “the snowdance.” Imagine the
disappointment when the flakes turned to rain later that night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, when I
rolled over the next morning and heard him yelling and singing, “Hallelujah,” his
four-year-old expression of pure joy, I knew that Christmas had finally
arrived. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, indeed, a thick blanket of white
shrouded our front yard. Soon enough, we were bundled up, shoveling, sweeping,
running and tossing snowballs around. This was the good kind of snow – wet,
heavy, perfect for snowball packing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
followed him into the back yard on the fresh expanse of white and we plopped
down to make snow angels side by side. We flapped our arms and legs, and he
told me to “Look up!” When I did, I saw the tree branches above us, the long
limbs coated with snow, crystalline icicles hanging from above. Beautiful. How
often, I thought, do we forget to “look up”? How often am I busy looking at the
computer, checking my cell phone?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Look Up.”
It seems a good resolution to go into the New Year with. I will try to remember
to enjoy the refreshing chill of a brisk wind, the rescue of soft snow. And
when our minister ended service this morning, reminding us to “Go where there
is no path and leave a trail,” I couldn’t help but smile. My son and I had done
just that this morning, in our backyard, in the embrace of that wonderful thing
called snow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-44564024839534628452012-12-10T10:13:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:52:15.879-08:00A Sunday of Advents<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hope.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Sunday began with a wake-up call from our son at 7:17 a.m.
This was typical. As soon as he rolls over in bed, one eye open to the world, he
likes to get the day started. He is only four, and for him every day promises to
be as good as or better than the day before. He is hope personified. “What will
we do after that?” has become a common refrain in our house. To his ambitious
mind, we never have a long-enough list to fill the day. My husband mercifully
got out of bed to cook breakfast while I slept in. When I came down to the smell
of coffee brewing, they had already played three rounds of “Zingo!” and were now
into “Pop Fly,” another great invention for the under-five set, where a beanbag
thrown at a lever launches miniature balls into the air at surprisingly soaring
heights. I sipped my coffee and watched, thinking and planning for the day
ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">A brief sojourn to the small church up the hill afforded one
hour of uninterrupted time. Evergreen wreaths dotted the high walls and a single
Christmas tree bowed its branches in the sanctuary. A place for gifts for the
needy greeted us. When the minister asked for names of those in need of prayers,
it became clear that more than a few of us were fighting our own battles during
the holiday season: caring for sick parents, sick children, a wayward teen. As
we shook hands during the Peace greeting, we bucked each other up, whispered
comforting words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when our minister
lit the second candle of Advent, he spoke of the importance of peace not only in
our world but in our own homes, in our families. He reminded us that the very
definition of<em> serenity</em> is none other than peace.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Joy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">A few hours later, grandparents, parents, cousins, and
brothers all sat in a row watching their granddaughter/ daughter/cousin/sister
perform in a holiday concert in a magnificent hall. Our anticipation was kept in
check by the reminder that this was a high school performance after all. We
shouldn’t expect too much. But we were still hoping (that first candle) for some
holiday cheer, an invigorating song or two. What filled our hearts when we
listened to our girl and her classmates sing a gorgeous, intricate holiday
madrigal -- right after a bell choir performance and before another girl’s
stunning rendition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O Holy Night</i>?
Joy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Often the holidays seem to mean more stress, more bickering
between siblings, more plain-out exhaustion. And surely those moments have
appeared and will reappear as we near the 25<sup><span style="font-size: xx-small;">th</span></sup>. But on the drive back home, all the
children nestled into their seats, the melodies of the Christmas concert still
dancing in our heads, what my husband and I felt was one of those rare moments
that you can actually take and cup in your hands, like water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How lucky we are, how blessed to all be
together, to have an afternoon that was filled with music – and that fourth
candle of Advent, love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: blue;">It was a good reminder for me: from the Events of the season
come the Advents, the arrival of hope, peace, joy, and love. May yours be filled
with all the advents you desire.</span></span></span> </div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-17881129719148458712012-11-19T09:41:00.000-08:002012-11-19T09:42:41.423-08:00Weighing In Before Thanksgiving Dinner<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">It used to be that my brother would step on the
scale before and after Thanksgiving dinner to see how many pounds he’d gained
in one sitting. While I’d never dream of doing the same, we all got a good
laugh. One year he tipped the scale to an excess of seven newly packed-on
pounds – a record. We chalked it up to a particularly tasty Thanksgiving, one
where my mom had cooked not only the turkey but also her traditional side of
sweet potatoes and cranberries, homemade stuffing, gravy, buttered carrots, any
number of sweetbreads, and of course, her signature pumpkin pie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">When we were young, we’d try to circle around the
table, everyone saying what they were thankful for, before someone snuck a
piece of turkey. There were homemade place cards, placemats, and some years lopsided construction paper turkeys. Eventually childhood enthusiasms
gave way to a new tradition of the Turkey Trot run; my dad and brother would
brave the frigid Wisconsin temperatures to pound out three and a half miles
before dinner. Later, when my brother and I left for college and I stayed out
East, our family Thanksgivings spent around the table together became less and
less frequent. More often than not, the phone was our welcome connector across
the miles.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The past few years, I’ve tried to emulate some of
our traditions within my own family. I make my mom’s sweet potato/cranberry
recipe; our family watches the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade; one year my son and
I cut out construction paper turkeys, the imprints of our hands decorated with colorful
feathers. The fact that he pronounced to his dad that he’d just finished making
his “chicken” did little to dull my spirits. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But this year, like last, there will be someone
missing around our proverbial table: my dad. And while I know the passing of a
year should make a difference, know that the actual Thanksgivings I spent with
him had grown few and far between, it doesn’t make his absence any less felt.
It’s something that I know more than a few friends have had to struggle with in
recent years, this realizing that we’ve come of an age where no one, not even
our parents, is invincible. A reluctant recognition that the shape of family
changes, even if those for whom we’re grateful does not. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">My dad would have been the first to remind us how
lucky we are, how much we have to be thankful for. He was an easy mark for any
charity, always willing to lend a few extra dollars. I can’t count how many
times an old-fashioned letter would arrive in the mail from him, penned on a
piece of complimentary stationery he’d received for his donation to the Salvation
Army, Unicef, a local food bank. He could find many problems with the world,
but really, his heart was made of gold. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I suspect this year, when it came to his turn at the
table, he would have said he was grateful for our family, small and large, for
the blessings of the food before us, the roof over our heads, the kindness of
friends. It was the little things. He would have made a comment about how glad he
was to have Obama in the White House but would have asked God to help our President
help those who need it most.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And when I look around the dinner table this
Thanksgiving, hosted by my in-laws in the historic town of Plymouth, I’ll
surely think of my whole family and all that I’m grateful for. But most
especially, I’ll think of my dad and how the holiday this year is both heavier
and lighter because of him. I won't need the scale to tell me.</span></span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-27179050452407314112012-11-12T11:41:00.000-08:002012-11-13T05:58:06.870-08:00How a Five-Year-Old Put Me in My Place<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yesterday afternoon, one election and one hurricane
later, my son and I enjoyed an unexpected blast of summer at the park. Like so
many other families, we kicked around the soccer ball, played hide-and-seek,
tag, anything that allowed us to linger a bit longer in the sunshine. You could
tell that there was a collective sigh of gratitude among the parents: for our
kids’ safety, for the balm of a New England fall day, for having weathered the
storms of the past weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nicholas and I gulped in the warm air, wiped our
sweaty brows, and stopped for heavy swigs from our water bottles after a
marathon soccer game. Eventually, a few of his friends joined in and I
retreated to the sidelines to chat with other parents, comparing notes on the
recent high winds and flooding. When the kids tired of the game and gathered
around the monkey bars, they, too, began to trade stories of what had mattered
most to them in the wake of our collective storms: Halloween candy. I listened
as one boy boasted he got one hundred pieces, another seventy-five. Nicholas
himself had scored forty-five pieces, which he’d proudly lined up on our window
seat. As the Halloween tales made their way around the circle, one cagey
five-year-old stopped and looked at me. “Hey, we came to your house for
trick-or-treat,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was secretly pleased to be remembered. I must be
one of the “cool” moms, I thought with a warm smile. I felt a surge of love for
this little boy. Already I was mentally arranging a play date for him at our
house.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Yeah,” he continued. “You gave us licorice.” His
voice carried a slightly accusatory tone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Oh?” I said. “That could be. We gave out lots of
stuff. Kit Kats, Butterfingers, M&Ms, licorice.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He shook his head, as if about to call me out as a
liar right in front of his now curious pals. “No, I’m pretty sure it was
licorice.” Big, wondering eyes looked up at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Could be.” I tried for diplomacy; I really did.
“Lots of times I like to throw in licorice with another treat.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He stared at me. “Just licorice.” His disappointment
was palpable. I felt the need to defend myself, if not for my sake, for my
son’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely we gave out plenty of good
stuff. Maybe not whole candy bars like some of our neighbors, but we didn’t
shirk when it came to Halloween. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“And isn’t licorice delicious?” I tried again. “I
love the red kind. But some people really like black licorice.” The kids eyed
me skeptically. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ever since I was a little girl I’ve loved red
licorice, all kinds. The tried-and-true Twizzlers that you can peel off with a
satisfactory tug, the longer whips that you can curl and twist onto
your tongue, even licorice pipes held a place in my heart. They seemed so
grown-up and whimsical at the same time. So maybe I harbored my own little addiction
to the red stuff. Perhaps it played a role in my decision-making in the candy
aisle, but what parent doesn’t let his or her own preferences influence the
final pick?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Still, it never occurred to me that we might get a
black mark on our house for handing out this particular treat on Halloween. I assumed
such scorn was reserved for folks who gave out home-made popcorn or a single
lollipop or, even worse, toothbrushes! Dispensing licorice with an assortment
of other choices didn’t seem like such a travesty. But then again, I hadn’t
been five in a long time. What did I know?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When we were walking back from the park, I asked
Nicholas if he liked licorice. “Yeah,” he said, then ran off ahead of me. Once
home, I pulled out the tub of week-old candy, determined to prove my theory once
and for all: kids still liked licorice. I unwrapped a miniature three-pronged Twizzlers
and handed it to him. He took a bite, then gave the rest to me. “I think I’ll
have the M&Ms instead,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And there, writ large in his chocolate-smudged face,
was the truth: I’d become the mom who hands out old-fashioned trick-or-treat
candy, the kind that no kid really likes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Next fall, with the election and the hurricane a
distant memory, I’ll remember this tall truth as I cruise the aisles in
October. I’ll stuff my cart with treats of the chocolate variety. But don’t be
surprised if a bag of Twizzlers gets tucked in underneath. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This time, though, it will be just for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-76549361835707464072012-10-17T08:46:00.001-07:002012-10-17T13:45:57.344-07:00<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">~ Loose Tooth ~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><u1:p></u1:p>The whole thing happened in a matter of seconds.
When I heard my four-year-old slip and come up crying in the other room, my
husband told me to stay put: “I’ve got it.” Recently, Nicholas had been playing
his drama card like a cardsharp, and his dad and I were trying to cut back on
jumping at his every whine or cry. I sat on my hands, wanting to comfort him,
but also trying hard to be a rock. He was going to be fine. Then my husband announced,
“Okay, there’s some blood.” “What?” I yelled, pushing up from my seat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And he lost a tooth.” This was all reported
in a matter-of-fact tone while I yelped and ran into the kitchen, where our son
was now screaming with bright red blood pouring out of his mouth.</span><span style="color: #351c75;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">“Oh baby, I’m so sorry!” I ran to him and instantly burst into
tears. When he saw my distress, Nicholas’s cries rocketed up another notch.
There was blood – lots of it – and a big gap where his precious little white
tooth had been. “His tooth! His front tooth!” I kept shouting the words like an
imbecile till my husband told me, “You need to calm down and go in the other
room <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>.” I’ve never been good with
blood, and like any mother, my heart stops with each thunk, thud, or cry until
playing resumes or my son, who has learned his mom is a worrywart, pronounces,
“I’m okay, mama!” Still, we’d been lucky in the arena of accidents up until
now. Despite Nicholas’s love for street hockey, football, and pretty much every
other sport, he’d managed to stay remarkably injury free. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">So how was it that an innocent twirl on the hardwood floor
turned into a tooth-stealing injury? My husband, who saw it from afar, says
that our son, in mid-twirl, slipped and landed face first on the wooden step
that divides our sunroom from the kitchen. Out popped his baby tooth, as if
from a perfect excision, its long slender root still attached when we recovered
it from beneath the stair. We put it on ice (though later were told that teeth
fare better in cold milk). While I rocked our boy back and forth, paper towels
stuffed in his mouth, my husband called the dentist. Apparently, his was also a
voice of reason: make sure the bleeding stops; these things happen; apply ice;
forget about the tooth, he was going to lose it in a year or two anyway; give
him Tylenol or Motrin as needed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Eventually the bleeding abated, Nicholas’s cries calmed, and a
few popsicles and episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Berenstain Bears </i>later, he was feeling better. His mom, however, was still
sick to her stomach; my attempts to keep him safe had been thrown out the
window in a few seconds. My husband tried to make me feel better. “Honey, he’s
fine. He was going to lose that tooth anyway.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">“But how will he talk without a lisp?” I cried. And then it
occurred to me, “And his school pictures!” I let out a moan. “He’ll be
gap-toothed.” There it would be: evidence forever of how I’d let my son down,
left him in harm's way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">My husband cocked his head and looked at me as if I’d slightly
lost my mind. No doubt he wondered if I needed a sedative more than our boy.
Like many a mom, I’m great at guilt. If I had been watching Nicholas that
second, would he have stumbled? Probably. I doubt I could have broken his fall.
I might have cautioned him to be careful, to slow down; but more likely I would
have been taking delight in his whimsical twirl. He’s an active, imaginative
boy and I love nothing more than to witness all that imagination in play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Later that night, I tucked him in and hugged him till he told me
to stop. The tooth was safely tucked under his pillow, awaiting a prize from the
tooth fairy. I asked Nicholas, as I do most nights, what he was going to dream
about. I braced myself, certain his answer would involve blood, gore, pain, an
innocence stolen. “I think I’m going to dream about the brown rollercoaster,”
he said after a moment. This was in reference to the ride he and his cousin had
gone on six consecutive times, screaming with delight, earlier in the day at
the local fairground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I smiled and remembered to breathe. Maybe we weren’t doing such
a terrible job as parents. And when I dropped him at preschool a few days later,
Nicholas gloating like a rock star while all his friends crowded around him to
exclaim at his missing tooth, I felt a touch of pride for my son and this
unexpected rite of passage. My heart will always break a little when I see his
crooked grin. But when I heard him ask a friend as I was leaving, “Do you want
to see my loose tooth?” and I stopped, about to correct him that it was no
longer there, I thought better of it. He was on his way, ready to have another
great day, no matter what life handed him.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07192558798148033815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8218395887352313781.post-10437816280074419742012-10-10T12:25:00.000-07:002012-10-10T12:27:18.463-07:00Taking Flight<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Taking
Flight ~ </span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">October
10, 2012<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Wendy
Francis<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My mother’s call came on an unseasonably warm
October afternoon, one year ago today, to be exact. My three-year-old son and I
were enjoying a sun-drenched afternoon at Houghton’s Pond outside of Boston,
and we’d packed a picnic of miniature sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies (a
picnic added just the right dollop of adventure for a three-year-old). After
tossing a ball around, we planted ourselves on a blanket, unwrapped our
cellophane bundles, and indulged, letting the sweet raspberry jelly melt
deliciously on our tongues. Later, we baked birthday cakes of sand topped by
pebble candles and sang “Happy Birthday” to each other. I have a picture from
that day, the sun lighting his small frame bent over the water (see below). A day
to be grateful for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">When the sun started to slip away, we packed up
our things and headed home. I hadn’t brought a cell phone, wanting to avoid any
temptation to check e-mails. But waiting on the answering machine at home was a
message from my mom, asking if I could please call her. It was easy to discern
something was the matter, but what? When she told me that my
sixty-nine-year-old father had died of a sudden heart attack, I collapsed in a
puddle. My dad had been a lifelong runner, ate well. How was it that the coils
of his heart had given up on him so easily, so abruptly? And on a day that had
held such splendor, such peace, just a few moments earlier? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My mom and I looked for ways to make sense of
his death in the weeks that followed, but it was hard to come by. There would
be no funeral; my dad had donated his body to medical research. Instead, we
worked with the minister to compose a memorial that would honor all that had made
him so dear. We nixed including Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” one of his
favorite songs, but chose quotes from Maya Angelou and Thoreau, other
favorites, for his service. Meanwhile, I searched for signs that dad was up
there, somewhere. If anyone could figure out how to get us a message he was all
right, I figured it would be him. When a few days later Theo Epstein got traded
to the Cubs, my dad’s beloved team, I felt a flutter. But I wanted something
bigger, something more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The next morning my mom and I sat at the kitchen
table, our usual spot, watching the sun rise over a swath of trees off to the
east. Coffee steamed up from our mugs. A big thunderstorm had rumbled through the
night before, and rain still lay thick on the deck outside. As we sat and
talked, we noticed a small flock of birds begin to take flight from the trees
beyond. The sky was pink, just warming into the day. And suddenly, an entire
army of birds emerged from the woods, heading our way. It was as if they’d
detected a chill in the fall air and were on wing, if not quite South, to
warmer pastures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My mom and I watched spell-bound, as
thousands upon thousands passed overhead. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she
whispered. We marveled as they continued their flight pattern for a good
fifteen minutes. It was breathtaking. And as crazy as it sounds, it felt as if my
dad was sending his thumbs-up sign as only he could, in a place he was sure to
find us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">You might say it had a lot to do with the
night’s heavy rain, all the worms that crawled to the surface, a bird’s easy
breakfast. Or with the migration afoot across the nation. But to us, for those
precious, awe-inspiring moments, we couldn’t help but feel we were connected to
some greater presence, my dad shooing the birds from the trees, saying, “Come
on, I’ve got to give them a big show, something to let them know it’s from me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">For me, it was my dad, taking flight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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