In Love with France, At Home In Italy

A hometown friend who is a respected historian is currently writing a book about a controversial local figure who went from being our town's most promising scholar to being the only US physician since the doctor who treated John Wilkes Booth to be arrested for accessory to murder after the fact. Other parts of his trajectory included being pursued by the FBI, jail, and lastly, an honored career as a humanitarian. What could my small efforts to help her with her research have to do with my belated reading of "Middlemarch"? Some years ago, we found this 1977 edition at a charity book sale. Like its heroine, it was patiently waiting for the right moment.  MIDDLETOWN, MEDDLEMARCH, MIDDLEMARCH Or should the order be reversed? I'm sticking with the first because I come from Middletown, and have only now, in my 68th year, come to "Middlemarch." Although the book was published in 1871 in a country far from mine, the universal applicab...

This was the year of my 50th high school reunion. A milestone? Maybe. But nothing compared to what I found waiting for me in my Italy sock drawer. I admit to getting in a total dither whenever a transition looms, and this departure was worse than usual, since we were, for the first time, hoping to rent our house. This required clearing drawers and closets, as well as the usual packing frenzy. To soothe myself and have the illusion of being prepared to leave, well in advance, I set out my travel uniform: Magic flying shirt that keeps the plane aloft? Check! My No-Jet-Lag homeopathic remedy that keeps me copacetic even in the face of my suspicion that, given all that we are bringing, no airplane could ever get off the ground? Check! Perhaps I should explain. Airplanes, even without my stuff, are very heavy, and it's beyond me how they stay up. I recall in 7th grade General Science class making a diagram of an airplane wing with little arrows going ov...

I've never been very good with them, but what is it about 63? I know that that's how far three of the men in my family--grandfather father, and brother--and an ex-boyfriend made it. My son was 4 when my father died; I was 36. When my brother died, I was 66. More optimistic numbers: My mom made it to 90 this year. And if I make it until tomorrow, I will be 68, even though, for some reason, I always feel like 16. But that can't be true, since this was the year of my 50th high school reunion. What's more, I have a beautiful granddaughter, now 20 months old, and her soon-to-be-born sister is up to about 32 weeks. Math anxiety, moi? Oui, si, yes, I confess. But there's another way of looking at it, which my artist friend expresses in her wispily elegant calligraphy on the cards and beautiful paintings she makes: "Teach us to number our days, That we may get us A heart of wisdom." Impatient ...