Monthly Archives: May 2024

#SistersinLaw

What a day to see #SistersInLaw on stage — Joyce Vance, Jill Wine-Banks, Kimberly Atkins Stohr, and Barbara McQuade — the very same evening that a NY jury found Trump guilty on all 34 counts! He is now a convicted felon.

It softened me to the pundits’ late arrival — presumably they had to rejigger their comments.

My friend and I were checking the Times and Twitter as we headed to town on the Pike. Scroll scroll. Verdict in! Scroll scroll. Alvin Bragg just entered the courtroom. Scroll scroll. The judge’s clerk has entered. Scroll again. A slip of paper! And then boom. Boom, 34 times. It was one of those — I’ll always remember where I was when moments. At the Copley exit with Ellen.

Of course the mood was high at the Shubert Theatre. The podcast/lawyers got a standing O as they took the stage. Oh, so much joy! It was hard to tell how much excitement was fandom and how much was ebullience at trump finally being held accountable. Who cares? Hallelujah!

It was nice to share that moment as a collective.

They discussed the NY verdict, an electorate still inclined to vote for trump, the problem of Alito and Thomas, the need for court reform, and Aileen Cannon (just so you know, this was a crowd that could also BOO).

Maybe Cannon is on the verge of (finally) being forced to make a ruling that Jack Smith will be able to appeal. I’m not holding my breath.

Barb McQuade occasionally called out the baseball scores (the Sox were playing Detroit. Barb is from Michigan). She was borderline hilarious, kind of a surprise given her TV persona.

Most of the discussion, no matter the topic, landed here: Vote.

Vote, vote, vote.

I’ve heard the podcast drops on Saturday. Of course I’ll listen.

Theatre is near Chinatown. We ate nearby and poked around in a grocer before the show.

Today is more quiet. I’m rereading my manuscript (for the umpteenth time). I found three typos during the hand-off for formatting and graphic design. I know I’ll miss a couple even with this latest effort.

The good news? I find the writing tight, smooth, interesting. Not sure why this continues to surprise me but it does.

Time and the streets of Florence

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We didn’t spend all of our time as a foursome. Often the kids went off on their own.

“I’ve got to stop calling them that,” my husband announced, but what else to call them? Younger son not yet 30, girlfriend, younger yet.

Nothing about the rhythm of apartness caused grievance or disappointment. Perhaps that surprised me. But one haunting moment lingers even now.

We are on the street. Picture a throng on either side where people are shoulder to shoulder — a veritable river of human beings. Girlfriend wears a sweet straw hat, making her generally visible even in a crowd. But on this particular afternoon as they set off, I must have looked down for a moment, possibly at my phone — a trusty travel companion, that device — and when I looked up again there were gone. They had melted into the crowd on their way somewhere.

For all intents and purposes, they had disappeared. Their separation from us and forward movement and disappearance carried the weight and mystery and sadness of time in it. At that moment, they were literally walking into an afternoon, a future, unknowable to me. . . like they will today and tomorrow and the moment I am gone.

Unexpected gifts

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From the garden!

From Pam Sorrells (@PBSorrells on Instagram). You should read about her process because it’s really cool and involves burial.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C7KnCAzpjZ9/?igsh=Y3lwYXdvYXU4cHQ1

I commented that I really liked the piece on one of her Instagram posts and she gave it to me! Such an incredibly nice gesture.

I suppose part of what drew me to her cloth book was the way that one flap, when lifted, gave the piece a resemblance to a house.

Anyway, it has a delicate hand, which surprised me.

Thank you garden! Thank you Pam!

A lesson in pie crust

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It was too shaggy. It barely held together when being shaped into disks for the fridge. Rolling the dough out later was tricky and getting in into the pie pan, trickier still. It was friable, cohering with mashing and not finesse.

And yet. And yet! It turned out to be delicious, making for one marvelous quiche and one delicious apple pie.

What’s the lesson here? Something about the perils of relying on the standards of previous efforts, perhaps. Something about holding low expectations…

I know I’m home because I’m typing to jackhammering.

I know I’m home because I didn’t sleep well two nights last week.

I know I’m home because the garden calls like a Siren.

I know I’m home because I’m looking forward to writing with my Tuesday writers this morning.

Back to dog walks. Back to really tasty salads.

My son returned to Colorado with Covid. If biting your tongue made a sound (regarding masks, which he not once wore), he would hear it from Massachusetts. How hard is it? I truly don’t understand. It wasn’t just him — in almost every mode of transport and crowded venue, I was the only person masked.

Lest you think me extreme, a woman coughed (goopy, wet) for all six hours of this flight. About five rows back. It did not sound like she was even bothering to cover her mouth.

Washed, pressed, ready to cut for sachets!

PS. Flight was a red-eye and the coverup helped me sleep too.

Uffizi: the myth of Niobe

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There is an entire room in the Uffizi dedicated to the Niobe myth. If you don’t know (and I didn’t), she was the mother of seven sons and seven daughters who bragged about her fertility in front of Leto. Leto was the mother of a mere two — the twins Apollo and Artemis — but was a goddess and, as gods and goddesses will do, took offense.

What a bloodbath ensued!

Niobe’s children trying to escape the deadly wrath of Leto

Leto’s son, Apollo, killed all seven of Niobe’s sons, while Artemis killed all of her daughters. Niobe’s husband either committed suicide or was also killed. Niobe was left devastated and alone. Zeus took pity on her and turned her to rock, but the myth tells us that even then tears streamed down her stony face.

When you enter the spacious room, it takes a minute to understand what you are seeing. I read a card or two and looked again. And then there was no mistaking the terror and panic.

Pattern and Outrage : Dee Mallon

cloth, justice, writing, and food