When Once is Enough: One-book Authors

If you’re like me, you’re hesitant to read Harper Lee’s second book, Go Set a Watchman. From what I’ve read about this much hyped book, the reader will leave with a tarnished view of the beloved character, Atticus Finch.

The discovery of this book so many years after To Kill a Mocking bird raised my curiosity about other one book authors, especially those whose one tome has become an iconic classic. I read a lot, but there's a limited number of books that continue to resonate with me, even after many years. I was surprised to find how many of my lifelong remembered reads were by one--book authors. These books influenced my life and affected my thinking immeasurably. 

Here’s my top five: 

                          

1.  Black Beauty by Anna Sewell

Born in 1820 to a devoutly Quaker family, Sewell 

was influenced by her mother who wrote children’s 

books. Following a childhood accident, she traveled mostly by horse drawn carriages and developed a deep love and concern for horses. Unlike her mother, she didn’t write for children but rather to influence those who cared for horses. I read the book when I was twelve and never viewed animals without thinking about how they should be treated.

2.  Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

This classic needs no introduction! Is there anyone reading this post who hasn’t read this book or seen the movie? The classic lines throughout this masterpiece are still quoted today. The author was recognized in 1957 when she received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Like Harper Lee, she avoided the limelight, but unlike Lee, she died at the young age of 49. I read this book in my teens and it made me realize how much war affects so many individuals, no matter what their beliefs.

3.  An Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

This was another book that really affected my thinking in my teen years. In his book, published in 1952, he spoke to race in a way never done before. Consider these words by Ellison: “I am an invisible man…I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, simply because people refuse to see me.”

4.  Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Although this was his only book, Salinger wrote nearly two dozen short stories in many publications, including The New Yorker. Holden Caulfield, the main character, illustrates the importance of living an authentic life. I read this as a young adult and it helped reaffirm my own beliefs in following my own direction rather than to “go along to get along.”

5.  Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak

 While this author is best remembered for his poetry, his novel, published in 1957, demonstrates the courage it can take to express your views even in fiction. Pasternak had to smuggle his manuscript out of Russia to be published abroad. In my early twenties, his story and what it took to publish it, served as inspiration to me in my early writings.

I’m still unsure whether I will read Harper Lee’s recently published work, Go Set a Watchman, because the characters within what seemed destined to be her one memorable work, speak so much to me. Perhaps, I will consider her the sixth of my one-book authors instead…

To learn more about one-book authors of these and other much loved books, visit Goodreads for a list of 100 well known titles.

       

Christmas Seasons

With Christmas but a few days away, I want to send my wishes that your Christmas will be filled with love and peace. Most of us can recall those special Christmases, perhaps those of our childhood, or with our first love, or later, those with a growing family, followed by those with grandchildren.

Over the years, Christmas celebrations tend to evolve as each of us builds our own treasure trove of memories. If you're like me, some of the memories fuse into others. As a child, I remember getting a tangerine in my stocking and so, the smell of a tangerine will always evoke childhood Christmases for me. Over the years, time changes our celebrations. I can't imagine ever putting a tangerine in my children's or my grandchildren's stockings!

I remember meeting my husband, Will. Those were the days when we took lots of pictures. This picture, taken in 1959, was our first Christmas together. We were young, then, and carefree, too. I recall we had to visit both sets of parents that year. And try to eat two turkey dinners, as well.

Since then, we've celebrated fifty-five Christmases together. If I had a chance to relive those years, I would have kept a Christmas journal. Then, I would be able to go back and check out each one. Now, they merge into a lovely pattern much like a quilt made of many hues.


In quick succession, our four daughters came along and with them, late nights of putting toys together, then arranging them under the tree. Ginger, our oldest, was always the "scout." While her sisters quivered with excitement, she would run down the steps, check out the scene, then call up to her sisters, "Santa came!" Then we'd hear another three sets of feet bound down the steps. And our Christmas morning would begin...way too early, but nevertheless, filled with joy.

Way too quickly, they grew up, married and began their own Christmas traditions. Again, Christmases evolved but with glad tidings as life was developing as it was meant to be.

Soon, grandchildren hit the scene. Another golden time, another gilded, ribboned wrapped growth of Christmas change. This, for me, was really special. This picture of me with our grandsons Nathan and John, was taken a Christmas that I'll never forget. Nathan, four months old, was sleeping on a blanket close to the tree while we were all in the kitchen. We heard a thud and ran in. The tree had fallen over and Nathan was under it! Not a sound was uttered by this dear baby boy. We pulled the tree off of him, unsure if he was hurt, but thankfully, not a branch had touched him.

Those years went quickly, way too quickly. And now my beloved and I find we're back to the beginning. Our children and our children's children all live far enough away that Will and I are two once more. We still celebrate with gifts and phone calls, then visits after Christmas day. We're content and feel blessed to be together and well. We rejoice in the day and knowing all of our loved ones are safe and celebrating, too.


May you and your family have a blessed Christmas and fun making memories together!

It's That Time of Year...Again

For those of us who believe in making New Year's resolutions, the time is now. And for all of you "nonbelievers," consider the value of reviewing, reflecting and possibly even beginning the tradition by establishing goals for 2014. It's never too late to begin!

Last year, one of my most important goals was to publish my novel, Bellehaven. And as many of you know, that happened. What I didn't completely realize was that marketing should have also been one of my goals for last year. So, one of my major initiatives this year is to market my book.

I have a great desire to see it read and so, the marketing takes on a whole different perspective for me. I find it's less about recouping my publishing costs and more about knowing it's been read by as many people as I can reach.

Earlier today, my oldest daughter, Ginger, called to wish us a Happy New Year. She told me about a challenge she'd heard about where rather than making a list of resolutions, we should find the one word that reflects what we hope to accomplish or change in 2014. "Take some time," she advised me, "And the word will come to you. Then post that word everywhere---on your mirror, over your computer, maybe even on your car visor."

Instantly, as she was telling me, "my" word came, as some things come to me. My word is "productive." My goal is to write bigger, more authentically than in the past. And to do so, I know I must write every day. Consider doing this exercise. Whether your goal is a writing one or simply one thing you'd like to do differently this year, I challenge you to find your word. Once you have, try to live it.


Happy New Year, everyone!

Thank You, Mrs. Bunting

If you’re like me and someone asks you, “Who were the mentors who influenced you?” you probably can reel off a few names very quickly. We can all recall those who've had a major influence on our life choices, but how about those who enter your life only briefly?

 

One of those people in my life was Mrs. Bunting. She lived near us in a small white bungalow badly in need of paint, but lovely still, with a beautiful rose arbor gracing the back. When my mother returned to work for a brief time so we could buy our first television, we were told we’d be going to Mrs. Bunting’s house after school until one of our parents came home. I groaned as loudly as my two sisters about the prospect of staying with boring and OLD Mrs. Bunting.

A lady in every sense of the word as described in the ‘40's and ‘50's, she dressed discreetly in a pressed house dress and wore beaded, dangly, earrings, pierced ones, which in itself was a rarity in those days among the locals. Her necklaces always matched the baubles in her ears. Her gray hair, was always modestly waved, with nary a hair out of place. An aura of floral scent surrounded her when she moved.

Mrs. Bunting took her responsibility to care for us seriously. Each day when we arrived home from school, she had a snack waiting. Not the usual cookies we would have grabbed on the run at home, though. Instead, she would direct us to her dining room table where she had placed pedestaled crystal glasses filled with chocolate pudding or jello on small crocheted cloth doilies. A dab of whipped cream adorned the top. Dessert spoons with a “B” monogrammed on the handle rested precisely to the right while a pristine white napkin was to the left of the fluted dish.
 

 Filled with pent up energy from school, we were impatient to go outside if the weather was nice. Mrs. Bunting had a long driveway, excellent for jump rope. We tried to rush through the snack as quickly as we could, but Mrs. Bunting didn’t allow it. “When young ladies eat, conversation is important,” she said, with a frown. “The outdoors will always be there, but manners must be observed.”

Then one day I needed to use the bathroom. “It’s the door off the living room,” said Mrs. Bunting. “Just past my boudoir. Remember, you must never enter my boudoir. No one ever goes into a lady’s boudoir without permission.”

I was fascinated by this additional word to my vocabulary! Boudoir. It sounded exotic and special. After that, I made it a point to go to the bathroom every day so I could peek into the “lady’s boudoir.” In the room, made dark by the heavy closed velvet drapes, the interior appeared lush. I’d pause on my way in and out of the bathroom to catch as long of a glance as I could.
And so, Mrs. Bunting began my more formal education of “comportment.” I practiced walking up and down the sun parlor with a book on my head. “A young lady must always know how to carry herself.” She had a rule for just about everything a young lady should do. I practiced sitting quietly on the porch, hands folded. “A young lady does not fidget.”

My sisters didn’t escape all the instructions, either, as Mrs. Bunting always started her lessons at the table. “Always unfold your napkin slowly and place it on your lap before you pick up your spoon. That’s how a lady conducts herself.

          “And when you are finished, place your spoon beside the dish, not in it. Then, blot your lips with your napkin, even if you don’t think you need to do so. Then fold the napkin and place it next to your plate.”
          And again, she would repeat, “That shows you know how to act like a lady.”
          “Always say thank you as well, no matter how simple the meal or food.”

At this point, my two sisters would ask the prerequisite question, “May we now be excused?”

Mrs. Bunting would nod her regal head and as they scrambled from the table, they always rolled their eyes at me since I chose to remain behind. Years later, I questioned my understanding about the word she used, “comportment.” Had I confused it with deportment, a category on our elementary school report card? I looked up the two words and realized the subtle difference. No, Mrs Bunting was definitely teaching me how to comport myself as a lady. Each time I unfold my napkin, I think of her.

And to this day, if I sit in the sun and close my eyes, I can see myself sitting on Mrs. Bunting’s sun porch, practicing my ladylike behavior. Now, I wish I could have acknowledged the awareness she gave me during that brief time we spent together---the appreciation of common courtesies. If you have Mrs. Buntings in your life, consider letting them know they’ve influenced your life. And so, today, I want to say “thank you, Mrs. Bunting,” for taking the time to teach me the value of manners.

 

The Good Old Days

Do you ever miss what you consider “the good old days?” Sometimes, I must confess I do find myself getting nostalgic about how life used to be. Billy Joel sums up those sentiments in the first verse of his song, “Keeping the Faith,” and as he says so well, it’s tempting to get “lost in let’s remember.”

Let’s face it. For many of us, the innocence of an earlier time in our lives can cause a longing for the past. In our memory those days evoke a simpler life style, one in which candy bars were bigger and a half gallon of ice cream was really a half gallon. I can also recall long summer days where getting lost all day, or at least until the real cows—not the proverbial ones—came home, was the norm. All that innocence of an earlier time can make one long for times past.

Unlike some of the images Billy conjures up in his iconic song, I was the “good” girl in the poodle skirt worrying more about whether my saddle shoes were polished to perfection or if that threat of a pimple on my chin would erupt before the Friday night canteen. My sole rebellion was hanging out of my friend, Jeannette’s, window puffing away on a cigarette. That adventure didn’t last too long as neither of us really enjoyed the taste or the smell of Luckies.

Still, I do look back on those carefree and rather egocentric days with pleasure, but I like to think “the past never got in my way.” So, if you think “I'm feeling older and missing my younger days,” read on.

Despite what I now consider some of my shallow teenage priorities, I also recall deep yearnings to live a life with greater meaning and purpose. I just wasn’t sure what path that should be. Deep within, though, I always “had the hunger,” a desire to find out where I was supposed to go and what I destined to do with my life. 

“Keeping the Faith,” as Mr. Joel states so clearly  involves holding onto the “desire” and the “music that “sets me on fire.”

Billy’s wisdom continues when he sings “you can get just so much from a good thing. You can linger too long in your dreams.” That’s what can happen when you believe all the good things in life are in the past. But here, I must disagree with my musical mentor. I don’t think we have to say “goodbye to the oldies but goodies.”

Instead, we need to put those days in perspective, not up on a memory pedestal as we are reminded that “the good old days weren't always so good.” That’s something we need to remember—sometimes social mores can bind us into corners. 

That became so clear to me recently when I found this picture of my husband and I posed on my parents’ porch, for the “Going off for the honeymoon” picture, one of the required photos in the ‘60’s wedding album. I recall that moment so well. I wore a pillbox hat, a suit with long sleeves, nylon stockings with the mandatory girdle though I weighed barely 100 lbs. The day of our May wedding was a record ninety degrees, yet the thought of wearing something cooler never occurred to me because I accepted the rigid social expectations of the times.

Finding this image got me thinking about how much I treasure my freedom now and  no longer have to worry about social trappings like not wearing white shoes after Labor Day or a hat to church. Now I’m completely unfettered, no more mental or physical girdles for me!

How about you? What do you not miss about your younger days? Then again, what do you miss? I do miss getting letters, those hold-in-your hand personal missives that you can feel and read over and over. But that’s a blog for another day…

So, I must finish with agreeing totally with the maestro when he stresses “And tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems.” For despite all the sadness and the turmoil in today’s world, I have hope.

 So, I sit back in my chair and listen, not to my 45’s, but to the music channel on my TV, sip my wine in my new stemless glass and think to myself, “ain’t it wonderful to be alive.” And plan on living as well and as long as I can while “the rock ‘n’ roll plays” and “the memory stays.”

Yes sir, I am “keeping the faith,” one lovely day at a time.

Yoko and Me

I’ve always been a Beatles fan and after they split up, I continued to follow their separate careers. I confess John Lennon held most of my attention as an individual musician and song writer and the love I saw between Yoko and John fascinated me. I can recall vividly the scene of their 1969 bed-in and the buzz it created. They seemed so carefree to me despite the serious reason behind their gentle form of protest. At the time, I was twenty-nine and nearly drowning in motherhood—four daughters under the age of five. Wistfully, I wondered what it would be like to stay in bed for peace.

Later, I remember my great sadness when this gentle man was killed in 1980. By then, my children were in their teens and doing well, the youngest twelve. At the time, as most of the world did, I grieved for Yoko. Her sadness, I always thought,  reflected in her tight lipped smile in the years after his death.

 Recently, I saw her on television and was struck by a different look. I realized it was in her smile, now a wide open grin. She spoke of her long-envisioned project to connect the world through smiling. “It was hard for me, too,” she said, “After my husband John Lennon passed away, and I tried to smile for my health.”

She suggested we could begin as she did, at first in front of a mirror smiling at ourselves. Initially, Yoko continued, her wide smile felt phony, but the more she practiced, the more natural and real it became. Now she wants the whole world to smile and believes that can lead to peace.

Personally, I’ve always smiled a lot, but after listening to Yoko, I reexamined how I smile. I thought back to an incident in nursing school when I greeted a classmate with my usual wide open smile and a cheerful “good morning” at our 6:30 AM morning inspection. Her response was scathing. “You don’t know how much you depress me every morning with that big smile. It’s way too early for that.” As an impressional nineteen year old, I was stung by her comment stung, and couldn’t help worrying whether others saw me as she did. As a result, I think, I developed a restrained polite business kind of smile, reserving my full on grin for those I knew well.

Yoko inspired me. Yesterday, I gave the sad looking young man pumping my gas a wide sincere smile. “Thanks and have a real good day,” I said. His down turned lips turned up, his shoulders straightened and he gifted me with a full grin. “No problem and you have a great day, too.” As I pulled out of the gas station, I felt my spirit lift.

Yoko's right. Like their bed-in so many years ago,  her smile campaign is an intriguing idea and one that captures our imagination, but this time, unlike the bed in, we can all take part. I know I’ll be better giving my all to every person I meet.

I think you will, too. So give someone a smile today and if you’re alone give it to yourself. I like to think if John Lennon was still here he might add, “Give peace a chance, one smile at a time.”

Stopping the Clock

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.  William Faulkner                                                         

Whether you work from home or are retired, if you’re like me, you probably find days melt into each other without any break in your daily routine. When I still worked in an office environment, there was a clear divide with my Saturdays and Sundays sacrosanct set apart from the daily, humdrum tasks of the Monday through Friday week.

Time for a change: Will, my significant other, and I decide to take action. No more of this! Taking a pencil, we draw a large “X” through one day of every week for the next several months. This would be our special “take a break” day. No doctor’s appointments or grocery shopping or weed pulling would take precedence of our time out.

We float out ideas—a movie, special, long lunches at those places we never seem to find time to try, window shopping with no clear mission of buying anything unless we feel like it, long walks on the beach and even driving out for an ice cream cone—lots of good stuff that never seems to happen since as John Lennon said so well, “life happens while we’re busy making plans.”

Eliminating reminders of time: No more time to wait; we’re serious about this now. Ready, set, action. One of our ideas is to schedule a day without time—no knowledge of clocks, that is, as William Faulkner suggests. Get up when we wake up, eat when we’re hungry, and let the day unfold as it will. Then, we begin to think of what we’ll need to eliminate from our lives to make time stand still.

Let’s see: no TV, no computer. Mask the clocks, put the watches in a drawer. Okay, we’re all set. No, wait a minute. No cell phone, either. No house phone. It, too, gives us the time. Oops, don’t forget the microwave or the stove.

“Well,” Will reasons, “We can always drive down to the end of our island, walk on that part of the beach where we always find some sea glass. There’s no clocks there.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “we’ll have to mask the clock in the car the night before.”

We realize that clocks are just about everywhere and very hard to escape. Still, we’re going to do it. Soon! We just need to find time to eliminate all signs of time. Fortunately, we’re feeling pretty confident we’ve identified all the possible spoilers of our plan.

We go out into the garden to ponder and think just when we should give this experiment a try. It’s a sunny May afternoon and we realize we still can’t escape a clock. There sits our sundial blabbing the time….

We giggle and realize what’s most important is not the presence of the clocks in our lives, but how we choose to live within our own time. As Golda Meir said so succinctly, “We must govern the clock, not be governed by it.”

Taking a Leap of Faith

It’s hard to hold onto hope sometimes, to continue to believe life is good when we see so much evidence to the contrary. War, unemployment, violence, and even the lack of common civility can wear us out. Yet this is the time in which we live so it’s important to look forward and not get dragged down by all the bad news we read on the Internet and see on the TV.

 Personally, I’ve always thought myself as an optimist, the possessor of the proverbial half full glass rather than the half empty, but I still sometimes find it hard to be upbeat. And with my winter goal of sending out query letters to literary agents, my usual cheerful view somehow became lost despite the warm Florida sun. Each polite rejection form letter seemed like another weight on my mood and I couldn’t wrap my psyche around enough positive energy to even write a blog entry. Instead, I resorted to sitting in the sun, scribbling some attempts at writing poetry and a mystery, and reading lots of novels.

My mood shift began when I chose a different route through downtown Fort Pierce and saw an amazing sculpture. A man high up on a diving board stood poised to dive into a tree filled with roses.

For the rest of the day I reflected on the significance of this lovely and intriguing piece of art. Such an optimistic image, I thought. Imagine viewing a lovely sight of flowers waiting for you while knowing those beautiful blooms would also hold thorns that might pierce your joy.

The figure is an average sort, a little thick in the waist, perhaps past his prime—an older man and one who wouldn’t jump as a younger person would. No, this man would definitely think before he takes a plunge.

Later, I research the sculpture and discover it’s entitled, “A Leap of Faith,” by a local artist, Pat Cochran. Commissioned in 2009, the statue illustrates the small quaint town’s determination to look forward with optimism rather than surrender to the downturned economy. It’s their symbol for taking a leap of faith by continuing to support the arts and add culture to the downtown and riverfront areas. 

As I reflect about what it means to take a leap of faith, I realize it’s something we face often in our daily lives—both big and small decisions require us to do so. Writing and sharing our  thoughts with others involves taking a leap of faith, a trust that requires moving out of our comfort zone. We sit down at the keyboard or take a pencil in hand and believe the words will come. We write our synopsis and query letter and send it off with hope that just maybe this time, this will be the one that clicks. 

Like the man on the diving board, looking out at all the beautiful albeit possibly hurtful outcomes, without taking that risk, we remain trapped looking at all the possibilities in our lives. The man stands on the edge, but somehow, I have no doubt that he intends to “take the plunge.” And like him, taking that leap of faith doesn’t mean jumping blindly; we, too, must recognize our choices will entail some lovely flowers, but possibly some painful outcomes as well.     

Here’s a few things that you might find helpful when you consider taking a leap of faith:

1.     Listen to your inner voice.

2.     Believe in yourself and your choices.

3.     Seek people who support you.

4.     Face your fears.

5.     Trust you will learn, whatever the outcome.

Most of all, stay upbeat and when in doubt, repeat the encouraging words of John Burroughs, “Leap and the net will appear.”

                                                                                      

 

Life: One Stitch at a Time

"Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a rose by and by. Life is like that - one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out out all right like the embroidery."
~ Oliver Wendall Holmes

One of the nicest aspects of sewing, for me, is the way it frees up my mind to muse while still feeling productive. It’s also a great way to “watch” TV! Cross stitch is one of those sewing crafts I love to do. Recently, a friend asked me how I could sit for hours making little X’s on a blank cloth. “There’s more to it than simply making X’s,” I said. “Why, you can learn a lot of what you need to live well just by reading the common cross stitch directions.”

Here’s my version of life seen through the directions for successful cross stitching:

1. Read all the instructions before beginning. Take time to plan before you start anything – whether you’re considering buying a home, changing your job, or even choosing a new insurance policy, check out the fine print. Know as much as you can before making your decision.

2. Bind or tape the edges to prevent fraying. Make sure your emotional edges are bound by the love and support of your family and friends. Then if life threatens to overcome you, you won’t fall apart. Build up your binding by showing your love for others; at the same time, you can be the tape for theirs as well.

3. Sort and label the thread with the corresponding color and symbol. Just like cross stitch, sometimes our life choices get confused. Sometimes, two choices, like the colors of thread seem to blend into each other, creating the illusion that there is little or no difference. Put aside the colors of your choices until another day when fresh light helps you see the fine shades of each.

4. Find the center of the design. Find your center, your core. Get to know who you really are. Turn off your cell phone, take a walk by yourself, learn to meditate. Most importantly, have some time in solitude and quiet so you can get to know your inner self. The you’ll be able to create something beautiful.

5. When your thread becomes twisted, let your needle hang free and allow the yarn to resume its natural state. When life feels too complicated or your anxiety level threatens to ruin your life tapestry, let the pressures go. Come to a stop and let your mind rest. It won’t solve any problems, but your ability to cope will improve.

6. Cross all stitches in the same way. Be consistent in your outlook. Treat others fairly as you wish to be treated so the pattern of your life will be smooth and even.

7. Count and recount as you go. Review your life on a regular basis.. It’s always easier to change course when you do so. While John Lennon says in a song, “life is what happens when you’re busy making plans,” reviewing your direction as it’s happening offers some ability to adjust your trajectory.
8. Small errors in counting do not change the look of the design and shouldn't be given a second thought. Be kind to yourself and don’t judge yourself or others too harshly. We all make mistakes and small errors will not mar the overall pattern of life.

9. Large errors should be carefully taken out without damaging the thread and then restitched. When you make a large misstep, don’t despair. Consider how the damage can be corrected then fix it as best you can. Handled carefully, the problems of life can be managed and the beauty of your life’s design preserved even stronger when patched well.

10. More than enough material is included, provided instructions are carefully followed. This last rule is so important! Eat right, sleep enough, and follow the nine preceding rules. Recognize that you have been given one body to last a lifetime and your psyche has a lot to do with how that body prospers. If you don’t waste your life’s material, hopefully, it should last as long as needed.
Yes, I muse, while I stitch the last rose in a basket of roses, cross stitch offers us a metaphor for all we need to enjoy life plus we are left with gifts we can pass on to others. And besides, it sure beats actually watching TV!

Flowers of Winter

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

 

Every December, as Christmas approaches and the end of the year draws near, for me, is a time of reflection, a looking back. Generally, this contemplative time begins after the shopping and mailing of packages is completed. But this year, my annual life review threatened to sabotage the necessary tasks that come with the holiday.  Daydreaming replaced concentrated, organized gift selection!

I blame the change on my neighbor, Harry, a consummate gardener whose talents we enjoy all summer from our front deck. The day before Thanksgiving, he brought over brought over an armful of roses from his still flowering garden. We were enjoying a wonderfully warm fall, even eating lunch in the sunny protected corner of our porch. "Hard to believe they're still growing," he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Hard to believe, but wonderful, too." I clipped the stems and placed the bouquet in a green vase on my dining room table. In the next few weeks, I passed by the roses a lot. Each time I did, I thought how comforting it was to see them bloom this time of year.

As the temperature dipped and we moved further into December, Harry's bouquet brought to mind Barrie's wonderful quote and my thoughts turned to how increasingly important the role memory takes as we get older. Not that I'm done making memories—not by a long shot, I hope! After all, I'm only seventy now. I still cling to the autumn years of my life, with their wonderful lingering warmth from my summer season.

I like to think the winter of my life is still far from away, but based on how rapidly my life has gone thus far, I know the approaching winter of my life is much closer than I want to believe. Sometimes, I wonder about what it will be like once my winter fully arrives.

We visit a senior center once a month to do a program entitled, "Remember When." These seniors (older than I am, of course!) are firmly entrenched definitely in the winter of their lives. They prefer sharing their memories, memories evoked by old the movies, events, and songs of their summer years, mostly the forties and fifties, rather than their later years. I learn from them that the days ahead can also be filled with joy and laughter, but most of all, bolstered by the memories that keep us warm.

Here's a few nonscientific things I've come to believe about how memory works as we get older:

• Memory is fluid and dynamic, ever changing. Each memory takes on a different hue, tone, and meaning when we view it from a distance created by time.
• Memory is a way of holding onto the things we love. It tells us who we are in our innermost self, and is tied to things we never want to lose. As a result, it only a natural evolution that we find it holds so much a larger part in our lives as we age.
• Memory is the book we write in the silence of our hearts. And like writers, we can discover the freedom to alter our history and tell it a little more like we wanted it to be. Have you ever noticed how the fish in any fisherman's tale gets larger with each telling?
• Memories, like the proverbial fine wine, improve with age. And as we get older, we gradually may become the only one who is the memory keeper of our family. An awesome, but joyful thing to contemplate!
• Memory is selective. As Austin O'Malley notes, "Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food. Nora Ephron speaks of this in her new book, "I Remember Nothing." Have you ever searched your mind for details of some neamingul event in your life and come up blank, yet you can remember an incident that would appear to have no significance whatsoever in the broad schematic of life?
• Memory, like the sea glass we find on the beach, holds fragments that we treasure without reason. Or as Cesare Pavese (The Burning Brand) says so well, "We do not remember days; we remember moments."
• Memory of our childhood remains imprinted in our memory bank for all of our lives. Sometimes, I ask myself why I remember all the details of my elementary school yet scarcely remember the hallways of the college I attended when I was forty years old?
• Memory of bad moments come mostly in the middle of the night. Have you had any of those moments when what you failed to do or did haunt you?

Bob Hope always finished his performances with a song called, "Thanks for the memories." Yet, memories are the flowers of our winter and it would be a very cold time without them. And like the roses of winter, they keep us warm. They're what we're made of and what we're left with.