While I trust you will be absolutely fine in your college dorm room these next few days with Hurricane Sandy heading toward shore, I cannot help but worry. You may be 22 years old but my instinct to protect you and your sister will remain undiminished throughout my life. Today it is the calm before the storm and we are prepared here at home. Unlike every other storm, this is the first time you have not been with us when the forecast has turned grim. A large swath of the eastern part of the country is in harm’s way and that includes you, dear. So, just in case you have not already thought of these things, please humor me – you are good at it – and keep reading: Continue reading
Gabby, a Grown and Flown friend, writes: Returning last week from our oldest daughter’s college graduation, I feel somehow aligned with those graduates, as I am a parent moving from one major life phase to another. During the very joyful weekend, my husband, more literal and fiscally oriented than me, kept repeating ”one down, two to go” referring to our younger two children. Meanwhile, I tried to silence my more sentimental thoughts for fear of getting weepy, or sounding cliché and down-right old.
It doesn’t feel like yesterday that I brought this child into the world. Remembering those early days of motherhood seems more like walking around a neighborhood I lived in long ago — quite familiar, yet vaguely dream-like, with some of the important details completely elusive. On the other hand, it actually does feel as if I just dropped off my daughter as a college freshman. Continue reading
From Cathy, a Grown and Flown writer:
She rarely wore jewelry. Her face was a perfect oval, with large round deep-set eyes and a Roman nose. That face possessed a genuine beauty far exceeding the allure of any gemstone. The wedding band she wore was gold, small and unobtrusive. Her jet black hair was always simple, pulled back in a chignon or loose and wavy around her face. She was, in fact, of Roman descent. My mother.
If I close my eyes and think of her, I picture her in a pair of Bermuda shorts, blouse tucked in, sneakers on, headed out to the garden to weed. Or dressed in a pale yellow shift dress with a simple pair of pumps and a handbag. Her skin was medium olive and she tanned easily. As a girl, she spent summers in Milford, Connecticut where her father, an Italian immigrant and New York merchant, had a summer home. There she learned to seed the garden, look for plover’s eggs and listen to the sound of the sea as it strummed the shoreline. Raised in the city, she was a country girl at heart. Continue reading