Author of The Sparrow Sisters
The forsythia is blooming so it’s time to prune the roses and plant some new ones. Of course, the forsythia starting blooming just as a whole wad of snow fell so I’m not entirely confident I can use this old gardener’s rule this year. Never mind, I’m hauling out the compost, the loppers, the shovels and the bonemeal and hoping for the best!
Dahlias, darling
My children are grown now so we missed the Elf on a Shelf extravaganza. And, no I am not sorry. Not that we didn’t have our own, certainly less KGB, elf tradition. It began with my father. But really, it began with his five sisters and three brothers on a tobacco farm in 1930s North Carolina. There wasn’t a lot of money in this big family but there was a lot of love. The older children looked out for the younger right down to making sure the magic and mystery of Christmas, elves and all, was never forgotten. They are all gone now; my father was the last. But, they left me with a lasting love of the season and an unshakeable belief in the power of family love.
Don’t be fooled by that smile
As you may have noticed my old blog, All Stories Are True, has migrated over here to my shiny new website. Those of you who have followed me in the past know that I disappeared for awhile there. My last blog post was on the death of my father and then…nothing. Part of what I called ‘the big blank’ is because my family was digesting the huge change that came with Dandy’s passing. Part of it was because our family itself was changing: adjusting to life back in America, graduating college kids, new high school daughter, new puppy, new house. My husband commuted to London for over two years and every Herrick, big and small was a little upside down and inside out. Finally, I was writing The Sparrow Sisters, or at least trying to.
Long, long ago in a United Kingdom far away a thirteen-year-old girl (a thoroughly unpleasant age for all involved) prepared for a weeklong skiing holiday in Austria (as you do). She asked her mother, who was staying behind in London (already giddy with the prospect of solitude and books, books, books), “What will you DO while we’re away?”
“Why, I’ll be suspended here awaiting your return, of course,” her mother replied. Because, really, isn’t that what they all thought? To her daughter she was either a complete numpty or utterly indispensible but as in most things, the truth lay somewhere in between.