The Postscript

If anyone asked me for advice on how to write a book, I wouldn’t bother talk to them about grammar or plot. I’ll tell them they need a good place write, because it’s going to take a very long time. Sitting hunched up at the kitchen table where you have to pack up your stuff every time a meal is served is no good. It’s important to have a place to do one’s work—especially if the work you’re doing d...

Everything is the same and different at the same time. I talked with Oscar, a local artist, and he told me how he had fewer students, the restaurants were empty, the weather was unpredictable, and city politics were unstable.

The Robin seemed to have outlived its usefulness. It was lost on several occasions, only to be discovered months later in a pile of mail or under a bed. Finally, it disappeared for good. No one knew who had the final batch of letters in their possession. The Round Robin never resurfaced, and that was several years ago.

A man told me he was turning 90 later this year. When he heard a character in my book had a passionate romance at 86, he said he thought 86 was kind of young. I promised him that the next romance I wrote would involve mature adults.

There were very few cars on the road and a lot of deer. I drove slowly and counted five deer either crossing the road in front of me or standing, undecided, on the shoulder, looking like they might make a dash for it. Then I saw a giant furry rump heading off the road and into the ditch, and knew the only thing that big was a black bear.

I don’t believe that anything is fated to be. I think there are infinite ways our lives could go, and enormous changes happen as a result of very small and seemingly inconsequential actions.

Five adults, four of them over ninety, sat transfixed by this little caterpillar zooming overhead in circles.

We all put on life jackets and piled into the pontoon boat. I still wasn’t sure why I was getting on a boat. I couldn’t quite understand why a boat was necessary for a book club. I realized that I was feeling a little grumpy.

Sequins on a person my age are a sign that I do not take myself too seriously. But they also say that I don’t mind shining when the occasion is right. Sequins tell the audience that, yes, this is a special occasion. We are telling stories, and that is always special.

The habits that define me are both good and bad. I consume too much social media, and it shapes how I view the world. I eat a lot of vegetables and I become healthier. I started meditating, and now I feel unsettled if I don’t do it regularly. If I practiced my Spanish, I would become a Spanish speaker—but I don’t.

I had no idea how the story would end, and I was filled with this massive fear that when I got to the end, it would be terrible, or there would be no ending, or the book would never be finished.

I admired how Isabelle was ready for the next demanding day at kindergarten. At some point early on, Isabelle had grasped the idea that the future was something that could be planned, and she ran with it.

I hadn’t been swimming in a long time. Sometimes it feels like a nuisance to get wet. Sometimes I get self-conscious putting on a bathing suit. Usually, I fret that the water will be too cold. I chicken out and take a walk instead.

“You are such a good dog! Aren’t you just a perfect dog?” I ask them. And the dogs agree that I am correct—they are all perfect dogs.

The stage is high, so I am right at shoe level. The shoes in musicals are amazing. Tap shoes and dance shoes and shoes covered in sequins. One show had heels that were actually small disco balls.

I know immigrants came for many reasons—to start businesses and escape oppression and to avoid starvation. But, as far as I know, my ancestors were in search of better dirt. And they found it.

I walk down the sidewalks, admiring these lovely houses, often at night, and sometimes I even peep through the windows. It’s hard not to when the windows are large and the lights are on. (My friend Verne calls me a Peeping Tom, and he may be just a little bit right.)

Peter doesn’t think the day of his birth is anything to celebrate. He’s happy to celebrate my birthday, but he says he should get to do what he wants to do on his birthday. And what he wants to do is not celebrate. So that’s what we do.

I was once told by a reliable source (my brother-in-law) that I must never get a fitness tracker because watching the numbers click up for every step I took would become a mad compulsion.

On a weekday, I was passing by the rectory. I didn’t know what a rectory was until I googled it and learned this was where the priests lived. A man in his thirties came out the door. He was not wearing a clerical collar, but I figured if he lived in the rectory, he would have to know what was going on. So I pounced.

We got the dock into the water. It was a little cattywampus, but it was more or less ready for another season. “I might need to get a kid to help me with some things this fall,” my dad said, as if this was a major concession at 92.

I remember the sweetness of Laura Ingalls Wilder describing Pa playing the fiddle by firelight in the middle of the Wisconsin woods, and I remember the horror of Hans Christian Anderson describing the house where the witch lived at the bottom of the sea, built with the bones of drowned sailors.

I have no idea how a goose landed on our balcony, 10 stories in the air. Landing on a narrow railing—even with a potted plant as a landing pad—demonstrates a kind of agility I honestly didn’t think geese were capable of.

In elementary school, I was never asked to jump rope. Jumping rope was popular when I was in elementary school, and I was not. I watched the girls jump and knew two things: I would never be asked, and I would be terrible at jumping rope if I were asked.

I think it’s important to celebrate the milestones in life. I don’t think a celebration needs to involve buying anything larger than a loon plush toy, or anything fancier than a plate of spaghetti with an old friend, but I think it’s important.