Blog

Usually I resist buying hard covers but I had heard a favorable review on NPR about Ann Patchett’s newest novel. So when I stopped by our neighborhood bookstore for something else and saw first edition, signed copies, that sealed the deal. I was thrilled with my purchase. Then my friend’s mother went on hospice, a friend who is also one of three girls, like the daughters in the book, and I gave it to her.

Later the next day I was with Mom and stopped to buy sunflower seeds for her bird feeder, along with another photo album. She complained that those purchases weren’t necessary but when I asked if she’d feel better if I bought them with her credit card, she said, “Sure, and I hope you’ll buy something for yourself from me too.”

The only thing I could think of that I wanted was my own copy of Tom Lake. I secretly hoped I could still get a signed copy but that didn’t matter as much as having a good book for a luxurious nonstop read when we got to the beach. Mom replied that was a great idea and she hoped I’d pick one up for her too at her expense. I don’t care what they say about Alzheimer’s; she’s still got it when it counts.

Such luck. When I got back to the bookshop there were four signed copies left so I, meaning Mom, bought them all. My sisters each have one coming their way.

And, once again, Annie P. does not disappoint. I cracked the book yesterday and have happily galloped through, sunk still and deep into a good story, marveling at her writing prowess.

Thanks, Mom. We now have our own sweet story about this book. And here’s to supporting independent bookstores and good literature.

The two most elder in this photo (not counting Santa) are three years apart in age and in their nineties. The next generation, their daughters, are three years apart in age too, the very youngest being me. Each of these two are the oldest of three girls. I love sharing that sibling configuration with my friend, Jeanne.

Tinky died yesterday at almost 99. Mostly, to be honest, I am happy for her. She lived a long and fascinating life, was well-loved and died peacefully.

For this, I am encouraged. I hope we can live into such a graceful and swift passing when my mother’s time comes.

As I remember Tinky and wrap my arms around Mom tomorrow, I will bless the day I was born. How grateful I am to love these nonagenarians, especially the one who gave me life.

It is still early. I am in the Indy airport waiting to head home to Seattle.

I am enjoying watching and listening to these friendly Hoosiers. I enjoy my wonderful sister most of all. Again, she has made a wonderful home for herself.

On Friday, eight of us detoured away from the convention to tour plantations. At first, I was hesitant given the haunted grounds where such violence happened against enslaved people. But I like that the group chose to visit Laura, a Creole plantation, as well as Whitney, one converted and dedicated to telling the story of Blacks who suffered there and in the larger state of Louisiana. I sought education.

At Laura, I learned that Creoles share the traits of 1) being Roman Catholic, 2) speaking French and 3) being born on U.S. soil. They are, by definition, a mixed race. I noticed that while there was some crossover, the light-skinned people tended to be the owners and the dark-skinned people tended to be enslaved.

The guide did not gloss over the cruelty that ensued. A Black woman shed tears as she tried to ask a question when we visited the slave quarters. I was too stunned, afraid of the feelings I might unleash if I breathed deeply or spoke aloud.

While I was physically miserable, I’m glad we toured Whitney midday, outdoors in humid, high-90-degree heat. The impact was grueling as we traipsed through the exquisite artwork listening to ex-slaves relay their memories through our individual audiophones. It was hard to imagine how humans could possibly survive from sunup to sundown working in those sizzling sugarcane fields.

When I finally reached the cool chapel, the last stop on the self-guided tour, I wept too.

Afterwards, a friend shared an article in which New York Times ethicist, Kwame Anthony Applan (on 12/28/2021), advised a guest who was invited to a wedding on plantation grounds to decline and explain why.

I knew I must write. Maybe I am on a high horse here, self-righteous even. But in Martin Luther King, Jr.’s words regarding silent complicity, “In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

I can no longer witness racism, historical or otherwise, and condone it in silence.

I’ve been traveling and working on a specific hospitality skill—making reservations that include others.

Absolute score while in New Orleans: Rob and I signed up for a demonstration at the cooking school then invited four new convention friends to join us. We even nabbed a six-top to sample Chef T’s scrumptious snacks and brew together.