I ordered a bottle of hand lotion from Amazon but forgot all about it until it arrived. That’s so unlike me since I view their deliveries as the equivalent of Christmas morning, all-year-long. I unwrapped it and studying the label, wondered why I ordered it… but as soon as I pumped some onto my hands, the scent brought it all back to me.
I used it in the elegant restroom at The Peabody Hotel in Memphis. We’d experienced lots of cold, dry weather and my hands were paying the price. Sitting beside the basket of plush hand towels stood a bottle of Molton Brown hand lotion. I applied some and absolutely swooned.
As my sixth decade approaches I find myself obsessed with the preserving of memories. Especially the memories of loved ones that have passed before me. It’s been important for me to document our lives for those we’ll eventually leave behind. Not only our personal information, but our first-hand-accounts of historical events and how we reacted to them.
Eighteen-years-ago my brother was murdered. He was 26.
Not disregarding all of the years spent playing with my Mom’s laundry basket as a child, my love affair with baskets began in earnest in 1971, when my mother-in-law gave me a handwoven wicker basket full of baby products for my newborn son. Continue Reading
We were at the pier in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and so, so young. I watched off to the side as my boyfriend negotiated with the street vendor and eventually wore him down.
“The guy wanted $10,” he told me, holding the kalimba in his hand as he walked back to me. I would have gone down to $6, but I got it for $4!”
I would have just pulled a $10-dollar bill out of my pocket because I hated to negotiate as much as it fueled him. Continue Reading