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...

From my muse — for you to ponder, too. More on the subject of beloved caregivers to follow soon. www.democracyjournal.org/24/a-subsidy-for-dignity.php?page=all

My mother was so deft with a needle.  Living room curtains, my turquoise poodle skirt, an unusual outfit for my Barbie — all spun out of her head into our lives.  Impeccably knit sweaters, bronze sculptures, then on to her calling:  weavings that lend grace where they’re hung.  I’ve written about my mother, who at 95 is now caught in the Alzheimer’s web.  Unfortunately,  my DNA receptors stepped out of the room when the natural transfer of textile talent might have occurred. I forgive myself too quickly when I lose knitting stitches and carry on — head high, results...

I really should have paid better attention to how to make the new television work.  My parents’ main caregiver was gone for the day, and I was so elated over the price I paid for the  replacement, that I never caught on to the ABC’s.  Where’s my old Zenith?  And so, when the new tv was connected to Florida cable, and I was handed two remote controls, I did my best — which just wasn’t quite good enough.  My father looked on, pleased to have a familiar source of entertainment back in his living room, while I studied the controls and, like an astronaut in space for the...