Dear Samantha,
I got side-tracked earlier (told you that happens to me when I write!) because I meant to tell you a little about the Cavanaugh family Thanksgiving traditions. They are very important, dear Samantha, so just in case you have to plan things without my expert guidance some day, these are the things you should know about Thanksgiving.
We always have turkey. It has never mattered that I don’t really like turkey, and neither did my father, actually. It’s traditional to have turkey, so we do. I understand that, I’m as interested in tradition as the next guy. I only wish we could occasionally have something else too, even some thick slices of a good smoked ham would be fine. But turkey it is, with sage and cornbread dressing (made with real cornbread, baked from scratch and still hot from the over when it’s made into the stuffing). Baked oysters, with a butter bread crumb topping, my mother’s nod to her eastern seaboard ancestors. Sliced sweet potatoes, sprinkled with nutmeg and cinnamon. Mashed potatoes, creamy smooth and brought to the table with a little crater in the center where a pat of butter sits melting happily. Parkerhouse rolls, also made from scratch, all tufted and brown on the top. Fruit salad, a concoction only Richard’s mother could make, with canned fruit cocktail, imprisoned in layers of strawberry and lime Jello, then covered with a blanket of Cool Whip.
And dessert – of course, the (again traditional) pumpkin and apple pies, but also Richard’s grandmother’s Scottish shortbread, a truly mouth watering little cookie that tastes like pure squares of sweet butter. Hot coffee, lightened with just a whisper of Bailey’s Irish Cream.
So much for the food, which today was in the very capable culinary hands of your own mother. I hope you were taking notes in there, dear Samantha, so that someday you’ll be able to carry on the Thanksgiving meal time feast.
The cast of characters at the Cavanaugh family holiday table is also quite traditional. As I think about the Thanksgivings of the past, it was always my parents (my mother usually presided over the affair so she could show off her Royal Doulton and her Waterford), Richard’s parents, who managed to keep their bickering on ice for all of about 5 minutes, Richard’s sister Louise, who usually got a page to rush over to the hospital, where there was always a shortage of doctors on holidays, leaving her husband Roger to mind their three obnoxious boys. Of course, my mother’s sister Yvonne and her spinster daughter, Kathryn, whom I’m quite sure was a lesbian, although my mother would never entertain that suggestion. I mean, she had the Rosie O’Donnell haircut in 1982, for God’s sake! And, of course, Richard and I, and your mother.
Wow, I’d almost forgotten about all the people that used to gather for Thanksgiving. It was quite a big deal in those days, wasn’t it? Out would come the best china, and the crystal goblets, along with my great grandmother’s silver service, which it often fell to me to polish. My father would make a least three trips to Hansen’s Wine Store, picking out just the right Pinot Grigio and Beaujolais to complement the turkey. I think Mr. Hansen let him do lots of sampling there in the shop’s basement wine cellar. I can just see the two of them, my dad wearing his favorite fall corduroy trousers and his old Northwestern sweat shirt, Mr. Hansen, who always dressed in brown or dark green, as if he were trying to camofloge himself in the colors of the vineyards. They’d stand around, taking delicate but manly sips of the various vintages, rolling them around on their tongues.
“Quite nice,” my father would say pensively, not yet ready to commit himself. After all, there were so many more to be tasted and tried, before choosing the perfect bottle!
“Here, Ted, try this estate bottled Pinot Noir from Grand Traverse Resort. It’s amazing what richness they’ve been able to get in the Great Lakes vineyards.”
Oh, that was another of my dad’s stipulations – on Thanksgiving, we served only American wines, preferably those from our own Great Lakes regional vinters.
So, he would while away a couple of hours at Hansen’s each afternoon on the weekend prior to the big holiday, and come home in an extremely good mood. He often bought an entire case of whatever his picks for the year were, and he and my mother would open a bottle for dinner that very evening.
As I think back on it, I have never really been in charge of Thanksgiving. My mother reigned supreme over holidays, and, Anne was always her chief apprentice. By the time Frances died, Anne was ready to take over, which was perfectly fine with me. Like I said, I’m no genius in the kitchen. My function during the holiday was much better suited to my taste and talent. Like a true daughter of the Renaissance, I provided the musical entertainment for the evening. I spent all my pre-holiday preparation putting together a real Age of Enlightenment style musical evening, complete with printed programs and recital hall style seating in my music room. When Anne was a teenager, I could usually convince her to sing something – she had a lovely, pure voice, one any 18th century maiden would have been proud to show off. A couple of little Mozart songs, maybe a Schubert, which she would perform flawlessly, her shoulders back, hands resting gently at her sides, her beautiful dark eyes flashing. I always played the crowd pleasers – Moonlight Sonata, some Chopin favorites – the Preludes, the Fantasie Impromptu – and usually ended my program with something flashy like Rondo a la Turk, or the Minute Waltz (played in a minute, which I encouraged people to time!) So, we’d have our little concert, along with an aperitif, and then some of the men would collapse in the den to watch football while the women cleaned up (how much more traditional can you get?)
That was Thanksgiving, back in the day. I’ve realized though, dear Samantha, how things have changed over the years, almost without me really seeing it. Of course, both my parents are gone now, my dad almost 20 years ago, and Frances, back in 1996. Richard’s parents have moved to Florida. Louise and Roger divorced long ago, before Richard and I, and neither one of them lives in this area at all. As for those obnoxious boys of theirs – I have no idea where they are or what they’re doing! My Aunt Yvonne lives in an assisted living facility (with a “special neighborhood for the memory impaired,” if you can believe that!) Kathryn, well, she’s living with her “friend,” a woman named Calista, out in the woods of Vermont where they make hand crafted furniture!
Now today’s Thanksgiving was a little different than it’s been for the past few years. Your mother has always insisted we do the full Cavanaugh dinner, even though recently there have only been she and Jonathan at the table. Sometimes Jonathan’s parents will be at home – many times they go on cruises for the holidays, a convenient way to opt out of any family functions – and they will join us. Anne likes to have the meal here, for some reason. She’s actually quite sentimental, although she probably wouldn’t want you to think so. But today, we had quite a crew. Anne and Jonathan, of course. Jonathan’s parents, Lisa and Robert, who are really interesting and well traveled people, also joined us. And, of course, you were here today, dear Samantha! I am actually starting to see signs of your presence, just a slight mound around your mom’s slender middle, but a growing mound nonetheless! Richard was here, too. It was good to share a holiday meal with my whole family – all that’s left of them.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
The Half-Way Point
We're a little over half way through the month, and I've certainly neglected my plan to continue chronicling the process here. Not surprising though, since I've been trying to keep up about a 2000 word a day output on the novel.
I'm at about 30,000 words, as of last night, which is just about on target. I changed course a little bit last week, when it occurred to me to have Ian return to Tara's life, and stay the course of her illness with her. This of course brings her into conflict with Anne, who has never quite forgiven Tara for her infidelity, which she felt led to the breakup of her parents marriage. I've just come to that point in the story now...
I didn’t tell Ian the whole story about the cancer until the next morning. I wanted us to have one glorious night together, one chance to enjoy everything about our reunion – body, mind, and spirit – without the specter of illness hanging over our heads. As the flames of the fire burned down, the flames within our hearts began to smolder and ignite, until soon we were wrapped in each others arms, so filled with warmth from the love that had returned to us, that we felt as if we could never be cold again.
How marvelous is the physical union between two people who share a meeting of the minds, as well as of the body. That’s what makes sex a marvel, dear Samantha. As you pass through your teen years, your hormones raging, it doesn’t seem to matter whether the spiritual connection is there, as long as the flesh is willing (which it always seems to be at that age!) As you get older, though, it’s the passion of the spirit that sparks passion in the body, and sex isn’t the same without that connection.
So, we definitely had our night, and after that I was sure that he was with me for better or worse. Of course, I loathed the fact that I had to tell him I was seriously ill, that in a matter of three weeks, my body would slide through a huge magnetic tube which would resonate images of my insides showing all the cancerous areas glowing brightly on the technicians computer screen. These pictures of the battlefield that was my body would show how much cancer had been destroyed by the chemotherapy, and how much remained, lying in wait, and ready to go in for the ultimate victory. I hated the fact that when he twined his fingers in my hair, his hands sometimes came away filled with strands of it, or that when I laughed a little too hard- which was so easy to do with him around! - I got horrible fits of coughing that left me breathless and totally exhausted. I hated that my once flat abdomen was now pouchy and tender, and that sometimes the weight of his body on mine was more painful than pleasurable.
For all those reasons, I hated to tell him – but, tell him I did. I suppose it was selfish of me to let him spend even one night with me, to even bring him home with me. I should have told him right there in the church, and sent him on his way, back to his safe life in Toronto, where his friends were healthy and had long lives ahead of them. But, forgive me dear Samantha, I seem to be nothing if not completely selfish where this man is concerned. I wanted to be with him once again, if only for one night.
“We must talk,” I said to him the next morning. We had finally gotten up and dressed – of course he had to put his tux pants and shirt back on, and it was strange to see his touseled hair and scruffy beard with the still sharp creases of his white shirt and crisp black trousers. I smiled and handed him some tea.
“What – no coffee?” he asked, surprised.
“I know you don’t drink coffee,” I answered, pouring tea into my own mug as well. “And I’m a bit off it myself these days.”
“I never thought I’d see the day you didn’t rise to a cup of coffee first thing in the morning,” he laughed. “You must be really sick!”
I didn’t answer his joking remark, knowing he was soon going to regret this attempt at humor.
“You are, aren’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m afraid I am.”
Ian sat in silence while I told him the whole story – the diagnosis coming from nowhere, the intense round of chemotherapy, the waiting now to find out if had halted, or at least contained, the march of this enemy through my system. When I finished, he leaned over and put his head in his hands. “Dear God, my darlin’ girl…” he whispered, barely able to go on.
“I am determined to think positively about this,” I said, as strongly and defiantly as I could manage. “I have read countless articles about the power of positive thinking in defeating cancer and other illnesses. You know I’m not a quitter, Ian,” I went on. “I will fight this tooth and nail!”
“And I’ll be here with you,” he said quietly. “Nothing will keep me away from you now.”
I laughed ruefully. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” I said. “You cannot stay here with me for the next however long it takes! Who knows what’s coming next? No, you have a life and a job in Toronto – you cannot just abdicate it all.”
“What life? I have a tiny apartment on Yonge Street where I go to take a shower and change my clothes. I eat most of my meals at the deli or the pub, I spend most of my time at the Hall, or at the University teaching. There are plenty of flutists out there subbing who can finish this season for me, and, after that, well, I’ll start looking for auditions around here.”
Continued protest appeared to be futile – he was determined, dear Samantha, I’ll have to give him that. And, to be totally honest, I surely wanted him to stay, wanted it with all my energy and strength.
So, it’s been decided, apparently. Ian will move in here with me and help me get through whatever happens next.
Now comes the really hard part…telling Anne Elizabeth.
Love endlessly,
TT
I'm at about 30,000 words, as of last night, which is just about on target. I changed course a little bit last week, when it occurred to me to have Ian return to Tara's life, and stay the course of her illness with her. This of course brings her into conflict with Anne, who has never quite forgiven Tara for her infidelity, which she felt led to the breakup of her parents marriage. I've just come to that point in the story now...
I didn’t tell Ian the whole story about the cancer until the next morning. I wanted us to have one glorious night together, one chance to enjoy everything about our reunion – body, mind, and spirit – without the specter of illness hanging over our heads. As the flames of the fire burned down, the flames within our hearts began to smolder and ignite, until soon we were wrapped in each others arms, so filled with warmth from the love that had returned to us, that we felt as if we could never be cold again.
How marvelous is the physical union between two people who share a meeting of the minds, as well as of the body. That’s what makes sex a marvel, dear Samantha. As you pass through your teen years, your hormones raging, it doesn’t seem to matter whether the spiritual connection is there, as long as the flesh is willing (which it always seems to be at that age!) As you get older, though, it’s the passion of the spirit that sparks passion in the body, and sex isn’t the same without that connection.
So, we definitely had our night, and after that I was sure that he was with me for better or worse. Of course, I loathed the fact that I had to tell him I was seriously ill, that in a matter of three weeks, my body would slide through a huge magnetic tube which would resonate images of my insides showing all the cancerous areas glowing brightly on the technicians computer screen. These pictures of the battlefield that was my body would show how much cancer had been destroyed by the chemotherapy, and how much remained, lying in wait, and ready to go in for the ultimate victory. I hated the fact that when he twined his fingers in my hair, his hands sometimes came away filled with strands of it, or that when I laughed a little too hard- which was so easy to do with him around! - I got horrible fits of coughing that left me breathless and totally exhausted. I hated that my once flat abdomen was now pouchy and tender, and that sometimes the weight of his body on mine was more painful than pleasurable.
For all those reasons, I hated to tell him – but, tell him I did. I suppose it was selfish of me to let him spend even one night with me, to even bring him home with me. I should have told him right there in the church, and sent him on his way, back to his safe life in Toronto, where his friends were healthy and had long lives ahead of them. But, forgive me dear Samantha, I seem to be nothing if not completely selfish where this man is concerned. I wanted to be with him once again, if only for one night.
“We must talk,” I said to him the next morning. We had finally gotten up and dressed – of course he had to put his tux pants and shirt back on, and it was strange to see his touseled hair and scruffy beard with the still sharp creases of his white shirt and crisp black trousers. I smiled and handed him some tea.
“What – no coffee?” he asked, surprised.
“I know you don’t drink coffee,” I answered, pouring tea into my own mug as well. “And I’m a bit off it myself these days.”
“I never thought I’d see the day you didn’t rise to a cup of coffee first thing in the morning,” he laughed. “You must be really sick!”
I didn’t answer his joking remark, knowing he was soon going to regret this attempt at humor.
“You are, aren’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m afraid I am.”
Ian sat in silence while I told him the whole story – the diagnosis coming from nowhere, the intense round of chemotherapy, the waiting now to find out if had halted, or at least contained, the march of this enemy through my system. When I finished, he leaned over and put his head in his hands. “Dear God, my darlin’ girl…” he whispered, barely able to go on.
“I am determined to think positively about this,” I said, as strongly and defiantly as I could manage. “I have read countless articles about the power of positive thinking in defeating cancer and other illnesses. You know I’m not a quitter, Ian,” I went on. “I will fight this tooth and nail!”
“And I’ll be here with you,” he said quietly. “Nothing will keep me away from you now.”
I laughed ruefully. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” I said. “You cannot stay here with me for the next however long it takes! Who knows what’s coming next? No, you have a life and a job in Toronto – you cannot just abdicate it all.”
“What life? I have a tiny apartment on Yonge Street where I go to take a shower and change my clothes. I eat most of my meals at the deli or the pub, I spend most of my time at the Hall, or at the University teaching. There are plenty of flutists out there subbing who can finish this season for me, and, after that, well, I’ll start looking for auditions around here.”
Continued protest appeared to be futile – he was determined, dear Samantha, I’ll have to give him that. And, to be totally honest, I surely wanted him to stay, wanted it with all my energy and strength.
So, it’s been decided, apparently. Ian will move in here with me and help me get through whatever happens next.
Now comes the really hard part…telling Anne Elizabeth.
Love endlessly,
TT
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Letters, Letters...
September 16, 2__________
Dear Samantha,
Those are very nasty pills Dr. Rex gave me. I was up most of the night feeling as if I were on one of those horrible rides at the amusement park that spin you round and round in circles. I just hope they’re giving those nasty cancer cells as much misery as they’re causing the rest of me.
For some reason, last night the Trout Quintet kept playing in my head. That thundering first chord just kept crashing in my ears, and then those skittering runs would shiver down my spine. That’s one of my favorite pieces of music in all the world, but last night, I wished Schubert had never written it!
The first time I heard the Trout was when I was in high school. Angela Sloan, my wonderful teacher, told me about a concert on the university campus where I could hear the Trout performed live by a really good group. “Camerata,” I believe was the name of the group. The pianist was a young woman from Toronto, with long dark hair that she had pulled back from her face with a big silver clip. She was probably Italian, now that I think about it – I don’t remember her name, but I do remember the intense love and concentration with which she came to her instrument. From the moment she sat down to the keys, she was no longer in the room. It was so obvious that the music transported her to some magical, mythical place, where only she and the other musicians could dwell. I was sitting close enough to watch her hands, and I remember thinking that they seemed kind of short and wide (like mine), not the sort of hands you would expect to be able to pull such vitality out of the Schubert. She led the group with such calm assurance. I could see the flitting glances between her and the first violinist, occasionally a quick half smile or nod, a gentle lean into the music prompting the momentum to increase.
Needless to say, dear Samantha, I was captivated. Not only by the music, but by the working relationship of this group, as they seemed to become alternately one instrument, and then splinter off into their separate parts like stars from a comet. Right then and there, I decided I had to be part of a group like that. I went back to school the next day and recruited two violinists from the school orchestra- Nancy Shaffer and Lisa Reston, and Karen D’Angelo on viola. Good solid musicians, but not inspired. It was David Estancia, the cellist, that added the extra spice we needed. God, he was so handsome! The olive skinned, dark haired good looks inherited from his Portuguese forefathers, along with their spicy temperament and fiery passion for art and music. I think he had ancestors who were Flamenco guitarists and dancers. When he sat down and pulled his cello between his knees, and then hugged it close to his chest, the three of us girls nearly fainted every time. At first, it was hard to get any work done during rehearsals. You know how high school girls are – well you don’t actually, not yet anyway – even the high minded girls like Nancy, Lisa, and I. After all, we were only human, and we had hormones too! And David, well he loved the attention. He flirted shamefully with all three of us. Secretly, we each thought we were his favorite girl, but he never really favored one of us over the other. He was a good and thoughtful friend, too. When Nancy’s parents got divorced and she was so lost and angry, he would bring little gifts to each rehearsal and hide them in her violin case, or in her coat pocket.
Naturally, David turned out be gay – your mother would say you shouldn’t know about things like that, but, my dear, it’s a fact of life now that lots of people choose alternate lifestyles, as they so euphemistically call it. Men are attracted to men, and women to women. It’s as simple as that. In my opinion, it’s a private matter between the individuals involved – it’s not a symptom of the downfall of society, as your mother will probably tell you it is. Her position on that subject is just one of the areas where we do not see eye to eye, and have finally “agreed to disagree,” as the saying goes.
That first quintet - Da Capo, we called ourselves – was the highlight of my senior year in high school. One of life’s true joys is working together with people who are all passionate about the same thing. I’ve had the privilege of doing that ever since, in some form or another. I hope you will, too, someday.
Love endlessly,
TT
Dear Samantha,
Those are very nasty pills Dr. Rex gave me. I was up most of the night feeling as if I were on one of those horrible rides at the amusement park that spin you round and round in circles. I just hope they’re giving those nasty cancer cells as much misery as they’re causing the rest of me.
For some reason, last night the Trout Quintet kept playing in my head. That thundering first chord just kept crashing in my ears, and then those skittering runs would shiver down my spine. That’s one of my favorite pieces of music in all the world, but last night, I wished Schubert had never written it!
The first time I heard the Trout was when I was in high school. Angela Sloan, my wonderful teacher, told me about a concert on the university campus where I could hear the Trout performed live by a really good group. “Camerata,” I believe was the name of the group. The pianist was a young woman from Toronto, with long dark hair that she had pulled back from her face with a big silver clip. She was probably Italian, now that I think about it – I don’t remember her name, but I do remember the intense love and concentration with which she came to her instrument. From the moment she sat down to the keys, she was no longer in the room. It was so obvious that the music transported her to some magical, mythical place, where only she and the other musicians could dwell. I was sitting close enough to watch her hands, and I remember thinking that they seemed kind of short and wide (like mine), not the sort of hands you would expect to be able to pull such vitality out of the Schubert. She led the group with such calm assurance. I could see the flitting glances between her and the first violinist, occasionally a quick half smile or nod, a gentle lean into the music prompting the momentum to increase.
Needless to say, dear Samantha, I was captivated. Not only by the music, but by the working relationship of this group, as they seemed to become alternately one instrument, and then splinter off into their separate parts like stars from a comet. Right then and there, I decided I had to be part of a group like that. I went back to school the next day and recruited two violinists from the school orchestra- Nancy Shaffer and Lisa Reston, and Karen D’Angelo on viola. Good solid musicians, but not inspired. It was David Estancia, the cellist, that added the extra spice we needed. God, he was so handsome! The olive skinned, dark haired good looks inherited from his Portuguese forefathers, along with their spicy temperament and fiery passion for art and music. I think he had ancestors who were Flamenco guitarists and dancers. When he sat down and pulled his cello between his knees, and then hugged it close to his chest, the three of us girls nearly fainted every time. At first, it was hard to get any work done during rehearsals. You know how high school girls are – well you don’t actually, not yet anyway – even the high minded girls like Nancy, Lisa, and I. After all, we were only human, and we had hormones too! And David, well he loved the attention. He flirted shamefully with all three of us. Secretly, we each thought we were his favorite girl, but he never really favored one of us over the other. He was a good and thoughtful friend, too. When Nancy’s parents got divorced and she was so lost and angry, he would bring little gifts to each rehearsal and hide them in her violin case, or in her coat pocket.
Naturally, David turned out be gay – your mother would say you shouldn’t know about things like that, but, my dear, it’s a fact of life now that lots of people choose alternate lifestyles, as they so euphemistically call it. Men are attracted to men, and women to women. It’s as simple as that. In my opinion, it’s a private matter between the individuals involved – it’s not a symptom of the downfall of society, as your mother will probably tell you it is. Her position on that subject is just one of the areas where we do not see eye to eye, and have finally “agreed to disagree,” as the saying goes.
That first quintet - Da Capo, we called ourselves – was the highlight of my senior year in high school. One of life’s true joys is working together with people who are all passionate about the same thing. I’ve had the privilege of doing that ever since, in some form or another. I hope you will, too, someday.
Love endlessly,
TT
Friday, November 03, 2006
The Next Letter...
September 15, 2__________
Dear Samantha,
Sorry for the big gap in time, but your TT has been overcome, overwhelmed, and completely bogged down in medical mumbo jumbo. My dear friend Dr. Sandy has turned me over to her lovely colleague, a Dr. Rex Alexander. His last name should be Tyrannosaurus, if you get my drift. He’s got my life for the next twelve weeks all planned, and it involves me spending inordinate amounts of time in the accommodations of his choosing, with tubes dripping lethal chemical cocktails into my veins. He says I’ll still be able to read, write, and listen to music while this is going on. However, I saw the look on the nurse’s face, and I have a feeling that’s all just smoke and mirrors in an attempt to get me to go along with his scheme. Whatever - I at least have to give it the old college try, don’t I?
Speaking of college – you will love it! I know that seems like a long time in the future, but trust me, time totally flies when life is good and you’re having fun. And college is just the most fun ever! Make sure you go away somewhere, because that’s the best part. I admit, at first it’s a really weird feeling to share some dinky little room with someone you hardly know, and maybe don’t even like all that much. But, if you’re anything like me, you won’t spend much time in your room. Now, hang on, I didn’t mean it like that - I did some partying, but not all that much. What I meant was, that you’ll get involved in so many activities that you’ll always be off somewhere doing some fun thing or other. And, if you’re lucky enough to inherit your TT”s musical genius (and humility!) you’ll find your way into enough things to keep you from ever missing the comforts of home.
Seriously, the trick to enjoying college, or anything in life, is to jump in and try lots of things. Get involved with whatever you’re passionate about. If it’s not music, maybe it will be photography, or science. Even your mom has picked up on that trick for living. Just because I don’t agree with most of the things she’s passionate about, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t give her whole heart to them.
I probably shouldn’t talk this way about your mom, dear Samantha. After all, she is my own flesh and blood, my first and only born. She will be a wonderful mother to you, in her way, which will be overly bossy and mightily opinionated. But she will love you with every ounce of her being, and that’s saying a lot. You will need lots of patience at times, but, if you stick with her, she’ll reward you in the end.
I was only 24 when your mom was born, so I was pretty young myself. My college days were freshly over, and I had just gotten engaged to your grandfather. (We’ll talk about him more later.)
So young and in love, excited to get on with our lives, we hurried up the wedding and found a little apartment not far from campus where I was still involved with several musical groups and could pick up lots of accompanying jobs. Anne Elizabeth, my royal princess, named for those English roses I was so fond of reading about, was “to the manor born,” as the saying goes. Certainly not literally, but she had a regal bearing even as an infant. I can still see her, sitting up so straight and tall in her highchair, staring me down with those huge blue eyes as she daintily accepted her little spoonfuls of strained peas and applesauce. For the longest time, she refused to wear anything except dresses, and her closet was filled with row upon row of pink, yellow, and lavender printed delights, most of them purchased for her by her grandmother, Queen Frances.
Anne was a challenge for me. She was always such a perfectionist, even when she was very small. I remember how she would cry and cry when she couldn’t color exactly inside the lines of her coloring books, or if her stickers got stuck and ripped as she was peeling them off the page. It was as if the world were coming to an end. No amount of comforting or distraction could make up for the fact that something she was doing wasn’t coming out correctly.
Life is hard when you’re like that, and it was hard for your mom. She couldn’t understand why other children didn’t take things as seriously as she did. “All they want to do is play these stupid games!” she would complain bitterly. Sure they did, they were just kids. Anne always came up with elaborate scenarious for her games, requiring everyone to play a role perfectly, and follow her direction. I though she would surely go into the theater, because she certainly had a flair for the dramatic. “Honestly!” she would exclaim, in exasperation at some faux pas on the part of one of her friends or her parents. The blue eyes would roll in disgust, and she would shudder in mock horror.
There was one person your mom was always in complete harmony with. Her grandmother – my mother Frances.
Frances Lysander, born on the east side of Boston, to a college professor and a suffragette. Intellectual, was Frances, and somewhat on the haughty side. I remember her dressing for dinner every day, even when it was just the four of us at the table. She might be on her hands and knees, sweating in her rose garden at 4:30, but by 6:00 she was perfectly coiffed, fresh pink lipstick on her lips, and one of those full skirted dresses swirling around her slim, nylon clad ankles. I couldn’t figure that out, but it seemed to please my dad. He always had a big smile for her when he came in, and I loved the way he could grab her around the waist and twirl her off the ground. She would always scold him good naturedly, although she was laughing in delight. Such a twinkle in her eye when my dad was around. I never saw her happier than when they were together.
Anne Elizabeth and Frances were two of a kind. They could potter around for hours in a craft shop, oohing and ahhing over different colors of yarn, plotting just what kind of sweater or blanket they could knit. And put them in a nursery or botanical garden and they wouldn’t come out for days. When your mom graduated from high school, Frances took her to England for a month. They toured all the gardens from Kent to York. I believe your mother would consider that the highlight of her life. Until you’re born, of course.
She’s a really good person, your mom. You will learn your own way to handle her. And maybe you will be enough like her that you’ll know just how to circumvent all her little idiosyncrasies.
Time for another handful of those horse pills that lovely doctor gave me. We’ll talk again soon, I promise…
Love endlessly,
TT
Dear Samantha,
Sorry for the big gap in time, but your TT has been overcome, overwhelmed, and completely bogged down in medical mumbo jumbo. My dear friend Dr. Sandy has turned me over to her lovely colleague, a Dr. Rex Alexander. His last name should be Tyrannosaurus, if you get my drift. He’s got my life for the next twelve weeks all planned, and it involves me spending inordinate amounts of time in the accommodations of his choosing, with tubes dripping lethal chemical cocktails into my veins. He says I’ll still be able to read, write, and listen to music while this is going on. However, I saw the look on the nurse’s face, and I have a feeling that’s all just smoke and mirrors in an attempt to get me to go along with his scheme. Whatever - I at least have to give it the old college try, don’t I?
Speaking of college – you will love it! I know that seems like a long time in the future, but trust me, time totally flies when life is good and you’re having fun. And college is just the most fun ever! Make sure you go away somewhere, because that’s the best part. I admit, at first it’s a really weird feeling to share some dinky little room with someone you hardly know, and maybe don’t even like all that much. But, if you’re anything like me, you won’t spend much time in your room. Now, hang on, I didn’t mean it like that - I did some partying, but not all that much. What I meant was, that you’ll get involved in so many activities that you’ll always be off somewhere doing some fun thing or other. And, if you’re lucky enough to inherit your TT”s musical genius (and humility!) you’ll find your way into enough things to keep you from ever missing the comforts of home.
Seriously, the trick to enjoying college, or anything in life, is to jump in and try lots of things. Get involved with whatever you’re passionate about. If it’s not music, maybe it will be photography, or science. Even your mom has picked up on that trick for living. Just because I don’t agree with most of the things she’s passionate about, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t give her whole heart to them.
I probably shouldn’t talk this way about your mom, dear Samantha. After all, she is my own flesh and blood, my first and only born. She will be a wonderful mother to you, in her way, which will be overly bossy and mightily opinionated. But she will love you with every ounce of her being, and that’s saying a lot. You will need lots of patience at times, but, if you stick with her, she’ll reward you in the end.
I was only 24 when your mom was born, so I was pretty young myself. My college days were freshly over, and I had just gotten engaged to your grandfather. (We’ll talk about him more later.)
So young and in love, excited to get on with our lives, we hurried up the wedding and found a little apartment not far from campus where I was still involved with several musical groups and could pick up lots of accompanying jobs. Anne Elizabeth, my royal princess, named for those English roses I was so fond of reading about, was “to the manor born,” as the saying goes. Certainly not literally, but she had a regal bearing even as an infant. I can still see her, sitting up so straight and tall in her highchair, staring me down with those huge blue eyes as she daintily accepted her little spoonfuls of strained peas and applesauce. For the longest time, she refused to wear anything except dresses, and her closet was filled with row upon row of pink, yellow, and lavender printed delights, most of them purchased for her by her grandmother, Queen Frances.
Anne was a challenge for me. She was always such a perfectionist, even when she was very small. I remember how she would cry and cry when she couldn’t color exactly inside the lines of her coloring books, or if her stickers got stuck and ripped as she was peeling them off the page. It was as if the world were coming to an end. No amount of comforting or distraction could make up for the fact that something she was doing wasn’t coming out correctly.
Life is hard when you’re like that, and it was hard for your mom. She couldn’t understand why other children didn’t take things as seriously as she did. “All they want to do is play these stupid games!” she would complain bitterly. Sure they did, they were just kids. Anne always came up with elaborate scenarious for her games, requiring everyone to play a role perfectly, and follow her direction. I though she would surely go into the theater, because she certainly had a flair for the dramatic. “Honestly!” she would exclaim, in exasperation at some faux pas on the part of one of her friends or her parents. The blue eyes would roll in disgust, and she would shudder in mock horror.
There was one person your mom was always in complete harmony with. Her grandmother – my mother Frances.
Frances Lysander, born on the east side of Boston, to a college professor and a suffragette. Intellectual, was Frances, and somewhat on the haughty side. I remember her dressing for dinner every day, even when it was just the four of us at the table. She might be on her hands and knees, sweating in her rose garden at 4:30, but by 6:00 she was perfectly coiffed, fresh pink lipstick on her lips, and one of those full skirted dresses swirling around her slim, nylon clad ankles. I couldn’t figure that out, but it seemed to please my dad. He always had a big smile for her when he came in, and I loved the way he could grab her around the waist and twirl her off the ground. She would always scold him good naturedly, although she was laughing in delight. Such a twinkle in her eye when my dad was around. I never saw her happier than when they were together.
Anne Elizabeth and Frances were two of a kind. They could potter around for hours in a craft shop, oohing and ahhing over different colors of yarn, plotting just what kind of sweater or blanket they could knit. And put them in a nursery or botanical garden and they wouldn’t come out for days. When your mom graduated from high school, Frances took her to England for a month. They toured all the gardens from Kent to York. I believe your mother would consider that the highlight of her life. Until you’re born, of course.
She’s a really good person, your mom. You will learn your own way to handle her. And maybe you will be enough like her that you’ll know just how to circumvent all her little idiosyncrasies.
Time for another handful of those horse pills that lovely doctor gave me. We’ll talk again soon, I promise…
Love endlessly,
TT
Some Thoughts on the Process
It's Day 3 of Dear Samantha, my NaNoWriMo in progress, and it's been interesting so far. The first two days were super easy. I had time to write, and write I did. The words just poured out.
As I went into day three I had nearly 6000 words done. This is a cinch, I thought cockily.
Well, then again, maybe not. The words today are a little harder to get going. My mind feels a bit like a car engine on a cold morning - just not cranking over. I'm also more distracted today, with errands and work on my mind.
I've also slept very poorly the past two nights -not quite sure why, as I'm usually a pretty good sleeper (with the help of 1 Tylenol PM). So, last night, these thoughts about the novel came roaring into my head:
As I went into day three I had nearly 6000 words done. This is a cinch, I thought cockily.
Well, then again, maybe not. The words today are a little harder to get going. My mind feels a bit like a car engine on a cold morning - just not cranking over. I'm also more distracted today, with errands and work on my mind.
I've also slept very poorly the past two nights -not quite sure why, as I'm usually a pretty good sleeper (with the help of 1 Tylenol PM). So, last night, these thoughts about the novel came roaring into my head:
- I'm playing the story out too quickly;
- Maybe I need to go back to the letters I've already done and flesh them out more;
- I need more dialogue (not my strong suit);
- Should I be telling Tara's story in chronological order, rather than skipping around?
- No, I think the format (the letters) fits better with relating things as they would occur to her on the given day she is writing the letters.
Here are some other things I'm doing for inspiration:
- Re-reading The Whole World Over, by Julia Glass, my favorite novel of 2006, hoping some of her gift for luscious description, great characterization, dialect, and storytelling, will seep into my brain through osmosis...
- More "moving meditation" (or walking) to free up my thought processes and allow the higher creative powers to do their work.
And so I go on....
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Another Letter Arrives
September 2, 2____,
Dear Samantha,
In all that talk yesterday about names, I got sidetracked from the real purpose of these missives to you. This has been a rather odd week in the life of your TT. Early this week, when your mother called me with the fabulous news that you were on the way, I have to say I was walking on air. Although I’ve said absolutlely nothing about it – I am not a meddling mother, whatever you might hear to the contrary, because God knows I had enough meddling from my own mother –I have been yearning for you for simply ages. It’s been so long since your mother was young, and your mother, well, she was what we all called an “old soul.” It seemed as if it were hard for her to have fun. She always took things so seriously, martialing all her baby dolls into neat rows every night, arranging them just so in their beds and admonishing them to “go to sleep this instant.” She used to ride her bike endlessly around the same loop of streets, never even willing to venture into the neighborhoods on the other side of the road. I never worried about your mother getting into any kind of trouble, though, so for me, that was a relief. But then, as she got older, I began to worry about that very fact. See, I think it’s natural to get in a little trouble sometimes – nothing really dangerous, mind you, just some minor mischief.
So, I’ve been hoping she would decide to have children, although part of me was fearful that she would be a rather oppressive mother (remember those poor dolls, shunted off to bed and ordered to sleep!) My mission would be to make sure she didn’t ruin the life of the poor child with her orderliness and her passion for “doing the right thing.” After all, who else would feed the little one ice cream before dinner, or let her play in the sandbox even when the sand was wet? Who else wouldn’t care if tops and bottoms of clothes didn’t quite match, or if hair wasn’t cut and curled just so? That’s where I come in, the presence of a safe haven for the free spirit, the one that coaxes the playfulness and independence out and cherishes them.
This is the point where I tell you that my week took a turn for the worse, just a few days after I found out about you. I was in Dr. Sandy’s office – she’s been my doc for ages now, and I’ve always taken pretty good care of myself.
“Perfectly healthy as always,” Doc Sandy tells me each year after my physical.
“Won’t see you soon!” I always call our cheerily as she leaves me to dispose of that nasty paper gown and get dressed.
“I hope not!” she’ll reply, with a smile and a wave. But this time, she sat down on the little stool and picked up my hand.
“What?” I said guardedly, knowing just from the look of her round little Asian face that this wasn’t going to be good news.
I was right about that. A “mass” – that ubiquitous term doctors use to describe large, foreign things growing inside your body – was attached to my ovaries. Long story short, that “mass” is the dreaded cancer, Stage 3, they say, which does not refer to the door behind which my grand prize awaits. Unless you consider the grand prize all kinds of vile treatments intended to prolong my apparently shortened lifespan.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Dear Samantha. I have not given up on myself – not by a long shot. I’ll go through with any of the vile treatments they plan to dish out. Life is just too precious for me to give up on it – especially with you on the way. After all, I have a real mission now – to save you from your ever loving mother! But, just in case, I thought I’d write down some of the things I’d like you to know.
So the letters were born. I hope I can read them to you someday, but, if not, they’ll all be here in this pretty book, and you’ll know where to find me.
Endless love,
TT
Dear Samantha,
In all that talk yesterday about names, I got sidetracked from the real purpose of these missives to you. This has been a rather odd week in the life of your TT. Early this week, when your mother called me with the fabulous news that you were on the way, I have to say I was walking on air. Although I’ve said absolutlely nothing about it – I am not a meddling mother, whatever you might hear to the contrary, because God knows I had enough meddling from my own mother –I have been yearning for you for simply ages. It’s been so long since your mother was young, and your mother, well, she was what we all called an “old soul.” It seemed as if it were hard for her to have fun. She always took things so seriously, martialing all her baby dolls into neat rows every night, arranging them just so in their beds and admonishing them to “go to sleep this instant.” She used to ride her bike endlessly around the same loop of streets, never even willing to venture into the neighborhoods on the other side of the road. I never worried about your mother getting into any kind of trouble, though, so for me, that was a relief. But then, as she got older, I began to worry about that very fact. See, I think it’s natural to get in a little trouble sometimes – nothing really dangerous, mind you, just some minor mischief.
So, I’ve been hoping she would decide to have children, although part of me was fearful that she would be a rather oppressive mother (remember those poor dolls, shunted off to bed and ordered to sleep!) My mission would be to make sure she didn’t ruin the life of the poor child with her orderliness and her passion for “doing the right thing.” After all, who else would feed the little one ice cream before dinner, or let her play in the sandbox even when the sand was wet? Who else wouldn’t care if tops and bottoms of clothes didn’t quite match, or if hair wasn’t cut and curled just so? That’s where I come in, the presence of a safe haven for the free spirit, the one that coaxes the playfulness and independence out and cherishes them.
This is the point where I tell you that my week took a turn for the worse, just a few days after I found out about you. I was in Dr. Sandy’s office – she’s been my doc for ages now, and I’ve always taken pretty good care of myself.
“Perfectly healthy as always,” Doc Sandy tells me each year after my physical.
“Won’t see you soon!” I always call our cheerily as she leaves me to dispose of that nasty paper gown and get dressed.
“I hope not!” she’ll reply, with a smile and a wave. But this time, she sat down on the little stool and picked up my hand.
“What?” I said guardedly, knowing just from the look of her round little Asian face that this wasn’t going to be good news.
I was right about that. A “mass” – that ubiquitous term doctors use to describe large, foreign things growing inside your body – was attached to my ovaries. Long story short, that “mass” is the dreaded cancer, Stage 3, they say, which does not refer to the door behind which my grand prize awaits. Unless you consider the grand prize all kinds of vile treatments intended to prolong my apparently shortened lifespan.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Dear Samantha. I have not given up on myself – not by a long shot. I’ll go through with any of the vile treatments they plan to dish out. Life is just too precious for me to give up on it – especially with you on the way. After all, I have a real mission now – to save you from your ever loving mother! But, just in case, I thought I’d write down some of the things I’d like you to know.
So the letters were born. I hope I can read them to you someday, but, if not, they’ll all be here in this pretty book, and you’ll know where to find me.
Endless love,
TT
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
And the Story Officially Begins
September 1, 2____
Dear Samantha (or whatever they’re calling you today),
I have no idea whether your name will be Samantha or not, because your mother keeps changing her mind about what to call you. Today, it ‘s Samantha, but yesterday, it was Ava, and just last week she was calling you Emma. In my opinion, Samantha is a great name, just as long as they don’t’ start calling you Sam. Even if you’re a perfect tomboy (now there’s a word that’s hardly used any more!) I simply don’t care for the name Sam. It’s too round and old-worldly for my taste. Too much the “I’ve had so many sons, I can’t think of any more names,” or “let’s name this one for my great uncle who owned the candy store in the Bronx.” At any rate, I’ve decided to stick with Samantha, so there you are.
So, Samantha, this is the first in a big batch of letters you’re going to get from me. They aren’t actually letters, at least not in the old fashioned sense of words being written on flowery stationary, placed in envelopes, addressed with an old-fashioned spidery handwriting, and then mailed (or sent by pony express, circa 1806). I went out to The Paper Maiche today. It’s absolutely my favorite store in all the world – I’ll take you there someday. I bought a wonderful bound notebook, which is covered with a soft green and blue pattern, that calls to mind the different colors of the sea over at Castle Beach (another place I have to take you someday.) I decided to use this lovely notebook to write my notes to you. I’ll be sort of setting them adrift on the sea of shiny white paper that lives inside these covers.
I’m not at all sure what I’ll be writing about in these letters. Probably just whatever comes to mind. You’ll notice as I tell you more about myself, that I tend to ramble a bit, and that sometimes I say things in a funny sort of way. You’ll also realize right off the bat that I’m not your conventional grandmother – yikes! I think that’s the first time I’ve ever written that word, at least in reference to myself. And that brings up another very pertinent issue, particularly since we were just talking about names. What in the world are you going to call me? I have an intense dislike of the work “grandma,” and not just because of the white hair in a bun images it conjures up. I just find it an ugly word to describe something that’s really quite special. I know, it’s a derivative of “grand-mother,” and I hope I will be that to you. I would even settle for being a “grand-ma,” although the word “ma” makes me shudder. Even the cute little substitutes for the dreaded grandma – like grammy or nana- leave me cold. My friend’s Susan’s grandchildren call her Mimi – have no idea where that came from, but it isn’t too bad. I probably shouldn’t steal that special name from her. Susan has always been the possessive type.
When I first met Susan, she was in our about to be shared dorm room setting up her sewing machine ( yes, girls back in the 60’s sometimes took their sewing machines to college, especially if you were a home ec major like Susan). She had commandeered the window side of the room, and had unfolded her portable sewing table and stood it up right in front of the window. Just as she was about to place the Singer SewMaster 500 on top of the table, I dropped my bag with a loud, intended to startle thump. “Thanks for hogging the window!” I yelped at her.
Well, she raised herself to her full 5’9”, tossed her long, obviously artificially straightened blonde hair, and retorted “You’re might tiny to be so full of yourself!”
One thing led to another, and before long she started calling me “Tiny,” or “Tiny Tara,” and then it just became “TT.” So, that’s what I think I’ll have you call me. She has always said that her first blurted impression was a perfect fit, and that I packed a lot of self assurance and confidence into my very small frame. I could certainly use a healthy dose of confidence right now.
So now that we’ve gotten our names sorted out, I must return to my confessions about my qualifications for the role of grandmother. I should apologize up front, because I’m not really the type that’s going to bake you cookies every time you come to visit, or sew fabulous costumes for Halloween. But, if you want someone to teach you a mean boogie woogie on the piano, or go for endless bike rides on the trails at Hawthorne Mountain, or take you to Blu Sushi for their awesome Volcano rolls, then that would be me –TT.
I’m actually hoping you won’t be the conventional granddaughter either. Your mother, God bless her, is conventional enough for both of us. It never ceases to amaze me that I could raise a woman who bakes her own bread, grows her own vegetables, serves on more church committees than I even knew existed, and - votes Republican! No, you can be as unconventional as you like – pierce anything you want (well, almost anything – there are some areas at which I would definitely draw the line!), dye your hair puce green, wear combat boots to the prom –who cares?
Make no mistake, dear Samantha, your mother will most definitely care. She will care about you fiercely, and hoard your independence like a mother lion guards the days prey. You will need someone to save you from that fierce love, someone who can keep her from smothering you with her blanket of concern and caring, rather than just warming you with its softness and security. Again, that would be where I come in. When the road on Anne Elizabeth’s highway to self righteousness gets too tough, you can count of me to help you navigate the detour.
Most importantly Samantha, is that you remain true to your own nature. It won’t be like Anne Elizabeth’s, and it won’t be like mine. It won’t even be like your great-grandmother Frances, whose stubbornness and rigidity were legendary in this family. Your nature will be yours alone, a fine mixture of all the good traits just now starting to simmer in your miniscule gene pool. Just learn to listen to it, and follow where it leads. That’s the only road you need to travel.
Endless love,
TT
Dear Samantha (or whatever they’re calling you today),
I have no idea whether your name will be Samantha or not, because your mother keeps changing her mind about what to call you. Today, it ‘s Samantha, but yesterday, it was Ava, and just last week she was calling you Emma. In my opinion, Samantha is a great name, just as long as they don’t’ start calling you Sam. Even if you’re a perfect tomboy (now there’s a word that’s hardly used any more!) I simply don’t care for the name Sam. It’s too round and old-worldly for my taste. Too much the “I’ve had so many sons, I can’t think of any more names,” or “let’s name this one for my great uncle who owned the candy store in the Bronx.” At any rate, I’ve decided to stick with Samantha, so there you are.
So, Samantha, this is the first in a big batch of letters you’re going to get from me. They aren’t actually letters, at least not in the old fashioned sense of words being written on flowery stationary, placed in envelopes, addressed with an old-fashioned spidery handwriting, and then mailed (or sent by pony express, circa 1806). I went out to The Paper Maiche today. It’s absolutely my favorite store in all the world – I’ll take you there someday. I bought a wonderful bound notebook, which is covered with a soft green and blue pattern, that calls to mind the different colors of the sea over at Castle Beach (another place I have to take you someday.) I decided to use this lovely notebook to write my notes to you. I’ll be sort of setting them adrift on the sea of shiny white paper that lives inside these covers.
I’m not at all sure what I’ll be writing about in these letters. Probably just whatever comes to mind. You’ll notice as I tell you more about myself, that I tend to ramble a bit, and that sometimes I say things in a funny sort of way. You’ll also realize right off the bat that I’m not your conventional grandmother – yikes! I think that’s the first time I’ve ever written that word, at least in reference to myself. And that brings up another very pertinent issue, particularly since we were just talking about names. What in the world are you going to call me? I have an intense dislike of the work “grandma,” and not just because of the white hair in a bun images it conjures up. I just find it an ugly word to describe something that’s really quite special. I know, it’s a derivative of “grand-mother,” and I hope I will be that to you. I would even settle for being a “grand-ma,” although the word “ma” makes me shudder. Even the cute little substitutes for the dreaded grandma – like grammy or nana- leave me cold. My friend’s Susan’s grandchildren call her Mimi – have no idea where that came from, but it isn’t too bad. I probably shouldn’t steal that special name from her. Susan has always been the possessive type.
When I first met Susan, she was in our about to be shared dorm room setting up her sewing machine ( yes, girls back in the 60’s sometimes took their sewing machines to college, especially if you were a home ec major like Susan). She had commandeered the window side of the room, and had unfolded her portable sewing table and stood it up right in front of the window. Just as she was about to place the Singer SewMaster 500 on top of the table, I dropped my bag with a loud, intended to startle thump. “Thanks for hogging the window!” I yelped at her.
Well, she raised herself to her full 5’9”, tossed her long, obviously artificially straightened blonde hair, and retorted “You’re might tiny to be so full of yourself!”
One thing led to another, and before long she started calling me “Tiny,” or “Tiny Tara,” and then it just became “TT.” So, that’s what I think I’ll have you call me. She has always said that her first blurted impression was a perfect fit, and that I packed a lot of self assurance and confidence into my very small frame. I could certainly use a healthy dose of confidence right now.
So now that we’ve gotten our names sorted out, I must return to my confessions about my qualifications for the role of grandmother. I should apologize up front, because I’m not really the type that’s going to bake you cookies every time you come to visit, or sew fabulous costumes for Halloween. But, if you want someone to teach you a mean boogie woogie on the piano, or go for endless bike rides on the trails at Hawthorne Mountain, or take you to Blu Sushi for their awesome Volcano rolls, then that would be me –TT.
I’m actually hoping you won’t be the conventional granddaughter either. Your mother, God bless her, is conventional enough for both of us. It never ceases to amaze me that I could raise a woman who bakes her own bread, grows her own vegetables, serves on more church committees than I even knew existed, and - votes Republican! No, you can be as unconventional as you like – pierce anything you want (well, almost anything – there are some areas at which I would definitely draw the line!), dye your hair puce green, wear combat boots to the prom –who cares?
Make no mistake, dear Samantha, your mother will most definitely care. She will care about you fiercely, and hoard your independence like a mother lion guards the days prey. You will need someone to save you from that fierce love, someone who can keep her from smothering you with her blanket of concern and caring, rather than just warming you with its softness and security. Again, that would be where I come in. When the road on Anne Elizabeth’s highway to self righteousness gets too tough, you can count of me to help you navigate the detour.
Most importantly Samantha, is that you remain true to your own nature. It won’t be like Anne Elizabeth’s, and it won’t be like mine. It won’t even be like your great-grandmother Frances, whose stubbornness and rigidity were legendary in this family. Your nature will be yours alone, a fine mixture of all the good traits just now starting to simmer in your miniscule gene pool. Just learn to listen to it, and follow where it leads. That’s the only road you need to travel.
Endless love,
TT
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