A couple of weeks ago, my eight-year-old and I visited family in Portland, Oregon. One of my few specific hopes for the weekend was that we’d make it to Powell’s bookstore. This we did–and then some!
In addition to visiting the main “city of books,” I was able to make a side trip. Early on, Rache (the sister I was visiting) and I separated from my brother, my brother-in-law, and the kiddos to put ourselves in queue for Slappy Cakes.* We were told to expect a table in 75 to 90 minutes. To me, that seemed an absurdly long time to wait, but (1) it was Rache’s birthday and (2) she needed her some Slappy Cakes!
Thank goodness for her insistence, and the length of our wait!
We ended up passing time by strolling through an Oregon drizzle. Our stroll took us by Powell’s on Hawthorne, which looked small from the outside but seemed to stretch a mile back. Continue reading “Building Pyramids”
My husband and I took two separate trips to the bookstore on our Monday anniversary date. The first time was planned. I left with three non-fiction books, while Anthony picked up a couple of handsomely bound classics.
Our second trip was meant to be a strictly bathroom-only trip. It’s silly we should have, even briefly, imagined we’d walk out without more books. One who loves books does not simply walk into a bookstore to use the bathroom and depart. Nope.
One book that caught my eye was Canadian Adrian Barnes’s Nod. After reading the back, I knew I’d be buying it.
Dawn breaks over Vancouver and no one in the world has slept the night before, or almost no one. A few people, perhaps one in ten thousand, can still sleep, and they share the same golden dream. Continue reading “Horror & redemption”
In my July 2011 post “Dead Moms Can’t Care,” I wrote:
The costs of providing health care to those who can’t afford it themselves may not be miniscule. But the costs of not providing it? Those are even worse. Those costs include children left to literally live out their childhood in boxes. I tutored those children my final year of law school. They include the children left to foster care, which is sadly often more full of villains than heroes. They include two grown daughters holding their mom tight as she breathes her pained last breaths at 52–in part because she rightfully feared the consequences of the cost of health care–and the grandchildren who will never feel her love firsthand as a result.
My just-younger sister Rachael was one of the two grown daughters in the last sentence. She handled getting our mom onto low-income government insurance, taking Mom to appointments, and battling errant bills such as the one that inspired my 9/14/09 tweet here.
Two years ago, I wrote this about how Rache lifted Mom into the light: Continue reading “Silver Star strikes again”