It Must Be Spring

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Those of us who live year-round on Cape Cod don’t pay much attention to spring, because we seldom actually see one. We maintain our winter rawness until at some point we start to sweat—and then we know it must be summer.

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When Mom comes up short

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Is it a sin to compare your mother to someone else’s, and deem your Mom wanting?

I did that last week, and, because of it, I discovered an unrealized part of myself.

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We are our recipes

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The gabbing old women were waiting for me outside the Ukrainian church on Easter morning like harpies intent on eating my insides for breakfast.

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Will time tell?

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“How did it get so late so soon?”

This whimsical question attributed to Dr. Seuss grows less whimsical as we grow older and stake out our place in the geography of time.

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The rib-eye and I

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I remember learning in the fourth grade that humans have three fundamental needs: food, shelter, and clothing.

So why is my house, my personal shelter, fighting my efforts to feed myself?

What follows is a recipe for delicious, fool-proof, rib-eye steak . . . and the tale of my continuing battle to prepare it.

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Ten to read: novels I think you’ll love

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What do you do when your favorite English professor asks you to recommend books for him to read?

You sit down and put together a list tout de suite.

 

 

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How to be woke

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The Urban Dictionary defines “woke” as being aware of racial and social justice. Its meaning has more recently expanded to include every aspect of our lives.

Getting woke is like being in the Matrix movie and choosing the red pill. You suddenly understand what's really going on.

What woke me was last week's confluence of ridiculously warm Arctic temps, summer birds arriving on Cape Cod well ahead of schedule, and the life-threatening impact of a serious winter storm.

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DiY woman

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She used to be my Baby Girl. Now she is woman. Hear her roar.

She started as a dental hygienist, ran a catering company, raised three successful and loving sons, and started a second, post-Mom career. And she can fix just about anything.

Her name is Wendy. My daughter’s visit last week reminded me of what a rough road a lady must travel these days simply . . . to be.

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To satisfy the crowd

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Besides alcohol, drugs, tobacco, and sex, I’ve discovered a new addiction to worry about.

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“You’re dead to me.”

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“You’re dead to me.”

It’s an Old English vituperative declaration that you are disowned, never to be seen or heard again.

Why am I writing this painful story today? Because my own brother declared me dead to him more than four decades ago—and I have just learned why.

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