The Postscript

I know immigrants came for many reasons—to start businesses and escape oppression and to avoid starvation. But, as far as I know, my ancestors were in search of better dirt. And they found it.

I walk down the sidewalks, admiring these lovely houses, often at night, and sometimes I even peep through the windows. It’s hard not to when the windows are large and the lights are on. (My friend Verne calls me a Peeping Tom, and he may be just a little bit right.)

Peter doesn’t think the day of his birth is anything to celebrate. He’s happy to celebrate my birthday, but he says he should get to do what he wants to do on his birthday. And what he wants to do is not celebrate. So that’s what we do.

I was once told by a reliable source (my brother-in-law) that I must never get a fitness tracker because watching the numbers click up for every step I took would become a mad compulsion.

On a weekday, I was passing by the rectory. I didn’t know what a rectory was until I googled it and learned this was where the priests lived. A man in his thirties came out the door. He was not wearing a clerical collar, but I figured if he lived in the rectory, he would have to know what was going on. So I pounced.

We got the dock into the water. It was a little cattywampus, but it was more or less ready for another season. “I might need to get a kid to help me with some things this fall,” my dad said, as if this was a major concession at 92.

I remember the sweetness of Laura Ingalls Wilder describing Pa playing the fiddle by firelight in the middle of the Wisconsin woods, and I remember the horror of Hans Christian Anderson describing the house where the witch lived at the bottom of the sea, built with the bones of drowned sailors.

I have no idea how a goose landed on our balcony, 10 stories in the air. Landing on a narrow railing—even with a potted plant as a landing pad—demonstrates a kind of agility I honestly didn’t think geese were capable of.

In elementary school, I was never asked to jump rope. Jumping rope was popular when I was in elementary school, and I was not. I watched the girls jump and knew two things: I would never be asked, and I would be terrible at jumping rope if I were asked.

I think it’s important to celebrate the milestones in life. I don’t think a celebration needs to involve buying anything larger than a loon plush toy, or anything fancier than a plate of spaghetti with an old friend, but I think it’s important.

There is a principle in psychology which says that in order to slow time, you need more novel experiences. Childhood seems to last a long time because everything is new and everything is a first. As we age, we do more of the same things. This makes one day blend into the next, and one week into the one after that, and before we know it, ten years have passed without it seeming like any time at all.

I ran to the bathroom. “Put your head down!” But it was too late. Peter fell straight forward, like a falling tree. He hit the wall with his forehead, shattered the ceramic toilet paper holder, and knocked himself out. I am not great in emergencies, as it turns out.

I never thought much about how libraries work, probably because they work so well. No matter where I am, if I walk through the door of a library, I know more or less what to expect. The staff will be helpful. Everyone will be eager to answer any question I have. No one will be in too big a hurry to help. Everything will be pretty much as I remember it as an eight-year-old.

It was an old camelback couch, a loveseat really, but with wide, rolled arms. It appeared to be an older piece of furniture that had been restored. The fabric was crazy. It was a patchwork of burned velvet fabric in brilliant hues. It was the brightest, craziest couch I’d ever seen, and it was being sold alongside art and sculpture, which made sense, because it really was a work of art.

The interior of our apartment will set you right back to the 1980s. The Formica countertop has seen better days. I write in a corner of the living room and have exactly six inches between the back of my office chair and the end of the couch. Peter measured our apartment, and it is 400 square feet—and that includes a rather large bedroom.

I love ice cream. I have always loved ice cream. But I have noticed my tendency to eat it until my face goes numb and have avoided it. When I’m in Mexico, I walk by an ice cream shop every night, where I have bought ice cream before. It is good. So almost every night, I get to the ice cream shop, I pause, and I ask myself, “Should I get ice cream tonight?”

I stopped carrying dog treats because I feared that the downtown dogs (or their owners) might not welcome my treats. Maybe they were on a diet (the dogs, I mean). Maybe they had allergies. Maybe they would be suspicious of a strange woman doling out treats.

I was thinking there was really no point in complaining to your husband when you trip on the pavement. It might be your fault, or the fault of the pavement, or the fault of your shoes, but it almost certainly has nothing to do with your husband, and the odds are he is wearing sensible shoes.

When I divorced, one of the hardest things to accept was that I was going to lose this family I had been given in marriage, a family I had grown steadily closer to for more than 22 years. But that turned out not to be the case.

Every evening without fail, the street sweepers are out, sweeping every fleck of confetti and eggshell off the streets, a job that would be tricky under any circumstances, but is made much more difficult because the streets are made of brick and cobblestones.

Like a deeply dysfunctional relationship, my jade plants reward me for forgetting about them, neglecting them, and treating them badly. A near total lack of care and the lowest possible emotional involvement are disproportionately rewarded with growth. The guiltier I feel, the larger they grow.

Yesterday, I went with my mother and father, my aunt, my sister, and four cousins to meet with the funeral director. He was surprised. He had to scout up more chairs. 

It doesn’t sound like a lot. It seems like a pretty simple thing, actually, not a serious job assignment. It doesn’t sound entirely sensible, and it certainly doesn’t sound pragmatic. But I’m going to seek the good because this morning, it suddenly seemed to me that making a practice of seeking the good is a lot harder than it seems. And possibly, it’s more important than it sounds.

There are more books printed every day than anyone could possibly read. I have piles of books I intend to read, and the possibility of ever getting to the bottom of the pile seems remote. I am more than a little aware that there is no shortage of reading material.

I had visions of an endless line of Indian technicians—stretching as far as the eye could see—ready to write pleasant replies to a witless woman in the US. As I exhausted the patience of one technician, another would step into his place, producing an infinite supply of unfailingly polite and utterly incomprehensible technical jargon.  

So Judy sat quietly, and so did I. And no one joined us on that cold winter night. And that is how it has been ever since.

For all the convenience of online communication, nothing can compete with a cup of coffee and a real talk. Because if someone is willing to take the time for a cup of coffee, I think it’s a good sign they would like to be my friend.

I try not to make New Year’s resolutions. All the studies show that motivation wanes by February—if we’re lucky. Changing my life by flipping a switch on December 31st is not a feasible plan.

That night of the winter solstice, when the sun set so early and the dark lasted so long would be a good time to remember the animals who had no way of knowing when the sun would be closer or when the days would be warmer or when the darkness would not last so long.

When I think of presents, I don’t think of stress. I have given my young nephew inappropriately dangerous gifts (what young man does not need a pickaxe?) And I’ve given joke presents (my friend, Andrew, at one time had an impressive collection of shower caps). I love giving presents to pets. I love hearing my mother exclaim, “What on earth…?” as she opens a box.

Usually within hours, my glands will swell, and I’ll have trouble swallowing. By the next day, I have to breathe through my mouth, and I’m going through boxes of tissues. You know the drill. There is nothing unique or interesting about my transformation into a gecko.

I made a total of one quilt, and it took me nine years. I was not, I’m happy to tell you, working on it for nine years. I bought the fabric, cut out the pieces and assembled some of them. Then I stuck them in a box and then let guilt work on me for eight and three-quarter years.

Mama also does other things, things that Felix really does not like. Mama yells when Felix is on the table (Mouse pretends he does not see him). And—worst of all—Mama gets out the nail clippers and cuts Felix’s beautiful curving claws.

I am now in San Miguel de Allende. No one comes to SMA, as folks call it, for spring break. It takes too long to get to, and it is too far from an ocean. This means that the people who are here have plenty of time to come and go and are not particularly interested in beaches. In other words, they are old.

Not all goals are quite this satisfying. Most goals involve a little dithering. The plan has to be altered. There is a step backward after two steps forward. There are obvious failures when, as optimistic as I try to be, I know I have hit a setback.

Peter sits about ten feet away (which is almost as far as a person can be from another person in this apartment). I have learned to write while he works on projects. (He is replacing the tips of his hiking poles right now. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”) He has grown accustomed to me sometimes talking to myself and sometimes talking to him and not being sure when—or if—he should pay attention.

My parents have known Andrew since before he had a driver’s license. But even knowing someone for almost 50 years does not prepare you for getting pilfered Door Dash on your 90th birthday.

My husband, Peter, is convinced our cat Felix was much younger because he was so small when we adopted him. And it’s true, he became much bigger and more muscular once he started getting regular nutrition. But Felix knew nothing about living in houses or living with people and, to be honest, we knew nothing about living with Felix.

I am sure that if a person wanted to, they could have a great time figuring out what ails my sister and me, but I don’t put too much stock in dreams, other than to note the emotions that come along with them. I have woken in terror over something that seems—upon waking—completely harmless. And then I have a dream where I am cheerfully disposing of a corpse.

Once I get to the airport, there are more annoyances. People walk slowly, three abreast, oblivious to the fact that they are not moving at the prevailing speed. Everyone takes too much carry-on luggage. People talk too loudly on their cell phones. Younger people sit on the floor and spread all their possessions around them, as if they plan to take up permanent residence in the airport waiting area.

I dig through my closet. I dig through my drawers. I try things on. I discard things. I start to feel emotional, wondering if I am a person who belongs in New York at all—a person who is incapable of dressing herself. 7PXYhszVrJ2IJn8ALTn1

I know that eating too much sweet corn will make me feel bloated and too much squash will make me positively sick. But how does one resist at this time of year? And so, I don’t. I eat way too many vegetables, and then I go back the next week and get more.

Now my sister was laughing. My father looked skeptical, as he did with a lot of new information discovered on the internet and not otherwise verified. My mother just looked very surprised. I thought it was hilarious. But we were all looking at Katy in a new way.

I spend almost every day alone, sitting at my little maple desk. But lately, I have had more fun than usual because I am working on a new book and I am writing about a lot of things I know nothing about.

Isabelle was only three at the time; her brother, Beau, was not even born. She was patiently explaining to her baby doll in the next room, “You are not a bad baby. You just make bad choices.” Isabelle rarely makes bad choices. I have made more than my share.

Most of my cousins were older than me. They were cool and listened to rock music behind closed bedroom doors and brought boyfriends to the farm and paid no attention to me whatsoever. The cousins younger than me were small and annoying and not able to keep up. You can afford to be selective when you have so many cousins to choose from.

I honestly cannot think of anything less relaxing than walking much, much too slowly in a circle with other people who are also walking much too slowly, trying not to step on the heels of the person in front of me. It’s kind of tortuous.

Emily Anderson is a wonderful artist who paints scenes from nature in Minnesota. Unlike many northern landscape artists, her work is never dreary. Her scenes of the natural world just exude joy and a sense of discovery and—it might sound odd, but it’s true—humor. Her work makes me smile. I want to be in whatever place she has painted.

This was not an undercooked broccoli crunch. This was not wild rice. This was the crunch you might experience while eating a sandwich on a beach when the wind was blowing. I looked at my delicious meal. I took another bite. “Crunch.”

The hour passed. I opened my eyes. Even though the chapel is lit only by candles and the windows are stained glass, it still seemed darker than it should be. Then I heard a crash of thunder. I looked at my watch. 7:00 exactly.