Boston

My daughter Devin and I are in Boston this morning. We drove Jack to school here, yesterday. We did some Christmas shopping and had dinner with my mother, sister and niece and we stayed overnight in a beautiful hotel room with this view of the Public Gardens:
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Sorry, the window and rain make everything a bit blurry.

I told Devin that I remembered when they built this hotel. She asked if I thought, then, that I would ever stay here. I said that I never thought, then, that I’d be able to afford to eat here. But here we are!
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How I Wished I Was in Dixie

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In honor of the Fourth of July, I’ve decided to print an excerpt from my memoir, An Innocent, a Broad.

For those who haven’t read it, (and judging by my royalty statements, that probably includes you) the book is about the time that Denis and I went to London for a weekend and stayed for six months, because I went into premature labor with our first child, Jack. We had arrived in London in March. By July 4th, Jack had been born and was out of the hospital but still wasn’t healthy enough to travel by plane so we rented a flat in Islington. Denis did stand-up in London comedy clubs at night and wrote his one-man-show, “No Cure For Cancer,” during the day. I nursed our baby every fifteen minutes, all day and all night.

Marblehead

I’m in my beautiful hometown of Marblehead, Massachusetts. I drove up yesterday because I’m doing a book signing today at the Spirit of 76 Bookstore, from 2:00-4:00.

This morning I went down to the landing and saw a lobster boat unloading its traps.
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Then I walked down to the cove near my mother and stepfather’s house. This is Brown’s Island which sits right off the cove:
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A Work of Art

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I feel that my blog needs some beauty today, so I’m posting a painting by my very dear friend Lindsey Brown. Lindsey is an artist and curator based in Brooklyn and Dutchess County, NY. Her work is in the permanent collection of The Portland Art Museum, is exhibited regularly in various New York galleries, and is hanging all over our house.

Mother’s Day

My mother is in Colorado, visiting my brother, but it’s Mother’s Day, so I thought I would dedicate today’s blog to my dear mother, Judith S. Howe.

My mother is extremely charming. She has an old-fashioned sensibility when it comes to manners and applies them to modern situations, often with interesting results. For example, once, one of her grandchildren persuaded her to take them through the drive-through window at McDonald’s. Judy drove up to the speaker, and said, smiling brightly at it, “Hi, I’m Judy Howe! I’d like two orders of Chicken McNuggets, please.” Then she waited in the traffic line and when it was her turn, she pulled up to the window, and said, gaily, “Hi! Judy Howe!” I’m not sure if this story is as funny in blog form, because you have to get the accent with it. She talks a little bit like Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story.

Old Photos

This morning I was searching an online image database for photographs (for book publicity) and I found many photos I had never seen before, including this one:
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This was probably the first time a professional photographer ever took our picture (besides our wedding). The date on the photo is January 1, 1992. I was twenty-nine years old, and although you can’t tell from the photo, I was pregnant with our daughter, Devin. We were at a party celebrating the opening night of Denis’s one-man show “No Cure For Cancer,” which he was performing at the Actor’s Playhouse in the West Village.

My Life in Dogs

“Don’t treat your dog like a person, or he’ll start treating you like a dog,” my grandfather told me once, when I was a child. I can’t remember what I was doing that provoked this warning, probably spoon-feeding one of our dogs, but I do recall hoping, praying, that his words were true. It was my dream to have a dog treat me like another dog. I’m a dog nut. I seem to have been born that way. I carry the fascination around with me the way my retriever-mix, Daphne, carries around an oversized stuffed animal.
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Steep Rock Diaries

Last fall I began work on a new book and I ran into a little snare right at the beginning. I was describing the campus of a boarding school in September, in Connecticut, and I had all the trees aflame with bright russets and golds and somebody was raking leaves. It was still early in September when I was writing this and it dawned on me that the leaves might still be green well into October. I really had no idea. And I wasn’t quite sure when the first frost usually arrives. So I decided to start a journal to document the local flora and fauna as the seasons change.