It's All in the Sauce

As a child, I would spend my summers with my grandmother in her little kitchen on the south side of Chicago. My grandmother was a first generation Italian-American. I credit her with giving me the simple things that make life worthwhile. The sparkle in her brown eyes and the kindness in everything she did resonate with me today. She died the day after my twins were born. But I will never forget the last time I stood in her kitchen and learned how to make Sunday Gravy.

Meat sauce. Spaghetti sauce. Whatever you want to call it. It was a rite of passage. A simple family tradition that tethers me to my roots and is a mainstay in my cooking repertoire.

I’m having surgery on Monday. I won’t go into specifics, but when it’s over I won’t be able to have babies anymore.

The idea comes as no shock. I’ll be 42 next Sunday and I pretty much hung my hat on reproducing any more young’uns around my 40th birthday. If I need to smell or hold a baby, I can pick up my granddaughter from day care and get it out of my system.

So why am I so melancholy? Why does losing the physical ability to bear children send me into mourning when I decided years ago that I did not want any more kids?

I remember quite vividly how in love I was with each one of my children the moment I found out they were setting up shop in my belly. When they were born, instincts and emotions I didn’t know I had came out with them. I learned what every cry meant—I knew theirs smells, their expressions, every detail of their faces. The meaning of life rests in the unconditional love I have for each of my kids.

But I hold no illusions. I remember the tired in my bones. Pacing the floor in the middle of the night, holding my son and waiting for the medicine to put down the pain from another ear infection. Sleeping with one eye open next to a three-year-old kickboxer with the face of an angel. And days where I didn’t have a moment’s peace because I was too busy trying to control the chaos.

I’m still bone tired. But the root of my exhaustion has shifted from the physical drain of raising babies and toddlers to the mental and emotional cluster-fuck of adolescence. Things are way more complicated now.

I’m developing relationships with my children on a more cerebral level. As I navigate the waters of raising young adults, I am inadvertently carving out my place in their lives as they begin to live outside my boundaries. One wrong move, and I’m the root of every hang-up and the topic of discussion in therapy sessions.

And I find myself yearning for the years when they were babies.

And maybe that’s where the sadness comes in. After Monday, I will have lost the chance to bring a fresh one into the world—and have a do-over. But in that sadness I have also found another rite of passage.

My reproductive years will soon be over. And so I stood at my stove today and made Sunday gravy. While I have passed the baton of bringing fresh ones into the world, life goes on for me—in me and through the lives of my children.

It’s in the patience of simmering relationships. It’s in the belief that keeping things simple brings out the best in all of us. Passing on what I know and keeping my heart open to the things my children can teach me makes me a woman. Not whatever parts nature has decided are no longer relevant.

I think that is what my grandmother was trying to teach me. It’s all in the sauce.

Sunday Gravy

2 T. extra virgin olive oil

1 lb. ground Italian sausage

Course ground black pepper

2 to 3 cloves garlic, minced

2 to 3 T. fresh rosemary, chopped fine

2-28 oz. cans fire roasted crushed tomatoes

1/4 c. red wine (optional)

1-inch Parmesan cheese wedge

1 tsp. cinnamon

Warm olive oil in a large sauce pan and add Italian sausage. Liberally pepper Italian sausage and cook until no longer pink. Add garlic and rosemary and cook until fragrant (about 30 to 60 seconds). Add tomatoes, red wine, Parmesan cheese and cinnamon. Simmer on lowest heat at least 30 minutes or up to three hours. Remove Parmesan cheese wedge and serve over warm pasta or rice with freshly grated Parmesan.

Keep it simple.

Bread is a lot like life. One wrong move and you’ve got a mess on your hands. But when you get it right, you realize all at once that it was worth the effort.

For as long as I can remember, food has attached itself to some of the best—and worst—memories of my life.  As a young girl, I can remember spending hours in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen on the south side of Chicago learning how to make the ethnic foods of my family—Sunday Gravy, cannolis, gnocchi, Italian Christmas cookies, Czech pastries. My mother, on the other hand, grew up on a ranch—and to this day, I haven’t been able to replicate her fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, and famous potato salad.

Before my generation, women in my family were raised to know their place. They were devoted and dutiful wives and mothers—and there was no room for want, or desire to fulfill their own dreams outside of the home. And so they cooked.

I come from a long line of amazing cooks, and I never felt as though I had attained the title of “Good Cook” until I met a woman named Naomi some four years ago.

I was a single mom for the longest time, raising three kids on my own. I didn’t have the money or the time to cook. My kids ate out of a box or a can for the first four years of their lives. But Naomi changed all of that. She taught me what women in my family had been trying to teach me for years.

Keep it simple.

She reintroduced me to the idea that whole foods were best. And like a sponge, I soaked up all of her wisdom—and got back to basics. Naomi has since moved on, and I have lost contact with her. But I am forever grateful for the gifts she gave me.

Ten years ago, my grandmother passed away. I wasn’t able to attend her funeral, because I had just given birth the day before to the twins, Michael and Alyssa. Weeks later, I received a box in the mail from my father. In the box was a large three-ring binder full of all of my grandmother’s hand-written recipes. It is one of my most prized possessions.

For the past two years, my family and I lived and worked on an organic farm. It was there that I cemented my place among the women in my family as a “Good Cook.” I learned about the value of buying local, and eating organic whenever possible. I realized that cooking with what you have makes for a far better meal than falling victim to the food industrial complex.

My family and I live in Madison, Wisconsin, now. And while I have become a farmers’ market junkie, and we’ve reduced our meat intake to one or two nights a week, because our budget won’t allow for local, organic meat every night—I still fall prey to certain pre-packaged vices. M&Ms, Taco Doritos, and the occasional Snapple.

But I’m trying.

Best White Bread

2 pkgs. Yeast

½ c. warm water

Pour yeast into a small bowl and add warm water. Let sit until yeast has dissolved, about five minutes. Stir to combine.

3 T. sugar

1 T. salt

¾ c. warm water

1 c. whole milk, warmed to 110 degrees

1 T. shortening

1 T. unsalted butter

In a standing mixer with hook attachment, blend all ingredients on low speed for one minute. Add yeast mixture and stir for one more minute.

6½ c. sifted unbleached all-purpose flour

Add half of flour to standing mixer and blend on low speed for three to four minutes, or until dry flour remains. Add remaining flour and blend until dough is slightly sticky, and leaves the side of the bowl. If necessary, add more flour, one tablespoon at a time until dough is right consistency.

1 T. olive or canola oil

Lightly grease large bowl with oil.  Place dough in greased bowl and turn to coat the dough. Cover with a damp cloth towel and place in a warm spot. Let rise for 1½ to 2 hours or until double in size. Punch down dough and fold in to create ball. Cover and let rise for 45 minutes.

Divide dough in half and let rest for 10 minutes. Shape dough into two loaves and placed in greased rectangular or round loaf pans. Bake at 425 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes, or until crust is brown and bottom of loaf sounds hollow when tapped.

Immediately remove bread from pans and let cool completely on a wire rack before slicing or storing.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Five

Man, I need to find a way to wrap this up. The road of my life looks a lot like the image posted today. The months that have passed since my trip to Houston offer up so much material, that I've resolved myself to get through this—so that I can move on—on so many levels.

The big day came. Graduation was at 4 p.m. Diana really wanted to eat at Salt Grass, a steakhouse that was once famous for it's amazing beef, but has since become another corporate "Dolly." But she really wanted a filet mignon—she liked the way the words sounded when they fell off her tongue. So we made reservations for the whole damned clan.

We all filed into a long row near the stage—my parents and I and Diana's father and his pregnant wife, young son, father-in-law and mother. I hadn't seen him in over five years. And he looked good, as always. A tall drink of water with midnight blue eyes that were starting to show their age, the same smile that got me here in the first place, and curly black hair now peppered with gray.

It's hard for him to look at me these days. It has been since the day I walked out.

We were every jack-and-diane-young-turks-living-on-a-prayer song. Crazy in love from the moment we laid eyes on each other. But you don't hear what happens to Jack and Diane or Tommy and Gina 10 years later. It ain't pretty.

He let his insecurities get the best of him. I know that now. So here we are, sitting together at our only child's high school graduation. Everyone around us is making small talk, but we are silent. And reading each other's minds. Pride and nostalgia. Worry for her because we both know where she's headed.

He still loves me and looks at his new wife with regret. I still love him and look at my new husband with appreciation. It's lop-sided and sad. But make no mistake. My sympathy stops there. You reap what you sow.

Diana attends an inner-city school. Caucasians are the minority. Latinos and African-Americans fill most of the auditorium. Living in Houston gave me an education on people and culture—it seemed every country was represented here. My new home doesn't offer up much with regards to range on the color spectrum. So I have come to the sad conclusion that man must have a never-ending quest to find something to hate or belittle. Material up here is limited so the old codgers whisper things like "Whatcha expect—he's a Finn dontcha know?" or "Dem Norwegians ain't the sharpest tools in da shed."

As the procession of students passed us, I could see her down there in her royal blue cap and gown. She looked up and smiled and waved at me. She and I knew what it meant. She had saved that smile just for me.

Each student walked across the stage and accepted their diploma as family and friends cheered wildly. These beautiful young people were about to embark on life's journey—the real deal. And everyone in the room felt a little pride and worry whether it was their child or the person next to them.

Because few students planned to attend a university, some had plans to go to community or vocational colleges. But most were off to basic training. I found it hard to cheer—so many of these young people were displaced by Hurricane Katrina, and most of these kids had with no other way out. I feared for them and wished that our government had a conscience and prayed for those families whose children won't make it back.

And then they called her name. I shot to my feet, my cheeks stained with mascara and tears, and screamed "Nana-Banana!" I hadn't planned on saying that—but it just came out of my mouth. I knew she'd call me on it later. And she did.

I thought my heart was going to pop. I had waited for this moment her whole life.

So many images of her flashed before me. The red, wrinkled baby girl handed to me nearly 19 years ago. Her peaceful, round toddler face as she slept in her bed, cuddling her Dino—and the look on her face the first day of school when I said it was time for Dino to go away. The look in her eyes the morning I told her daddy and I were getting a divorce. Her puffy face, swelled up from tears as we sat silently in the restaurant the night before, holding on to my hand for dear life as she absorbed the brunt of what was growing in her belly. And her body language today as she stood up straight and walked across that stage like she owned it, took that diploma and turned to her family and smiled.

Good job, Diana. I love you. No matter what.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Four

Prior to dinner, we stopped by Diana's apartment to drop off packages along with some things my mother had brought from home—the rocking chair she rocked her children and grandchildren in, dishes and embroidered towels handed down from her mother. This was our chance to get a look at Robert before we all sat down to dinner.

And there he was—shaggy, unkempt hair, baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt. I give her props. On the outside, he's adorable. Big brown eyes, broad shoulders and a devil-may-care-panty-peeling grin. She has all of my weaknesses when it comes to men. Which is why I could see right through him the minute he flashed that grin and said in his sweet, Southern drawl, "Hello, ma'am."

I had seen that smile before. A hundred times. And it got me in trouble—short-term, long-term, lifelong trouble—every time.

I had gone over the conversation I was going to have with Bob a million times in my head. It always ended with some Dirty Harry line that involved a blunt object, a waiting line and a willingness to serve time. But I sat through dinner and tried to keep the conversation light with a few pointed questions thrown in.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" became "What are you interested in as a career?"

"How much bleach would it take to clean up your gene pool?" became "Tell me about your family."

Questions my mother never thought to disguise when interrogating the father of her first grandchild.

When the bill came, mom picked up the tab and excused herself and my dad. They left the three of us there and went back to the hotel—they'd had enough small talk and had made their quiet verdict. Bob was toast. Now I had my chance to really let Bob have it. But I remembered sitting in that swing not two days before, listening to my mother and Aunt Connie drone on about child-rearing, and how small I felt then. And the promise I made to Diana that night.

So, I listened. I listened to him tell me about his low-life brothers and drugged-up mama. I listened to him tell me about the day his daddy walked out like he was reciting an article from Readers Digest. He was three and never saw him much after that. He talked about the various relatives he'd lived with throughout his life and his high school years—never taking anything seriously, playing pranks, getting sent to detention and graduating simply because faculty just wanted him to leave.

It was all heart-breaking. Until I asked him why he broke all of my daughter's hangars and kicked her out of their apartment. And he just smiled. "I've got a bit of a temper," he had the nerve to say.

Like it was some f*cking badge of honor.

At that point, Diana was in tears. And I asked Bob to go find something to do for an hour. I needed to talk to my daughter.

As they stood outside and said there good-byes, I sat there and cried.

My hangars were never broken. But many other things were. And when he ran out of things to break, he came after me.

By the time she came back to the table, I had dried my tears. I scooted next to her and lay my head on her shoulder. "Diana. I love you. I hope you know that. And I'm saying this as a friend—because you are my best friend."

And she knew what was coming and started to cry again.

"Don't do this. Don't think you can fix him. Because you can't. And it will only get worse. I promise you. The decision is yours to make. But I know more than you think. And I hope you're listening to your heart."

And we sat there for an hour—in silence. I prayed for her. And she sat quietly and wept—and asked herself the same damned questions I asked myself 18 years ago.

And like me, she would have to learn her lesson the hard way.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Three

I drove the rest of the way to Houston. Crossing the New Mexico border into Texas, we saw a sign outside a small west Texas border town—Texico—that read “Welcome to the Lone Star State. Home to the 43rd President of the United States—George W. Bush.” I looked around the nondescript town, sprinkled with single-wide mobile homes and expansive cattle ranches and wondered why they couldn’t come up with something more legendary than birthplace to the worst president in modern-day history.

The drive through Texas was beautiful. I had forgotten how much I missed this part of the country. Southern hospitality. Biscuits and gravy. Men who took their hats off when they entered an establishment, and held doors for perfect strangers. Cattle country as far as the eye could see. Texas deserved to be proud of itself. Except for George.

I left my anger and disappointment somewhere around of Dalhart. Mom and I had a couple of really good conversations. We stuck to issues that were safe—parenting and the latest gossip about friends and family. My mother is a wonderful woman. The older I get, the more respect I have for the sacrifices she made as a divorced mother—when divorce was social suicide and sexual harassment was the price you paid for working outside the home. I’m convinced she’s a closet liberal. My money is on the fact that she married a man who is an ex-cop and is selfish in his views about the world—and she has had to adopt most of his truths to keep domestic peace. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The moment we entered the outer city limits of Houston, the unreserved quiet of the Texas prairie seemed like a dream. Like some extreme video game, cars, SUVs and pick-up trucks on steroids—lots of them—whizzed by at lighting speed, weaving in and out of traffic, in a balls-to-the-wall race to the finish. Urban guerillas steering 2,000 pounds of steel with cell phones in their ears and Big Gulps in their dashboard cup holders blew past me—oblivious to anyone outside their fabricated, leather-clad bubbles.

I suddenly remembered why I left this town. Living in Houston is like living in Chicago or L.A.—but with attitude. Bigger is better. And if you ain’t first—you’re last.

Mom and dad were white-knuckling it. Everything I had remembered about driving in a big city came back to me—but this time, I was a few years older and more afraid of dying. I kept it under 80 and reminded mom to breathe—and found my happy place, thinking about the pristine pine trees and slow pace of northern Minnesota.

The minute I saw her face—I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. She will never realize how beautiful she is—or how loved. I suppose none of us will. She is a long, tall glass of water with big, beautiful blue eyes—and now she is sporting a paunch. I have to stand on my tiptoes to hug her. And I squeezed her as hard as I could and fought back tears.

She filled me in on her morning sickness, her first visit to the doctor—and Bob. His name is Robert, but I call him Bob because I don’t like him. It’s my sinister way of reminding her that she can do better. He is nineteen and a colossal idiot. He drives his truck like he stole it and treats my daughter like she’s disposable.

Half-way to Texas, she called me in tears. He’d lost his temper again, broke all of her hangars, threw her clothes all over their room—and kicked her out of their apartment. This visit was killing me.

It wasn’t too long ago that I was in her shoes. Young, self-depricating and in love with a man who showered me with crazy, passionate, leave-me-and-I’ll-kill-you affection. And now karma has come back and bitten me in the ass.

So I took her shopping. And bought her the maternity clothes he had refused to provide her. And a comforter and sheets for the bed he’d promised to buy her, because her back was killing her sleeping on a cheap mattress on the floor.

I bit my tongue the entire afternoon, trying to be cool and listen and offer up “girlfriend” advice, instead of motherly. My stomach knotted up inside every time she told me about one of their fights. I sat on my hands while she told me about her failed attempt to apply for Medicare and WIC, because he was bored, and didn’t want to have to wait in the long lines.

I was meeting Bob for the first time that evening. We—Diana, Bob, my parents and I—were all going out to dinner. I had visions of launching myself across the table and wrapping my hands around his throat, while the restaurant staff tried in vain to pull me off of him. She said he was really nervous.

Bob had no idea.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Two

My mom drove the first leg, navigating the steady stream of traffic from Denver to Colorado Springs. She white-knuckled it as cars sped past her, on cement-barricaded-under-construction highways that seemed to go on forever. She didn’t want to talk. She was too nervous. Fine by me. I was in the back seat medicating myself with strong, black coffee—wishing I could just hook the to-go cup to my vein and relax while the Columbian nectar did its magic.

To calm her nerves, she turned on the radio. A Limbaugh-esque conservative talk show host was bashing the Democrats—something about destroying al-Qaeda and supporting your troops by spending money at your local Wal-Mart this Memorial Day weekend.

Out came the iPod and in went the headphones. And the anger rising up in my throat was soothed by Elton John serenading me with “Tiny Dancer.” I stared out the window and wondered when it was going to happen. My meltdown.

My step-father sat in the passenger’s seat, reading one of his James Patterson novels and occasionally looking up to make sure mother was remembering to breathe. Mom listened to the radio, nodding her head in agreement and clenching her jaw.

I love my parents. But it is hard for me to understand how they can be so indifferent now. My entire young life, my mother preached to me about love and tolerance. Turn the other cheek. Cheer for the underdog. Help the less fortunate. Be kind to your neighbor. Cherish our differences. Work hard. Be honest. Stand up for what’s right. All the stuff we’re supposed to teach through example as parents.

And now she listens to morons who are at their core bitter, angry, intolerant, maligned and misinformed. She watches them on TV. She votes them into office.

It is heartbreaking.

Because I heard every word my mother ever said. Every lesson ever taught. And I passed these values on to my children.

My kids are amazing. Yes, I’m a bit biased. But ask anyone who has shared the pleasure of their company. They are polite. Respectful. Helpful. Courteous. Compassionate. Genuinely good kids. My kids have never thrown a fit in a store. Or disrespected an adult. And they know when I say ‘no’ I mean it. And I have to believe it’s because I have instilled in them the same values my parents gave me.

I cannot have a normal conversation with my mother. We don’t agree on anything. Suddenly she sees the world as “every man for himself.” This woman told me to share with my brother—and now she won’t share with hers.

I could feel my jaw starting to clench as we pulled into a Country Kitchen in Trinidad, just north of the New Mexico border. My shift was next.

We sat in the restaurant, attached to a worn-out La Quinta and waited patiently for bad service and even worse food. My mother tried to hide her disgust at the waitress’ less-than-stellar work ethic and the wilted lettuce on her $8 salad. But at one point she couldn’t contain her disdain and whispered that “those people”—a reference to the young woman’s age and ethnicity—don’t know how lucky they are to have a job. I bit my tongue.

While we finished our coffee and waited for the check, the conversation somehow steered toward the issue of global warming—an issue my parents are convinced is a big conspiracy and a ruse to revive some sort of communist takeover. I listened to them complain about the inconvenience of recycling and the high cost of their electric bill since summer came early this year.

But the most disturbing moment came when my step-father said, “That’s the good thing about getting old—we won’t be around long enough to see the outcome [of global warming].”

My eyes filled with tears. I grabbed the check, took the keys and waited outside for them to finish their coffee.

I stood in the parking lot and called Diana. I needed to hear her voice.

I felt like the curtain had been stripped away and I had seen them for who they really were. Self-absorbed. Hypocritical. Bitter.

I didn’t want to see my mother that way. I wanted to feel the love and the nurturing side of her that had comforted me through pregnancies, kids with high fevers, cheating husbands and deployments to Iraq.

At least it was my turn to drive.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part One

The trip from Minnesota to Houston was a long one.

It wasn’t about the physical distance. Long car rides never bother me—I find a great deal of pleasure staring out a car window at the great expanse of my homeland. I love being on a long stretch of road, seeing the beautiful landscape dotted with small towns and houses and yards with clotheslines and swing sets—and every once in awhile, seeing people moving about. Road trips make me contemplative, reflecting on my own life and wondering about the lives of others and their level of satisfaction relative to my own.

This long journey was about the company I kept, the people I would see when I reached my destination, and the past that I was finally able to leave behind.

I headed down to Houston to watch my girl graduate high school. There was a lot of logistical planning—the flight from Minnesota to Denver… the rendezvous with the parental unit in Denver, and then the long drive to Houston, piloting their every-bell-and-whistle-known-to-man minivan—with a radio that was programmed to play only mind-numbing, conservative talk radio.

For starters, I hate to fly. I’m a bit of a control-freak. I like to be in the driver’s seat—on so many levels. However, my fear of flying is quelled by my love of the airport 24-hour lounge. Half a Valium and a couple of Crown and 7s at 10 a.m., and suddenly flying at 30,000 feet isn’t so bad.

I landed in Denver mid-afternoon, numb and half-tanked. I hate DIA. It’s the Hollywood starlet of airports. Pretty on the outside. F*cked up and confused on the inside. I navigated my way through the terminal to the train, which whisked me to baggage claim. The first stop on my journey back to the future.

The same scenario has played out since the first time I left home and came back. I see my mom and my aunt Connie in the distance, and pray that I can sneak up on them before they notice me—and summarily embarrass me in front of thousands of strangers. But alas, it never happens the way I hope it does.

My aunt Connie notices me first. She’s not my aunt by blood—I’ve just known her my whole life because she’s my mother’s best friend. And I love her to pieces. But she’s loud—with bleach-streaked hair, a red silk bowling jacket and a nasal voice that cuts through the crowd, screaming, “There she is!” And every head in the airport whips around in my direction. And my mother, whose mind hasn’t told her legs she’s not as young as she used to be—throws her arms up in the air and comes “running” toward me, shouting “My baby! Would you just look at her?”

I’m 38 years old, and the minute I see my mother coming at me like a spider monkey hopped up on happy pills, tears of joy streaming down her face—I am sucked back into my childhood. Red-faced and mortified. I’m seventeen again. This is going to be the longest five days of my life.

I’m so different from my family in so many ways. I’m not better or worse. Just different. I come from a family rooted in the Catholic faith—the branch that believes it’s okay to skip Mass on Sunday because the Broncos are playing. As long as you confess on Wednesday for having a little too much hooch and shouting expletives at the TV screen in earshot of your children and your mother-in-law—all is forgiven. My family, mostly my mother’s side, is also ultra-conservative. Except for the swearing and the hooch. In that arena, they suddenly become a bunch of flaming liberals—slurring something about freedom of expression.

Anyway. I’m different. My political views are different. My religious views are different. My social views are different. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart. I don’t eat at chain restaurants. The list is long.

We drove from the airport to my old neighborhood and I was amazed how much everything had changed. Wide open fields where groundhogs used to run free, and kids would play kickball—gone. The mom-and-pop sandwich shop where I used to hang out with my friends—gone. The streets my friends and I would cruise on Friday nights—belting out the words to “Sister Christian,” rebelling against itchy uniforms and teenage oppression—now made me feel claustrophobic. This place was now filled with trendy shopping centers, over-landscaped apartment complexes and outback-applebees-chilis-texas-roadhouse-macaroni-grill-brightly-colored-everything-tastes-the-same restaurants—as far as the blinded-by-neon eye could see.

My nostalgia was gone too. The familiarity of my youth was bulldozed and replaced by something out of a weird sci-fi movie. This wasn’t home anymore.

I spent the evening having dinner at TGI Friday’s with my parents, my aunt Connie and her son, Joe. Joe is thirty-three and just moved out of my aunt Connie’s basement—and the only thing he can talk about is his new truck and the ins and outs of workman’s comp. Just before my last cocktail arrives—my brother, who I haven’t seen in five years, walks through the door, loaded. Some things never change.

Sitting there watching my baby brother, now in his thirties, still struggle to cope with what I accepted a long time ago was painful. We did not choose the paths our parents had envisioned. I did not become an Ivy League attorney. He did not follow in my father’s military-career shoes. We both took Frost’s advice.

I revel in my separateness. My brother wallows in it.

I sat out on the porch with my mom and my aunt Connie that night, and enjoyed the cool Rocky Mountain air. I politely sat in the porch swing as these women lectured me about motherhood and raising kids and how I need to treat this “situation” with my daughter. Connie does love to give speeches.

I rocked back and forth, my feet not quite touching the ground—just like when I was a kid. And I looked up at the starry sky and thought of Diana. Her sweet face. How much she had become my friend. How cool it would be to hang out with her again. I missed her. And I sent her a message by way of the heavens.

“I promise. I will never make you feel like you’re seventeen—ever again.”

To be continued.