In Love with France, At Home In Italy

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 ...

I have a new friend who already feels like an old friend. Never mind that we are about two decades apart in age. E has lived in Orvieto for more than 50 years, and generously serves as the doyenne of the surprisingly large and mutually devoted ex-pat community with whom we connected last year.   E and I have become Writing Partners--a relationship I have sought ever since hearing about the concept in an article in the newsletter of the National Coalition of Independent Scholars. For two years, I was president of a local pioneer organization in the movement, but after many years of writing the newsletter (and more), I pretty much burned out. The group was especially valuable to me when I was a first-time mother with a hard-won doctorate trying to figure out how to engage with my new home town. I'm sure I owe my having been hired to teach at the university to connections that I made in this group.  Originally founded by brainy and accomplished spouses ...