Yesterday I was brought back to a memory of being ten years old and I had just moved from a concrete urban environment that smelled like bus exhaust to a verdant suburb that smelled like fresh, cut grass. On Saturday mornings, all the men were out mowing their new suburban lawns. Now I closed my eyes and I was ten years old again and playing with my friends in the yard.
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I work at home in a second floor apartment in a “quiet” tree-lined suburban community where apartments are the exception. My home office looks out on private homes on two sides.
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Years ago, when I lived on a block with very new mothers, some of us decided to form a neighborhood bridge group. We were all terrible card players, but that really wasn’t the point. Meeting once a month was a way to get together, to talk about families, schools, neighborhood stuff. Some of us were friends outside of the bridge group, but not all of us were.
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When I graduated from college, my parents gave me a string of pearls. From time to time, but not very often, I go into pearl mode and wear them with everything. Generally, though, they sit in my jewelry box. Years ago I had them restrung, and the jeweler did a miserable job. When I told him they don’t lie flat, that they seem to buckle because of how tight he made them, he told me that my body heat would make the knots relax. I must be stone cold. Those pearls do, however, mean a lot to me.
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