Serena

Our memorial day parade is still on my mind. As I replay our small town parade, the image of those veterans still haunts me. There was one brave little soldier who was missing this year. Her name was Rita King, and she was a teacher at my high school for many years. By trying very hard, I managed to avoid any classes she taught. She was a brilliant mathematician, and I was—well—prone to doing multiplication tables on my fingers. The word “Physics” was, in my home, merely another word for laxative. “Chemistry” was what happened when a boy and girl fell in love. Mrs. King taught both classes. She was a no-nonsense teacher who pushed hard and expected results. She was, on a good day, maybe all of five feet tall, but I watched big, strong boys stagger, wild-eyed, out of her classes, mumbling, “I gotta STUDY tonight!” Mrs. King retired from teaching–with vigor. She became an EMT and worked with our local ambulance team. She volunteered as a CPR instructor, and inspired fear in the hearts of those of us who took her CPR class. It was very important to pay strict attention in that class. She didn’t allow […]

A man in his fifties—I’ll call him “Bob”—called our house a few weeks ago. With shaky voice, and great gulps of air, he asked if my husband and I would meet him at our church. His request was simple—he wanted us to listen to him sing. This was an odd request, since we know that Bob is terrified of singing in public. He wanted, he said, to combat this fear. His goal was modest—he wanted to gather enough courage so maybe, if no one minded, he might sing sometimes for our local nursing home. We know Bob well, and this is one more fight in a long list of battles. He still has physical scars from his biological father’s abuse. And he spent lonely, desperate years in an orphanage before a local couple adopted and loved him. He married a good wife–his best friend, he says–and adopted her family as his own. I didn’t realize how deep his love for her parents went, until her mother became bed-ridden. Bob, early retired, took over her care, while his wife went to her job. At the time, I wondered how he stood it—a man–turning himself into a nursemaid for his mother-in-law—day after […]

I’d wager that there isn’t a writer alive who hasn’t fantasized about going away to a seaside cottage or cabin in the woods or 4 star hotel or—I don’t know—an aunt’s attic for a few weeks. Just someplace safe, quiet, and –WITHOUT INTERRUPTIONS!!! I used to be convinced that if people would just leave me alone long enough, I could produce, at the very least, something saleable. Since that seaside cottage never materialized, and since I had kids and a husband who needed me, and friends and extended family who inexplicably wanted me in their life—I avoided the act of writing for a long time. Then one day, I read something that made my jaw drop. I can’t remember who wrote it, can’t remember where I read it. It was an author who said that it is impossible to write well in a vacuum. That we write best while simmering in the “rich stew of humanity.” That phrase changed my life. Yesterday was a “rich” day. I had lunch with two friends who make me laugh and who feed my soul with wisdom and love. Then I drove over to the elementary school to pick up my granddaughter who was […]