Lilacs carry a childhood memory for me, as they did for my mother. And each May, as they bloom around Mother’s Day and my birthday, the memories stir again, evoked by fragrance, by tiny blossoms clustered against the sky.
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Being a grandmother, sometimes I’m lucky to become a child again — as when my grandson and I work together on a project that recalls something my Mother made for my siblings and I 60-some years ago. Technologies and years telescope into a happy afternoon of creativity and reading. . . Click through to read more. . .
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A story about my grandson and a story about my grandma, connected across the generation by a change to . . . well, you’ll see if you read the post. And I’ll update you on my garden while we’re together. Click through, please.
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23 years after my father’s death, I’ve finally begun mending a vest he once wore, handknit for him in the mid ’40s, ravaged by moths a few decades later. And then I started sketching his face from a favourite family photo of him and his brother. Memory work in progress. Click through to see and read.
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A few months ago I wrote about a literary excerpt that featured a 60-something woman thinking back on a long sexual relationship with her husband. I wondered if there was room here for a conversation about topics that excerpt could open — and received many encouraging comments indicating interest. So I’m starting that conversation today with a memory of a Sixty-something birthday lunch I attended when I was young — Fortyish-young, at least. Then I turn to a memoir to introduce a Very Bold Sixty-Something (she did What?!) and hope by the end of the post, I’ve made some space for us to chat. Please click to read more.
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