David Klein's Blog, page 62

Thinking of Ice Rinks in July

Maybe I’m motivated to write about winter because I’m sweating through the hottest, most humid summer I can ever remember, and I haven’t had a chance to swim once. Not once.

And I had another reminder of winter when the New York Times, in an article about climate change, pointed to a scientific study about backyard ice rinks. Who knew backyard ice rinks were the stuff of science?

The research study looked at outdoor ice rinks in the original six National Hockey League cities: Toronto, Montreal, Boston, New York, Detroit, and Chicago. The conclusion was that there are fewer days of viable skating conditions than there used to be. The melting has been going on for years.

That was disheartening to me, but would have been no surprise if I’d given it any thought, which I hadn’t until now. When I think of climate change, I think of rising seas, powerful storms, severe drought, forced migration, hardship, and political denial. Not of backyard ice rinks.

I had a rink in my yard when I was a kid. Crude as can be: stomped down snow watered with a hose. I learned to skate and discovered my love for hockey on a rink that wasn’t much bigger than the desk I’m using right now and was as bumpy as a potholed street (another winter phenomena).

When my kids were young I built a rink in my yard for them. What an engineering nightmare. My yard wasn’t level enough: I had a deep end where the frame bulged from the force of the ice and water, and a shallow end where the grass showed through. One year the eight of the water broke through the 2×10 frame with the sound of thunder and my rink flooded the street. Then it froze. Other years the leaks were slow and insidious, from a tiny nick in the plastic liner.

Confident skater.

Still, we had a lot of fun. My kids learned to skate. Julia gained confidence; Owen became a hockey player, much better than his Dad ever was.  

Might be having fun.

Although the days of my building rickety backyard rinks are past, the last few winters have been terrible for those who’ve performed this labor of love. You need long stretches of below freezing temperatures to get the ice set up. That never happened. The pond rink in our town park didn’t even open last winter. I expect that to be the case more and more in the coming years.

Let’s face it: the world is getting warmer. Backyard ice rinks are going away. Soon there will be no more pickup hockey games. The term “pond hockey” will become antiquated.

On the bright side, it’s July 30 and the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs start in two days—August 1. Yup. After a pandemic-shortened season, the league has wrapped up the contending teams into two bubbles, one in Toronto and the other in Edmonton. All playoff games will take place there. No fans.

Owen and I will be watching, but I’ll be a little wistful. My team, the Buffalo Sabres, just missed the playoffs. And hockey—it’s much better as a cold-weather sport.

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THE EXORCIST, William Peter Blatty

I first read THE EXORCIST when I was still in high school, late at night, in bed. One more chapter before turning out the light. It was sometime before the movie came out, because I was able to frame my own images and let my imagination take over, and not see only Linda Blair.

This might be the original paperback version.

Like everyone else, I sped through the novel. I can’t say I remembered being frightened (I’ve never been frightened by a book or a movie), but I was definitely charged, tense, caught up in the story.

What added to my experience was that by high school I was already a recovering Catholic. I’d done my stint as an altar boy and going to Mass. I’d both feared and adored God.

At one point, I’d been fully brainwashed: second grade, following my first confession, when I exited the dark confessional booth and stepped into the spring sunshine—I still remember that euphoric feeling of being free of sin. I might have jumped a little. I might have shouted, “I’m free!” I’d said my penance of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. My sins (swearing? thinking bad thoughts? taking my brother’s gum?) had been absolved.

On the steps of the church, breathing in fresh air and basking in the grace of God, I realized if I died right then, I could go directly to heaven. I wouldn’t need to first suffer in purgatory for some undetermined but no doubt long amount of time until cleansed of my sins. Right then—I could die right then, before I had a chance to sin again. Heaven would be mine.

I could run out into Amherst Street and get run over by a car. I considered it. I did.

Back to The Exorcist and some fifty years later when I reread the novel because I’d put it on my list of The Most Important Novels in My Life. Does it belong?

Entertaining—extremely. Compelling—definitely. Literary—not so much. Regan is the possessed child, her mother Chris a famous actress, Damien Karras the neighborhood Jesuit priest. What I had forgotten was that the exorcism itself takes up less than the last quarter of the novel. Along the way, the narrative builds with key turning points: Regan’s sudden change in behavior, the visits to the doctors and the psychiatrists as she worsens, the death of Chris’s director (a lame caricature) who it turns out was murdered by the demon/Regan, which brings in a Columbo-like cop to investigate (also a weak character).

In my second reading, I found Damien the most interesting character, with a rich backstory of guilt over abandoning his mother for the priesthood and currently suffering a crisis of faith.

I can see why the novel was on the bestseller list for well over a year. There had never been anything like it. The Exorcist broke new territory in terms of sensationalism, vulgarity, and deviant (devilish?) sexual behavior and language.

I also took in the movie after finishing reading the novel. Again, I was surprised that the exorcism itself was only the last 25 minutes of a two-hour movie, because all I remember from the movie that I had watched way back when were the lurid aspects: “Your mother sucks cocks in hell!” Regan stabbing her own vagina with a crucifix and screaming “Fuck me! Fuck me!” The green projectile vomiting. The head twisting 360 degrees.

The movie is true to the book and a fine adaptation in that sense.

Will I ever read The Exorcist again? No. Does it belong on the “most important” list? Maybe not. I’m hedging. The novel introduced me to the genre, and later I read with great enthusiasm Stephen King’s THE SHINING and CARRIE. And some others in the genre: ROSEMARY’S BABY, THE OMEN. But I never embraced horror, and never read those kinds of novels now.

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What’s in a Title? A Lot

The title of a novel isn’t as important as the content of the novel itself, but I want to love my title. I want others to love it. I want the title to draw in potential readers, pique their interest, motivate them to take a look at the book. I want the title to make a promise.

That’s a heavy load to carry for just a few words. Some of the greatest titles ever were a single word: BELOVED. ATONEMENT. FRANKENSTEIN. JAWS. CARRIE. STASH.

It was last November that I came up with the working title of my most recent novel: THE SUITOR.

Two words–but referring to one character, entity, or concept. THE GODFATHER. THE HOURS.

The novel centers on a sudden relationship that develops between a recent college graduate recovering from a traumatic event and an ambitious and charming schemer, and her father’s attempts to prevent their marriage.

I like the title THE SUITOR. The story is propelled by Anna (college grad) and Kyle (the suitor) quickly falling for each other over one summer, but there is also a central conflict between Kyle and Art (Anna’s father). Without Kyle, no conflict, no story. I found the word suitor intriguing, almost sinister, in a contemporary setting.

I’ve finished the novel. It’s with my agent, who will pitch it to publishers. But she wants me to consider alternative titles. She says it sounds a little old-fashioned, like a gentlemanly caller. The novel is anything but old-fashioned.

So I’m giving the the title some thought. Here are three other potential titles I’m considering:

SOME KIND OF GAME. This title references a fantasy game that Kyle invented for him and Anna to play: opening a restaurant together, someday getting married. There’s also a point in the novel where Art is threatening Kyle and says something to the effect of “You think this is some kind of game we’re playing?”

A COUPLE OF BUMPS. One of Anna’s conflicts is she gets sucked into the partying world as a way to deal with other issues, and on a number of occasions, many occasions, she does a few “bumps” of cocaine with Kyle and her friends. Also, at one point Art is worried about his daughter and thinks “Some things hadn’t gone her way. She’s had some bad luck and hit a couple of bumps and Kyle was a danger to her.”

THE RUSH. Another two-word title and a late entry, suggested by one of my readers because of “the speed of their relationship, restaurant rushes, the rush of the drugs and alcohol depended on to numb the rush of trauma, as well as the rush of the need to see what comes next [in the story]. This title makes a promise to the reader.

I think I’m eliminating A COUPLE OF BUMPS. Many readers may not know the cocaine reference of bumps and the title doesn’t seem large enough for the novel. That leaves THE RUSH or SOME KIND OF GAME. I’m leaning toward THE RUSH. In any case, if a publisher buys the book–always a big if–they’ll change the title if they want to.

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LEGENDS OF THE FALL, Jim Harrison

I’m only going to write about one of the three novellas in this collection, “The Man Who Gave Up His Name.” The other two, “Revenge” and “Legends of the Fall,” are worthy, but neither impacted me the way “The Man” did.

I first came to this novella (89 pages) years ago when I was still in my twenties and starting out as a writer. It was Harrison’s prose that blew me away. The voice isn’t stream-of-consciousness as much as it is just “consciousness”–representing thinking and awareness, the inner life of its main character.

I’ve probably read the novella four or five times. What keeps me coming back is the Nordstram: white, age 43, stoic, proud, well-off, and experiencing a midlife crisis. Sounds cliche. Handled with tremendous skill and empathy.

Of course, there’s a lot not to like in these days about literature concerning a successful middle-aged white man suffering a crisis. I was sensitive to this in my most recent re-read. Nonetheless, I’m drawn to stories about the search for identity. What’s at stake when who you are or thought you were is up for serious debate? A lot is at stake, whoever you are.

I want to pose such questions when I write.

The plot: Nordstrom gets divorced from his wife of twenty years, abandons his career as an oil-industry executive, moves from west coast to east, gives his money away, and searches for himself. He does this by dancing alone in his apartment at night, kindling a positive relationship with his daughter, fucking around, and–most bizarre of all–engaging in a possibly unnecessary but clearly cathartic act of violence.

Along the way, his father dies and he makes a trip to his native Wisconsin that gives Harrison the opportunity to showcase his artistry in writing about that region. He also gets to write about food and cooking, which he did so well for Esquire for many years.

In the end, Nordstrom ends up at peace, working as a line cook at a restaurant in Florida, having a few trysts, spending his day off fishing.

Nordstrom is a believable character on a mostly sympathetic journey. Old-school, for sure. Masculinity, if you don’t mind. I loved the style of writing, although that style didn’t work for me is some of Harrison’s other books, and he sort wrote about the same thing all the time.

Still, “The Man Who Gave Up His Name” had a big impact on me and drew me back multiple times, and for that reason belongs on my list of “The Most Important Novels in My Life.”

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The Most Important Novels in My Life

I have set myself a task for 2020: reread the ten most important books in my life. To qualify for the list, the novel (or novella or short story collections; I’m including those also), must meet one or more of the following criteria:

It was so profound and meaningful to me that I’ve read the novel multiple times.It significantly influenced my own development as a novelist.The experience of reading the novel is inexorably linked to and illuminates a moment or period of time in my life.

It’s going to be challenging to pick the ten books. I’m not concerned that I’ve forgotten any important book, because if I have, then that book by definition wouldn’t qualify for the list. I’ve started with 25 titles, from which I must cull down to ten.

Why am I doing this? I’m interested in how the passage of time and accumulation of life experiences have changed how I feel about a book that I once placed on a high pedestal. Has the book stood the test of time? Have I? What’s changed?

For now, I’m listing my initial list of 25, in no particular order, and without explanation. When I get down to ten, I will provide context as to why I chose each one to read again.

UPDATE: I’ve re-read some on this list of 25 and updated their status below

UPDATE 2: I may not get the list narrowed to ten, but am offering reviews of those I have re-read.

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, John Irving . Prob won’t crack top ten. I think I liked THE CIDER HOUSE RULES and A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY better.AMERICAN PASTORAL, Philip RothSELF-HELP, Lorrie MooreA FARWELL TO ARMS, Ernest HemingwayA VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD, Jennifer EganTHE SLAP, Christos Tsiolkas THE EXORCIST , William Peter Blatty. Quite a read, but may not belong on the list.DUNE, Frank HerbertCAT’S EYE, Margaret AtwoodTHE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING, Milan KunderaTHE ROAD, Cormac McCarthyIN THE GARDEN OF NORTH AMERICAN MARTYRS, Tobia WolffLITTLE CHILDREN, Tom Perrotta SMILES ON WASHINGTON SQUARE, Raymond Federman . My introduction to experimental fiction. Belongs on this list.10:30 ON A SUMMER NIGHT, Marguerite Duras. Off the list, didn’t stand the test of time. Pretentious, obtuse, overwritten. THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, J.D. SalingerA PALE VIEW OF THE HILLS, Kazuo Ishiguro LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA, Gabriel Garcia Marquez . Likely top ten. It’s the writing, stupid. Many have imitated, but there’s only one GGM. BELLEFLEUR, Joyce Carol Oates THE HOURS, Michael Cunningham . Top ten. A pattern here: it’s the writing. And the structure. LEGENDS OF THE FALL, Jim Harrison . Specifically, the novella “The Man Who Gave Up His Name.” Grandfathered onto this list.THE THINGS THEY CARRIED, Tim O’Brien MARIETTE IN ECSTASY, Ron Hansen . Likely top ten. The writing and language is incredible. The setting of the convent like another world. THE ACCOMPLICES, Georges Simenon . Certainly not a great novel, but it is a short, fascinating character study that made a strong impression on me.WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE, Raymond Carver

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To My Friend Jim

We met when I was sixteen. We were still in high school and Jim dated a friend of mine who lived down the street. I didn’t see much of him for a few years after that, but then Jim transferred to the university I attended and we lived together in an apartment with Fred our senior year.

Jim embraced me as a friend at a time when I had few other friends in college. I could even say he saved me. I discovered what loyalty is, and now it’s 45 years later and he is still loyal to me.

How many things have happened across that time span? A lifetime’s worth. We traveled through Europe together after college for several months, hitchhiking and hopping on trains and camping, spending most of our limited money on beer and food and cigarettes.

We lived together in Woodstock. We tried going into business together. That didn’t work out and led to conflict, but our friendship survived. I gave a toast at his wedding. He visited me after I moved to California.

Later, I helped him put an addition on his house, and later still, helped him when he built his own house. I wasn’t a lot of help, just a day or two here and there of labor. I was no master craftsman like he was. But I showed up and lent a hand. He’s done countless projects at my house. You should see my bluestone stoop and front walk.

He gave a poignant reading at my wedding. He helped me move from New York City to Albany. We discovered mountain biking and rode as often as we could over some rather crazy trails, pushing each other and whooping and hollering and having some of the most fun of our lives. I had to help get him out of the woods when he broke his ankle. Every year we bow hunt for deer and he often gets one and I never do, but he doesn’t ridicule me for it.

We’ve supported each other in times of need and sorrow—and there have been many of those: death, and divorce, and disappointments, and children in peril. But more often we’ve celebrated and partied hard. Why? Because we can. Because we know what our friendship means.

Sure there have been rocky times, and disagreements, and differences of opinions. Why wouldn’t there be? But only a real friend sticks with you through the storms.

I know this about Jim: I can always count on him. And I will, because there’s no other friend like him.

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Six-Word COVID-19 Stories

I’ve got a thing for the six-word story form. I wrote six-word memoirs. Here are some six-word coronavirus stories.

Locked down
Opened up
Locked again

No mask?
Don’t tread on me.

More idiocy, more cases, more deaths

Social distancing comes natural to me

Bartender! A double martini
Sorry, students

United States leads
in COVID-19.
Sadly.

Choose: Six-feet apart–or under.

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GET WHAT YOU WANT

1.

It is an early autumn afternoon, the leaves just beginning their brilliant decline. Twice when a cloud passes overhead she puts on her sweater, only to take it off when the sun comes back out. The pale blue cardigan slips easily on and off her narrow shoulders.

The cemetery is old and large enough that here, deep within the borders and down an easy slope among elms and maples and rows of monuments, you are secluded enough from the city’s traffic and noise to register only a distant sensation of outside life.

She has put down the blanket in a spot beneath a chestnut tree not far from the gravestone I visit. I saw them converge on this point from opposite directions, he in his tie and pressed pants walking from the main entrance near the busy streets and she in her sweater and skirt coming from the direction of the lake. They were looking for each other and did not see me. Now I move slightly to the other side of the tall granite marker so I will not disturb them. I can hear their voices. Not their words, not all of them, but the tenor and rhythm are clear, the intent. I don’t need their words, I can fill them in. Who hasn’t been a player in such intimate encounters and remembers exactly how it feels?

He nestles close to her, one hand tucked behind her on the blanket. She sits with her back straight, a perfect right angle to the ground.

He says, “Leave it to you to pick a cemetery.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s quiet enough — I like that. I was hoping for a private spot.”

“I like coming here. I feed the ducks in the lake though there’s a sign against it.”

He kisses her ear. The sunlight glints off her long silver earrings. He kisses her neck.

“Please, not here.”

“Do you mean that?”

She says nothing.

“You mean not anywhere,” he says.

She strokes the back of her fingers over his shaven and scented cheeks. There is something wistful in her movements, as if she were comforting a sad child.

“There are two presidents buried here. Fillmore and Grant. And a famous Seneca Indian chief.”

“You know a lot about this cemetery.”

“But I don’t personally know anyone buried here. That’s what happens when you’re far from home.”

She opens the picnic basket and starts setting things on the blanket. He uncorks a bottle and pours a glass of dark red wine for each of them.

“Do you want some cheese to start?” she asks. “Or do you want a sandwich?”

“You really went all out.”

“This is your big sendoff isn’t it?”

He tries to explain. It’s not really a sendoff, that’s not how he thinks of it.

“Never mind,” she says. “What do you want?”

“Everything. Let’s just put everything out and eat what we want.”

“I even brought dessert. Your favorite — I got éclairs at the bakery.”

They eat without speaking. A few murmurs pass between them. Oil from the salad gets on their hands and lips and when she looks in her bag she can’t find napkins. She forgot to pack them with the lunch.

“We could use the blanket,” he says.

“God no. Do you know how many places it’s been?”

She starts to wipe her hands on the grass but he reaches for her wrists and pulls her hands close to his face. He puts the tip of one of her fingers into his mouth. She lets him go on for a moment, then takes her hand away. “Not now,” she says.

He fills their glasses again, too high, as if he’s decided to drink up quickly and get out of here. “Have you thought any more about coming?” he says.

“You mean about your leaving.”

“We could talk about it more if you like.”

“Talking will only repeat what we already know. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“I think you do but you shouldn’t mind.”

2.

I understand a man has to live his life, but I would handle his situation much differently, especially with a beautiful woman like her. I mean, look at her. He has forgotten how fortunate he is to have her. Someday he will regret what he is doing. He thinks he has all the time in the world and will meet someone else, someone better, but he might not. He won’t.

She leans over and kisses him, just a touch, then more deeply, with one hand in his hair. She turns sideways and something catches her eye. I think it is me.

She lowers her voice. “Don’t look up yet, but there’s someone standing over there.”

“Where?”

“Don’t look. He’s sitting at the base of a gravestone.”

“Yes, I see him, but he doesn’t know we see him. I think he’s watching. Who do you think he is?”

“Just someone visiting the cemetery.”

“Do you know him?”

“He’s too far away. Why would I know him?”

“You might know him. You say you come here a lot.”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“I think he’s waiting to see something.”

“Then let’s give him something to see.”

“What?”

“You feel like it. It’s what you want. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“You don’t need to put it that way.”

He pulls her on top of him and she and starts kissing him. He holds back for a few seconds and then responds, because of course this is what he wants, and I have to avert my eyes, I can barely watch and now he has switched positions with her and is straddling her hips with his knees on the blanket and reaches his hand down and raises her skirt.

When they finish, she is on top again, the blanket a wreckage beneath them, the remains of their picnic scattered. The glasses of wine he had filled too much have spilled. She collapses against his chest.

“How was that?” she asks, after a few minutes.

“That was perfect.”

“We’ve never done anything like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I did.” He laughs quietly.

“Now are you happy?”

“Yes, of course. I was fine, now I’m finer.”

“See, you get what you want and everything is fine.”

She moves off of him and pushes her skirt down, straightens her hair. “I’m getting cold, will you hand me my sweater?” She is crying a little now.

“Come here,” he says. “I love you. You know I do.”

3.

Such poor judgment. He’s a lout, really. I would have treated her as she deserves to be treated, not like someone he can discard, not like someone he may never see again. She will be much better off without him, that much I am sure about. She is the one who will meet someone else, she is the one who will someday be thankful for this day, not him.

He gives her the sweater and reaches across her for the bottle of wine. It has tipped and spilled and little remains. He stands up one glass and pours the last few drops. He looks at his watch and drinks the wine. As his head is tilted to drink he happens to look down the row of granite markers, directly at me, as if for the first time. He lowers his glass and stares and even from this distance I believe we are looking into each other’s eyes. Everything has changed now. It is a sudden and ominous change, an unexpected storm darkening the sky.

“Hey, who’s that,” he says.

“Who?”

“There’s someone over there, by that grave.”

She looks over to where he had motioned. “Where? I don’t see anybody.”

“He’s there, hiding behind the stone. I wonder how long he’s been there.”

“Oh, I see him now. Oh, no, he’s probably been watching us. I hope he didn’t see us.”

“Who is he, do you know him?”

“I don’t know, he’s too far away to tell.” She thinks for a moment, then says, “I don’t know him.”

“Then what’s he doing?”

“He’s been watching us. I feel so terrible! I wish we hadn’t done that. I didn’t want to—I didn’t.”

“He’s just staring at us.”

“I want to leave.”

He stands up and takes two steps in my direction, then stops and turns back to her.         

“What are you going to do?”

“Wait here.”

“Don’t,” she says. “I want to go. I knew this wasn’t a good idea — the whole picnic. I don’t know why I suggested it. I was trying to be nice about everything.”

He takes a stance with his fists closed. He sizes me up from afar. He doesn’t know it yet but he doesn’t want to come after me. It would be a mistake.

“I’m leaving,” she says. She gathers her picnic supplies and blanket and starts walking in the direction she had come from.

And now he must decide: Come after me or follow her. 

I can see he wants to start trouble, and realize I have stayed too long. But I don’t always know when to walk away and for how long to stay.

Before this man comes after me and tries to make a scene, I steady my hand on the cool, smooth granite an instant longer, its hardness absolute and unforgiving, and I turn and walk quickly along the row of gravestones, through the freshly fallen leaves and down the knoll toward the lake, where many ducks and a few geese live and a sign says not to feed them.

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SMILES ON WASHINGTON SQUARE, Raymond Federman

In 1985 I went to the University of Buffalo to finish my graduate degree in creative writing. Raymond Federman headed up the program and that year “Smiles on Washington Square” was published.

This novel was my introduction to metafiction, or experimental fiction, or whatever you want to call it–and I was blown away. My world expanded. The definition of a novel expanded.

It’s hard to describe this novel, other than to say it is a love story between Moinous and Sucette, two characters who pass and smile at each other on Washington Square in New York City during a protest against Senator McCarthy and his Communist witch hunt in the 1950s.

She’s from a wealthy New England family. He’s a poor ex-soldier from France. But whether Moinous and Sucette ever actually meet is a mystery. They might be figments of each other’s imagination. Moinous might be a character in a short story that Sucette writes for her class. The conditional, present, and past tenses are mixed. What happened may not have happened in this looping and contradictory narrative.

And yet the story is simple and easy to follow. At 145 pages, it’s short, sweet, and stunning. I believe it belongs on the top ten of the Most Important Novels in My Life. It opened my eyes. It influenced me as a writer. Early on, I tried to imitate (with zero success) Federman’s style.

“Smiles on Washington Square” is one of those novels I would recommend to everyone, even though only a few will likely appreciate its subtlety, grace, and originality.

5/5 Stars

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Elegy for Irene Klein

That’s my mom. I hardly knew her.

I left home at age 17 to go to college. She died when I was 24.

How can you know your parent when you’re just a kid and a teenager, so wrapped up in your own life, so lacking any perspective? I could see my mom as only my mom and hardly as an individual with a life of her own. By the time I was mature enough to go there, she was gone.

But this photo serves her well. She was quick to smile. She’d have a beer (or gin). There was the ubiquitous cigarette we constantly nagged on her to give up. She was an Italian woman from Niagara Falls who birthed 5 children in 7.5 years (Catholic), and along with my father managed to raise not one deviant or murderer among us.

She hated being short and wanted to be reincarnated as a redwood tree. When I lived in California, I often visited the redwood groves. She was an incredible cook and I was her biggest fan at the table: I loved everything we had for dinner.

She had this ritual that on our birthdays she would have a sit on her lap so she could rock us in her rocking chair. I must have been in college when this photo was taken. I think I remember her groaning when I sat. In the background is a white bottle of Keri lotion, which was everywhere in our house because my father worked for the company that made it, Westwood Pharmaceuticals.

My mom was 58 when she died. Incredibly, foolishly, ignorantly, at the time I thought that was old, that she might have already lived a full life. But she missed out on so much. She saw none of her kids get married, she met none of her grandchildren.

It’s been so many years now, but I always remember this day she died. I went through some old photos this morning. I got a little teary thinking of her. I’m glad I did.

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