family – My Life in Paragraphs

Groundhog Hour and the Heavy Weight of Love

Between editing a raw memoir, managing an influx of foster pups, and moving 90-year-old parents into skilled nursing care, The fragile, funny, and heartbreaking nature of memory—and the unexpected ways technology keeps us connected to the ones we love.

Memory is a funny thing.

I’ve been doing the final edits for a memoir about an experience that devastated me. Working on it often brings tears. The further I get from that time, though, the softer my memory becomes. The pain is less sharp, and the lessons learned are hard but healing. I hope reading the story will help others see grief as a universal experience that ultimately teaches us and heals our hearts.

I’ve also been spending a lot of time with my parents these last few months. My mother’s memory is changing daily—it often feels like we’re riding a wave. One moment she is absolutely on top of the story or the situation we’re talking about, and other times she insists I must be making it up. Instead of Groundhog Day, sometimes being there can feel like groundhog hour.

The Cows Are Crying

The cows are crying. (not a sentence I ever imagined writing)

A few times a year, our little street echoes with the bellows and moans and outright wails of distressed cows. This means that one of our farmer neighbors has separated the mamas and babies, presumably so that the babies can go to be auctioned.

The sounds of the cows are heartbreaking. I doubt they know that their babies are likely destined for a slaughterhouse, but change on any level is hard.

Book Club: School Lunches and Polaroids

I remember the School Lunch chapter from the very first time I read this book. I didn’t get it. Maybe I still don’t. Lamott says school lunches are full of the same longings and dynamics and anxieties for everyone, even if the school setting is different.

Well, maybe it’s an East Coast/West Coast thing, but the experiences she writes about – what was acceptable (bologna, pb&J) mattered and you were ostracized for bringing smelly, wrong things (which often happened if your father made your sandwich)—those didn’t bring any sense of recognition for me. I remember basically zero about elementary school lunch period.