A beautiful  young Royal Frost Birch is now in sight: our dual tribute to my beloved mother and adored father-in-law.  They both lived their lives in ways that had an enormous impact on others, and we’re sure they would have smiled  together at the sight of the tree we planted for them.  The birch has always been my favorite — and this one, unlike the white barked trees that I wrote letters on during camp days, is darker toned with burgundy leaves that will turn orange come fall.  And — in a couple of weeks or so, my father will be a few doors down from my mother-in-law in a...

My mother died on April 5, 2012.  Her last words to my father were:  “I love you.”  And oh did she love him, in her ineffable way, for 69 years — and she also loved her  children and children-in-law and her grandchildren, and her sister and cousins and their children, nieces and nephews, and her numerous longtime friends, and colleagues from her career as a dance therapist.  I can hear her oldest friends calling “Ruthie” to her.  And now I am without her, but filled with so many memories of our dialogue that sustains her wisdom and grace for me.  My mother...

I still remember when my father told us that his ad agency had hired a kid to write copy.  At last, somebody around my age to chat with on my next visit.   At the time, my father was in his early 40’s and we saw age distinctions differently. It turned out that by kid my father meant someone in his late 20’s — which at my age seemed practically middle-aged. Who’s old and who’s young depends largely on how old you are.   Someone in her seventies doesn’t seem as old to me as it once did  — especially when my spot in the 50’s lane grows more and more...

“Weave, weave, weave me the sunshine out of the falling rain. Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow and fill my cup again.”  (Peter Yarrow, 1972) You may have noticed the campaign button on top of my home page.  Al’s name pops up in my bio and my 36 Days blog, too.  He was my boss/hero during the Summer of ’78,  when I joined his Congressional Primary brigade as a $40 a week staffer, answering phones, fanning the NY  heat, helping pedestrians decide.  We watched Al turn his rival upside down in debates and  interrupted each other enthusiastically at Puffing Billy.  When...

I am surrounded by my mother’s work. Weavings hang on every wall,  a pastel creature that once smiled above my son’s crib now rests on stand-by.  Her sculpture roars in her apartment far away.  She told me once that when she was little, she drew pictures long into night.  My brother keeps her sketch of Abe Lincoln,  that could have been a photograph.  Her eye brought balance to what surrounded her, even the way she entered a room. I remember a pink empire raincoat she wore to the ballet, moving on to poodley fabrics and orange knit suits. And then, later in time, she followed her...