In most years, Thanksgiving in my family begins with a series of emails. We coordinate food, sleep accommodations, birthday celebrations (we have 3 late November birthdays), and weekend outings. Before you know it, the side dishes have been accounted for and the pie sign up is complete. The rest is joyful chaos. But this year's email chain looked different. Pulling 20+ people together from three states in the 2nd—or is it the 3rd?—wave of a global pandemic was a heavier topic than who would . . .
A few days ago, I took my kids to a local peach orchard. It was morning, the humidity was low(er) and Graham needed to crank out some work, so out of the house we went. For a season that has felt so abnormal, the orchard was a solid known. We've gone there year after year for peaches in summer and apples in fall. Before we left, I read the new regulations on the website which included no more eating fruit in the orchard (or was that always a rule we chose to overlook?), masks inside the shop and . . .
Like many of you, I have spent quarantine time cleaning up and organizing things long-past due. One of those is a box of pictures I have carried with me to six different homes. I’m a product of the days when one blew through rolls of Kodak film, then checked the box for double prints at the store, only to discover that half the pictures were overexposed. You can imagine that going through twenty years of memories has been an undertaking and I’ve moved quickly to pitch and toss. But when I laid . . .
Last week, I found a note from Henry's preschool teacher tucked away in my desk. As I read it, my heart quickened. I remember that feeling of getting notes and calls home. "Can you talk with Henry?" she'd say, about crawling under tables/running with scissors/drawing on the floor/hugging his friends too hard/sitting on kids who angered him/encouraging his classmates to eat a paper cupcake liner (yes, I agree, that was a ridiculous reason to call me). Pre-K was a terrible, no good, very bad year . . .
I just left a second voicemail at the hotel in Maine we were supposed to visit for my 40th birthday in August. The governor recently declared that out-of-state visitors will have to self-quarantine upon arrival through the summer months, making my dreamy birthday trip impossible. Of course that's disappointing, but the first thing my thoughts settled on are the Mainers who have always served us so hospitably during our summer visits. The lobster boat captain in Portland, the concierge at the . . .