I don’t know how she did it. But I will mention two different ways that Dolly Parton influenced me, personally.

There was a period — probably in the late 1990’s, when Dolly’s whole “thing” — the hair, the heels, the sparkly outfits — started to seem like a small-town carnival ride that had seen better days.

Then — “Little Sparrow.”

Little Sparrow is the album that Dolly released in early 2001. She had — very wisely — left the realm of pop music and country-hybrid crossovers and returned to her roots in rural East Tennessee. The album is a loving tribute to the music of Appalachia, and when Dolly was out on the road performing and promoting it, I remember realizing probably for the first time what a tremendous and authentic gift she had as a songwriter and musician, how beloved and revered she was by other musicians, and also — what a lovely, funny and authentic person she seemed to be. [If you can’t access this video via Instagram, I’ve recorded the first 30 seconds and that video is included below.]

The song itself is mournful; haunting, really, as it calls out to the ancient Celtic ballads and sea shanties that form the ancestry of Appalachian mountain music. And her voice — you can imagine it traveling up from the holler and across the mountain peaks, to land … who knows where? Somewhere in the far-off cosmos.

YES — under all of that spray and sparkle was a true-blue person who knew who she was.

She wore her humanity like a celebration.

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[My old-timey desk at the Freeville Literary Society]

On Friday nights, I show movies on a screen along the back wall. I have a pretty fancy projector and a license to screen movies, and … well, what can I say? I open the door and people come in. Instead of paying for a ticket (everything is free), they bring food and drink to share. They sit on my leftover church pews, comfy Naugahyde chairs and couches, and around the big wooden table.

I have one recliner with a foot stool for anyone who is ailing or needs to rest their broken bones, because it seems like someone in my crowd is always recovering from a broken foot, ankle or hip. A typical audience is around 15-20 people.

One HUGE advantage of owning and operating my tiny cinema is that I handle all of the programming (as well as everything else).

This means that every Christmas, I WILL screen Die Hard and Meet Me in Saint Louis.

… And every summer, Jaws.

For me, the quintessential summertime movies are Rear Window, Do the Right Thing, and Jaws.

[My favorite home-made poster …]

There are certain movies that seem to attach to a fan’s consciousness. Once embedded, these films will take that person on a lifelong ride aboard the fandom express.

I could probably write an entire book about Jaws, and my book would be a rambling and insane love letter to a movie that hit me at the perfect age (I was 14 when it came out) and which continues to resonate in different ways and for different reasons.

Steven Spielberg’s movies seem to hit people that way. Maybe that’s why they attract and inspire super-fans.

I’m talking about next-level inspiration + obsession.

There were the 12-year-old kids who, in 1982, decided to recreate Raiders of the Lost Ark in their backyards. They actually remade the movie, SHOT FOR SHOT. It took them seven years, and the result is incredibly charming.

Click below for a trailer for the wonderful documentary about this effort:

In fact, Spielberg (or someone) should make a fictional feature film about a group of kids who reshoot a famous film, SHOT FOR SHOT. In the years it takes them to complete the project, the young filmmakers grow and change — they way we all do.

The Plot: These kids suffer the slings and arrows of being a normal human on the planet, and yet — summer after summer — they come back to their hometown to work on their film. They squabble and make up (or drop out). They get drunk and revisit old wounds.

They proudly wear their battle scars (… the way Richard Dreyfuss, Roy Scheider and Robert Shaw do in the incredible “show me your scars” scene in Jaws).

OMG. GET ME REWRITE!

But … I digress.

I was TODAY years old when I learned about

QUINCY JAWS

Where has Quincy Jaws been all my life? Mainly in Quincy, Mass.

Quincy Jaws is the creation of three adult Jaws super-fans who were definitely drunk when they decided to remake their favorite movie — NOT shot-by-shot, but scene-by-scene. The effort took them seven years, and their film came out just in time for Jaws’ 50th reunion, last summer.

What I absolutely love is how this drunken notion got completely out of hand, and how this group of hometown friends basically learned how to cast, stage, shoot, act (sort of), score and edit their feature-length home movie, essentially taking a nothing notion and making it into … something. The effort itself has major middle-age DAD energy.

And every single character has an endearingly thick Boston/Quincy accent.

[The filmmakers/actors/best buds: Timothy Lynch, Robert LaMonica (who directed), and Timothy DeGust. All men played multiple roles/parts in the film.]

My intention was to watch the first few minutes of Quincy Jaws and then move on.

The first scene — a recreation of the famous late night “clambake” scene that sets the film in motion — is SO HILARIOUS, intentionally and otherwise, that I was immediately hooked.

Spielberg’s version features gorgeous college kids partying on the island for the summer.

Here are a few seconds of that scene as recreated by the Quincy trio, featuring a beer-bellied middle age “Tom,” who is too drunk to take a midnight skinny-dip with the hot girl “Chrissy.”

(30 seconds)

Quincy Jaws is … patchy. But the film really and truly takes off when the action moves out to sea. On the boat, the three friends seem to have figured out how to interact on camera.

The grossest scene in Jaws, and the one that made me scream out loud when I first saw it, is when Quint gets [SPOILER ALERT] eaten by the shark.

[47 seconds. Watch to the end … it’s worth it!]

The Quincy Jaws version of this famous scene is … pretty great!

OK — so the shark is made of rubber roofing material. Its teeth are plastic. But the whole endeavor is held together by a friendship bond that transcends their amateur film making efforts.

Quincy Jaws tacks on a scene at the end of their film that Spielberg doesn’t have in the original.

Spielberg leaves the two survivors at sea, paddling toward a very distant shore, but in this version the characters make it all the way to shore.

We see the survivors climb out of the water and onto the rocky beach of Quincy, Mass.

The neighborhood’s houses line the shore, and it’s easy to imagine these guys heading into one of these houses, cracking open a six-pack, and sitting down to plan their next adventure.

*****

The Quincy Jaws crew: Robert LaMonica, Timothy DeGust and Timothy Lynch, want fans of their film to support Harveys Saltwater Vets, where a donation can help to treat a disabled veteran to a day of ocean fishing (hopefully, Jaws-free).

HERE’S A LINK

So let’s do this.

For every “heart” on this essay, I’ll donate $1 to Harveys Saltwater Vets.

For every comment answering the following question, I’ll donate $2

“If you could, what favorite film would you spend 7 years to butcher/remake?”

I’ll cap the upper limit of this offer at $500. BECAUSE HEY. I’m not made of money.

The Quincy Jaws Website

** Dear readers - I sent all of us in a two week hiatus where I paused payment for this newsletter.

I’m back - and so is your subscription.

And …. have I thanked you lately for supporting this work? It means SO MUCH to me, and I am very grateful.

Xo

Amy

Me and Pirate Pete at the local mini-golf range (a vital part of my summer hiatus).

This summer is going well for me. Well enough, anyway.

As usual, the season seems to be flying by, and now — entering the first week of August, I’m starting to see those back-to-school ads which always fill me with a deep sense of melancholy.

Why this mood? Because — summer is ending. Autumn is in the offing and I no longer have children at home who I can send off to school wearing their crisp new outfits.

Sigh

[My teen companions like me enough to act like they’re having fun — for the length of time it takes to snap a photo.]

Last week I announced a pause in subscriptions until next week because instead of updating this newsletter in July, I was busying myself trying to cram a summertime of memories into a few weeks, as I hosted my granddaughters for their annual summer vacation at our house.

These lovely and lively children, who live in Florida, have been coming to “Camp Amy” every summer for over ten years.

Now that they are teenagers, entertaining them is both easier and harder than it used to be. Easier because there are fewer tragic ice cream cone failures during our almost daily stops at the Frosty Cow. (I mean, is there anything sadder than seeing your just-scooped ice cream land upside down in the parking lot?)

Harder because there are often times — entire days, even — when teenagers simply don’t want to do anything at all.

Once I adjusted to this reality, I settled down and read a sweet summertime novel while they sat on the porch in their pajamas and colored.

SERIOUSLY. THEY SPENT AN ENTIRE DAY COLORING.

[Did you know that coloring is a thing for teenagers? I didn’t … but I do, now. I mean, I know that adult coloring books have been in the market for a long time, but I didn’t know that teens had taken up this very leisurely sport.]

And when you think about it, coloring is actually incredibly relaxing, so if relaxing is what you want to do on your summer vacation, then — pick up some coloring books and felt-tip pens and go crazy!

In so many ways, summer vacations have changed pretty radically since the time I was a kid.

Last night I got together with a group of friends on my porch and we all started reminiscing about the endless road trips our parents took us on during the summer.

Riding in vehicles lacking even basic safety or comfort: No seat belts, no air conditioning, no radio, (and — in the case of our family car — no back seat,) brings out a certain amount of tension when the family is crammed in there together. We all seemed to remember the discomforts of the road trip itself much more than the destination.

These stories reminded me of a wonderful radio story I made many years ago, featuring a symphony composed by my friend Charlie Barnett. Charlie’s evocative summertime symphony is called “The Blue Chevrolet,” and for my NPR story I sat down with the composer AND HIS WONDERFUL MOM, MARTHA, as they reminisced about their hilarious and hellacious summertime road trips from Virginia to Maine in the 1960’s.

As Robert Siegal says in the intro: This is for all of the drivers and passengers on long-distance family trips right now. It’s about you, and it’s about the fight you’re having in your crowded, luggage-packed car. Or about the fight you will have a few miles from now, or possibly the fight you just had.

My favorite line in the story is when Charlie quotes his long and loudly-suffering father, pulling the Chevrolet into a restaurant parking lot and saying to his five children:

“THIS IS IT. I’M GOING TO BEAT YOU ONE BY ONE…”

How did the children respond? They put books into their pants.

Do yourself a favor: make yourself a nice tall Arnold Palmer, have a seat, and click on the picture of my old-timey radio collection below to listen to this radio story.

The story is 8 minutes long, and I guarantee that for those of us of a certain age, it will bring on many many summertime memories, which I hope you’ll share in the comments section

CLICK ON THE PHOTO ABOVE to listen to the story.

The full orchestra performance of Charlie Barnett’s “The Blue Chevrolet” is available on Spotify, Apple Music, and many other outlets.

The piece is 33 minutes long, and it is an absolute delight.

You can check out many more wonderful musical pieces by composer Charlie Barnett on his website: Charliebarnett.com

I hope you have a lovely, peaceful week — full of memory-making moments.

Love,

Amy

I hadn’t intended to take any time off from my weekly bugle — and yet, I did.

And so … first this … I’m granting all of my paid subscribers a two-week pause from paying for this newsletter.

I promise a weekly (or mainly weekly) newsletter, and as subscribers you should expect that.

If I pause, you pause.

And so …

Enjoy, as I did today, a gentle rain viewed from my porch, as non-threatening thunderclouds rumbled across the sky. If you put the sound up, you’ll hear this soothing music.

I followed up by having a little lie down with the book I’m reading.

Here’s the book. I love this novel because it contains so many elements I enjoy in a good book.

It’s set in a tiny village on the Italian coast, and also in Los Angeles. CHECK

It takes place in 1962 with occasional time hops to the present day. CHECK

It revolves around acting, writing, movie making and myth making. CHECK CHECK CHECK

… And makes me think of something my mother used to say:

Life is all a memory

I hope you can give yourself — or steal for yourself — a pause.

I’ll be back this weekend with my regularly scheduled programming

[The best part of a summer rain.]

Love,

Amy

Mine was super low key — I enjoyed a hot sausage sandwich at the local fire department, and after touring the village’s new and very fancy fire truck, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden.

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I didn’t have the kind of dad who was necessarily worthy of celebrating, but every Fathers Day I think about the great and good dads I’ve been lucky to know.

When I was a kid I especially admired my friend Nancy’s father, who showed all of Nancy’s friends what a father could be like. He was kind, fun, and very present in the lives of his three daughters and their friends.

Our current culture celebrates good fatherhood, and I’m always happy to see that modern fathers are embracing their central role in the healthy development of their children — and their friends.

I really enjoy the total “Dad” energy of the group featured in the clip I’m sharing below, where an Indiana dad decided to go all-in to celebrate his son’s last day of school.

The boy’s somewhat muffled but appropriately amused/horrified reaction is priceless.

And a special shout-out to the great dad I married.

Here’s to you, Bruno. You’re THE BEST.

IN OTHER NEWS: I’m happy to report that it is peony season round these parts, and my little world is currently ALL ABOUT PEONIES.

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First this: Tomorrow, June 15th, I’ll offer an update on my most recent - quite harrowing - story about a baby found by the side of the road near where I live. This was published on June 2nd. I’ve received many thoughtful comments and queries, and hope to provide some additional details.

[I’ve had trouble linking to this essay but I hope readers can go through my archive to find it.]

And Now for Something Complete Different:

Last week — I went to France.

I present this as a somewhat improbable headline, because as people who know me well understand — even though I like to visit other places, I truly do not want to leave home. Especially in June, which — where I live — actually is Bustin’ Out All Over.

Begone hellacious winter! Helllllloooo bounteous spring. FINALLY.

[Caution: this clip from Carousel (1956) features an endless dance sequence that is SO BIZARRE that it should come with its own warning label. So consider yourself warned. I find it so strange that it almost turns the corner into epic greatness. ALMOST]

(And because I can’t seem to say — or even think — the phrase “I went to France” without adding “… because I have ants in my pants,” consider that now completely out of my system.)

This recent trip was my favorite way to travel — invited and accompanied by a seasoned traveller (my friend Jean), and without any personal responsibility for any particular outcome. Yay me!

In short, Jean asked: “Hey, do you want to come with me to visit my brother at his house in Normandy, and also, by the way, his apartment in Paris?”

Jean’s brother has lived in France for over 30 years, doing great and important work that has inspired me to dub him: “The Bra King of France.”

Honestly, dear reader — I actually balked at Jean’s generous invitation, until my husband looked at me like I needed to have my head examined.

“This is EXACTLY the sort of thing you should be doing, Amy,” is what he said.

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Although, come to think of it, what happened yesterday more or less falls into all of the above categories.

I start many days by visiting a local gas station/convenience store for my morning coffee.

This is one of those places that has a little seating area, a few rows of overpriced and essential snacks, lots of beer stacked in the back wall fridges, and a somewhat disturbing little refrigerator selling BAIT, which is right next to an identical fridge selling similarly-packaged NON-BAIT.

My concern here is that a person could purchase a container of yogurt and wind up with a mouth full of night crawlers.

At the front of the shop there is a food counter where you can order a basic sandwich, as well as the ubiquitous glass-walled countertop warmer where you can buy a slice of flat, oily, and frankly very enticing gas station pizza.

Lorraine runs the place, which serves a diverse clientele ranging from long-haul truckers to Mennonite farmers.

And me.

You can tell that Lorraine is a great manager because the place is spotless and the workers are friendly, competent, and patient.

I’ve gotten to know Lorraine over the last year or so, and when it’s not too busy in the shop she and I will chat. We shoot the breeze, complain about the weather and share the sort of basic personal information that verges on intimate but doesn’t cross a line.

Lorraine and I like each other. We have a nice rapport.

Yesterday morning I stopped in for my coffee, and the place was very busy. A military transport had pulled up and about a dozen guys wearing camouflage had spilled into the shop. They were ordering breakfast sandwiches and purchasing giant quart-sized Mountain Dews – the ones that look like cannisters of radiator fluid.

[And – can I add – how very young strong and LARGE these men were? Flanked by these guys while standing in the queue with my coffee, I felt like a munchkin getting ready to eat her breakfast under a toadstool.]

I made it up to the register and there was Lorraine. As usual.

Normally unflappable, on this morning she seemed stressed.

She greeted me: “Amy. You’ll never believe what I found this morning by the side of the road.”

Lorraine described the stretch of road she takes on her way to work. I know it well. It’s a pretty boring rural two-lane road with narrow gravel shoulders and not much else. No houses or buildings nearby.

I’m thinking. Hmmm. Around here you can find almost anything by the side of the road, because that’s where people put the stuff they don’t want.

I started guessing.

“An old chifforobe?”

No.

“A puppy?” “An armadillo?

[I started just guessing random stuff…]

No.

Lorraine got out her phone and pulled up a photo.

The photo was of a baby. A human baby wearing a diaper and nothing else.

At 5:30 that morning, on her way in to open up the shop, Lorraine found a baby by the side of the road.

The nights lately have been characteristically cold. Cold enough that you can’t put out your annuals without the risk of freezing.

My point is that it’s too cold for petunias.

Definitely too cold for a baby.

Lorraine pulled over and picked up the baby. Of course she did!

I’m pretty good at guessing baby-ages and by the photo I estimated that this baby was around 15-18 months old – way too young to have somehow wandered outside by itself.

The baby in Lorraine’s photo was a wobbly toddler.

Lorraine said the child was shivering. She said the baby sipped almost a whole bottle of water while the two sat in her car, waiting for rescue by second responders (…that morning Lorraine was the first responder).

No parents or other adults surfaced during the time Lorraine and the baby waited in her car.

The EMTs took about an hour to arrive (!!), and during that time the sun came up and the road got busy with trucks carrying lumber, hay, milk, and — apparently, military personnel.

I don’t recommend thinking too deeply about this episode because once you start imagining what might have happened if Lorraine hadn’t come by at 5:30AM, it’s hard to stop imagining it.

I thought about that baby all day.

First of all, there’s THIS:

The universe somehow put that baby into the path of a deeply compassionate and competent problem solver.

What a miracle.

People are amazing!

Secondly:

What a nightmare. Someone seems to have put that baby out into the dark and cold.

People are monsters.

In the afternoon I called Lorraine. It occurred to me that this extremely sanguine person might have been rattled by her early-morning experience. And yes — she was.

Lorraine said she hadn’t heard anything from law enforcement, and – frankly – I don’t know if she will. Do police or social services follow up with strangers delivering a miracle? Probably not.

I decided to try to find out more about this incident and so I did a little rooting around.

If you want to sleep at night, I DON’T suggest you do this.

I was not able to find out about this child, but the Internet coughed up so many similar stories that this sort of incident seems almost commonplace.

There is no tidy way to sum up this story, except to acknowledge the quick thinking and compassion of a regular person who set out for her pre-dawn shift and became something of a hero before she’d even warmed up that first pot of gas station coffee.

I’m reminded of Mr. Rogers’ beautiful and enduring advice, passed along from his mother to him, and now to us:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'”

Love,

Amy

PS: As always, I treasure your “hearts,” comments, and stories. Please do share.

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Several readers asked, “What did you see?” and I’m happy to say that I spent a couple of hours in an empty theater giving my imagination over to a flock of talking sheep.

“The Sheep Detectives” is based on a book that I happen to have recently read — thanks to friend/subscriber Laura Larson, who recommended that I read“Three Bags Full,” a best-selling novel by German author Leonie Swan. ‘

“Its about a flock of Irish sheep who solve a murder,” Laura told me,

SOLD.

I LOVE EWE CRIME STORIES.

The Sheep Detectives belongs to a delightful small genre of stories expertly narrated by animals.

(I can think of Charlotte’s Web and Babe — and also another movie now streaming on Netflix: Remarkably Bright Creatures.)

Both of these recent films are lovely. Remarkably Bright Creatures is a quiet film where an octopus provides the wisdom the human characters lack. It has a sort of Nicholas Sparks twist that will appeal to you only if you’re in the right frame of mind.

And Sally Field. What can I say? Field plays a cantankerous cleaning lady very much in need of healing. In my opinion this actor has very much grown into national treasure status, and I’m sure I’m not alone.

It’s a pretty silly notion that the animals surrounding us are genius philosophers who hold the key to understanding this world in a way that humans can’t.

(I for one have spent a lot of time around sheep and as fond as I am of them, I assure you — your basic sheep could not solve its way out of a paper bag.)

But. It occurs to me that humans these days more or less suck, and so yes — if an octopus can use its legendary intelligence to make me feel OK about life, and if a flock of sheep can demonstrate the kind of emotional growth that no human I know is capable of — then I’m fine with that.

** Molly and I hope you all have a lovely week, full of warmth and wisdom.

Love,

Amy

** PS: If you’ve made it all the way to the end of this rather brief missive, please do me a solid and signify by shooting me a “heart” and/or comment (what animal narrating movies did I miss…?).

Every year I find ways to complain about Mothers Day, but … I know this is not particularly helpful, especially to the people in my life who just want to get it right.

What a bind it puts them in, knowing that I am so ambivalent about this day, while also knowing that they really must find a way to acknowledge it.

Sigh. Yet another way I have failed these daughters of mine. For me, Mothers Day seems to bring on extended rumination on my faults and failings.

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But more on that later.

Last fall I got myself a sweet little greenhouse put into the yard. It’s cute as hell, but I’m still learning how to use this little building as a greenhouse.

So far, it’s my clubhouse. (I turn every building into a clubhouse.)

[Doesn’t this just make you want to go clubbing?]

Right now, until the ground warms up for planting, I’m using this sweet little structure more as a potting shed and as a place to stash my perennials until its warm enough to plant them.

But I digress!

Here’s what I want to receive on Mothers Day:

A phone call, a book, and/or a plant. I’m easy that way.

My bestie Gay Cioffi has found a beautiful way to fulfill all of my Mother’s Day wishes, by creating the sweetest little book celebrating flowers and the people who love them.

.It’s the perfect giftie for anyone — or anyone’s mother — and so I asked Gay if I could plug it a bit while also showing off my little greenhouse.

Each page features sweet watercolor renderings of some of my favorite flowers, accompanied by a flower-centric quote:

Allium + May Sarton!

Tulips + Tiny Tim!

Kisses + Poppies + Pablo Neruda!

This book was so popular last year that its creator has gone through several printings, but Gay assures me that she can get a copy in the mail in time for it to arrive before Mothers Day if you order before May 5th or so.

Here’s how:

click HERE for Beechview Press

Gay will do the rest.

Stay tuned for my next newsletter, published over this coming weekend:

Title: It’s SNOW big deal. Get it?

My ode to April snows.

Subscribe now

[April 21, 2024] Good times

LOVE, BUDS, AND BLOSSOMS to you,

Amy

**** As always — if you have made it all way to the end of this edition, please do signify by shooting me a “heart” or a comment. I read and appreciate all of your feedback.

This, people, is one of the dangers of spending too much time orbiting in your own head, and too little time paying attention to the wider universe.

But on Easter Sunday, family members were expressing excitement about this space mission, and I sort of snapped in. We all started reminiscing about the Apollo missions, telling the indelible story of July, 1969 when we as children were pulled out of bed to watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.

I don’t always love being so very old, but I’m very happy that I was alive and on this planet in order to witness this event in 1969.

Last weekend I was at an awards ceremony/gala/thingy that Bruno and I attend each year in Washington.

[Wearing, by the way, the wonderful dress I always wear to this event. I will wear this dress until it is worn out. I love it that much.]

[Pregaming]

One of the nine awardees this year (and the only one I was deeply interested in) is the retired astronaut Commander Eileen Collins, the first woman to ever pilot the Space Shuttle and to command a space mission.

Col. Collins piloted the Shuttle into space on what happened to be the NASA program’s first trip after the Challenger tragedy.

We all have our individual ideas of what it means to be brave, but for me, Col Collins pretty much covers all the bases.

Colonel Collins (she asked me to call her Eileen) has a background that would defeat many people: an alcoholic father, a mother with mental illness, PLUS she is from Elmira, NY, which is a tough and rusty little city near where I live (I frequently find myself driving on Eileen Collins Boulevard).

She and I bonded over our hometown roots — or maybe I’m the only one of the two of us who bonded. (I’m overall very bondy,)

What can I say? Eileen Collins is an absolutely amazing person, and she conveys both warmth and humility with a sort of ramrod straight reserve — inspired, I suppose, by her career in the military. (Basic history recap: Sally Ride was the first American woman to go into space. Eileen Collins was the first woman to do basically everything else, as an Air Force test pilot and Space Shuttle pilot and commander.)

Eileen Collins epitomizes the concept described so well by Ann Richards regarding Ginger Rogers.

Basically it goes like this:

Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but “backwards and in heels.”

What I am trying to say is that Eileen Collins seems heroic and … unflappable.

Fortunately for me, I got to see this astronaut in an exuberant moment, when the onstage Award-y events on Friday night were paused so we could all witness Artemis II coming back to Earth.

This veteran astronaut was handed a microphone and, from the stage, proudly gave a play-by-play as Artemis II splashed down.

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I mean, have I mentioned my time in Italy several dozen times already?

[ “Here: watch with feigned interest while I scroll through my phone!”]

I’m now … THAT person.

I’ve mentioned in an earlier issue that staying in a small Italian village very far from home inspired me to slow down.

Way way down.

For instance, since coming home, I have mainly adhered to my stated promise not to drink take-out coffee in my car.

Yay me! WHERE’S MY MEDAL?

I’ve always liked to cook for myself and eat alone (what’s up with that?). But my practice has been to mainly eat while standing over the sink, walking around the house, or staring at my phone or laptop.

I’m sharing my recipe, now, for a beautiful breakfast.

In my opinion, this breakfast tastes best when cooked and eaten alone on a quiet weekend morning.

This meal is probably not possible for people in a hurry, because the whole idea is to slow it waaaaaay down.

DIRECTIONS:

1. Use your best stuff. (I have a lot of best stuff.)

I assume we’ve all read those “trend” stories telling us that our children DO NOT WANT OUR STUFF.

I say, good for them. They have the right to possess whatever they want, regardless of the attitude of their elders and ancestors. Because — guess what — by the time my generation’s best stuff is dealt with or divvied up, we’re not going to be around to have an opinion about it.

I also say, GOOD FOR ME.

No more “good china” stashed away in a cupboard somewhere, saving it up for the kids. No more sterling silver only brought out for special occasions.

Imma use my stuff, and if I feel like smashing it on the floor after I use it like I once saw in an Anthony Quinn movie, I’m going to do that.

And if I had good jewelry (I don’t), I’d wear it to the gym or in the garden.

Just now I’m picturing myself wearing dainty pearls while rototilling my garden plot.

BUT … I DIGRESS!

Back to breakfast.

2. Soft-boil two eggs.

   ** Start with eggs at room temperature, if possible. Place eggs into a pan with water deep enough for the eggs to swim and jiggle without smashing into each other.

   Bring water to a boil.

   Watch eggs dance for about a minute in a rolling boil.

   Turn off heat to stove.

   Let eggs sit in their hot bath for a few minutes while you make some toast or set the table.

3. If you don’t have an egg cup (who does?), find something cool to use as one.

   (I use a sterling silver jigger that I have never once used to measure alcohol, which belongs to a very cool collection of antique barware that I’ve put together over the years and almost never use for its intended purpose.)

4. Get one of these doohickies: It’s basically a weighted ball that you slam against the top of the cooked egg. The cup at the bottom of the doohickey has a sharp edge that perfectly cuts off the top of the egg!

   

   Action shot

2. Make yourself a nice cup of coffee

I’ve used a moka pot for many years, but after returning from Italy (ahem — I went to Italy!) I retired my really old (and great) Bialetti and have started using this piece of genius equipment. It has a glass bowl!

I REALLY ENJOY WATCHING MY ESPRESSO BUBBLE UP.

If my coffee pot had its own show on Netflix, I’d watch it.

6. Set a nice table. Here I pulled out my old Napoleon Ivy china that no one other than me cares about. I’ve also pulled out some silver, and am even using a cloth napkin (this is one I nicked from my upgraded service on United Airlines, while coming home from my recent TRIP TO ITALY).

Mangia. ENJOY!

***** Note to the two people in the world who, like me, enjoy eating soft-boiled eggs.

DO NOT PEEL THEM.

Eat them right from the shell, using a small spoon.

It’s much more fun that way.

Did this process take me almost an hour to prepare and eat?

Yes, it did.

Did I feel like I was dining in luxurious fashion in a fancy hotel?

Yes, I did.

The whole experience feels like a treat. Using my good stuff and slowing things down like this gives me a boost.

I sort of hate the term “self care,” but I think this breakfast boost qualifies.

And OK … the whole experience of cleaning up after myself brings me back to Earth, but that’s fine, too.

In fact, while preparing my breakfast today, my dentist’s office called and left a message telling me that I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned tomorrow. Oh joy.

This is a nice reminder that whenever a person goes off to La-la land (or ITALY), everything they left behind is waiting for them.

That includes all of the best stuff AND the bad stuff.

And that’s as good a reason as any to send yourself off on a little self-care trip whenever you can — even if you only journey from the stove to the breakfast table and back again.

***** I hope you have a grand week, full of little private joys.

Love,

Amy

And so … I’ve never believed myself to be “the type” to have genuine fan-feelings for an actor like Kate Hudson, or for Kate Hudson, herself. I mean, Kate Hudson? Nepo baby? Rock star power-partner? Actor who has been in waaaay too many bad movies?

And yet — here I am, declaring it.

Will Kate Hudson win the Oscar tonight for her terrific performance as “Thunder” Sardina in the wonderful, underrated bio-pic of two star-struck Neil Diamond tribute performers in the musical “Song Sung Blue?”

Will Kate win?

I have no idea, but probably not.

I happen to have seen all of the films nominated in this category this year, and … Kate Hudson is definitely the dark horse in this particularly outstanding group of actors.

But I’d like to make the case for Kate Hudson as an all-around talent who is having a nice moment right now.

This year, all of the women nominated for Best Actress are accomplished singers (except for Renate Reinsve, as far as I know), but come on … did you know that Kate Hudson is a SINGER-SINGER?

Well, she is. I LOVE the shiny ad she stars in, sponsored by the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics.

First of all, it’s a fantastic ad. And Kate Hudson is the perfect person to sing “California Dreamin’.” (Makes me want to take up surfing, skateboarding, beach volleyball, or cosmetic surgery — just to name a few California sports.)

[here’s the ad, posted on TikTok. Double click. Don’t forget to un-mute in the upper left hand corner…]

@thekatehudsonBuilt on California dreams, powered by Olympic and Paralympic champions #LA28

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

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I’m in Italy. I’ve been staying in a little apartment in a very small town on the Amalfi Coast for the last three weeks.

I promise not to subject you to a travelogue, because A) I don’t want to remind you of those dreadful slideshows you might have had to watch as a child…

… and B) Honestly, there are experiences — many experiences — that I chose to keep to myself. I am greedy in that way. I hoard some of my best memories and store them in my imaginary vintage Louis Vuitton suitcase.

I leave my hometown every February for three or four weeks. I’ve done this for many years, and February is to blame, because in our family — if you’re going to pass away, you’re going to do it in February.

Regular readers (you’re all regular readers, amirite?) know that I’ve had a bit of a time lately. Our family has experienced tough losses this winter. And yes, February is to blame.

And so I’ve left my snowbound and griefbound hometown to nurse my memories and my wounds elsewhere.

Over the years I’ve spent these February walkabout weeks in many different locations in the United States. But this is the first time I’ve traveled across the ocean for my walkabout, and I’ve chosen to spend this time in the sort of place I feel most comfortable in.

I like small places. The village where I’m staying is small and very quiet. It has that off-season vibe I remember from the off-season months I lived on an island, many years ago.

This a beautiful place. It’s a spectacularly beautiful place.

[The view from my little apartment, I kid you not.]

The people here are very nice. At least I think they’re very nice. They might simply be glad to see me because I am the only tourist in town. Plus, they mainly speak to me in Italian, so I have to make all sorts of assumptions about what they are saying.

Every year when I take my walkabout, I try to give myself something of a re-set.

One year I tried a strict Keto regimen (in New Orleans, and yes — what was I thinking?), and another year I remember committing to the Whole 30 Diet, also in New Orleans.

This only proves that I am a very slow learner.

Eventually, I realized that trying to retrain my eating habits while spending my time away, oftentimes in places that have wonderful food, was just stupid.

And so one year I taught myself to play the ukulele.

Last year I taught myself to do the “Running Man.”

Quirky, I know. But hey — this is my world, and I’m the only person who has to live in it.

This year I’ve spent an entire month climbing hundreds of stone stairs up to my mountainside apartment and back down again (more on that later). I’ve been wandering around, looking around, and — because I neither speak nor understand Italian — I’m more or less living in my head.

Italians do so many things well. And one thing they seem exceedingly good at, in my opinion, is how they spend their time.

Observing the pace of life here, I’m struck by how people behave in a way that just seems “natural.” Even the extremely hard-working shop keepers in the little grocery stores here close for three hours every day for a well-deserved midday break.

In the mornings, the nonnas stroll the main promenade, pushing their grand babies in strollers. The nonnos sit on benches looking out at the sea and visiting with each other.

[Daily conclave of nonnos]

After school lets out, parents pick up their young children and take them to the little playground overlooking the ocean.

[Cue “That’s Amore.” I mean, could they BE any cuter????]

I love observing these little daily rituals.

And so, while I’m observing life here, I’m also drinking a lot of coffee.

Mind you, I’m always drinking a lot of coffee, and my mornings at home always start with a trip through the drive-thru Dunkin in town.

[THIS JUST IN: I’ve just learned that Dunkin Donuts is rolling out a new product. Not a new product, really, but a new size of an old product.

They are offering something called a “Dunkin’ Bucket,” which is 48 ounces of iced coffee. It comes in an actual bucket-shaped container with an actual handle on it, because no cup-shaped object could possibly hold that much liquid.

48 ounces, people. 48.

I know. I didn’t believe this, either. But I saw a segment about it on the Today Show, and so it must be true.

If you want to read about this product, which is being tested in Massachusetts (of course …) …

CLICK HERE

For now, I’m drinking lots and lots of delicious espresso and cappuccino in this small Italian town on the southern coast.

Today when I stopped in to my favorite little cafe, the owner came out, looked at me, and said “… cappuccino?”

“Si, Grazia,” I told him, thus exhausting my Italian language vocabulary.

And then I told him, “In America, when you come into your favorite place and always order the same thing, they call it ‘the usual’. So yes, I’ll have the usual.”

He gave me that all-too-familiar look of “OK, lady. WhatEVER.”

It’s OK. I’m used to it.

For all of the beautiful sights I’ve seen while here, it occurs to me that there is something I have NEVER SEEN during my time in this place.

I have never, not once, seen anyone walking around carrying a beverage. Any beverage.

Coffee is served in small china cups. You SIT and oftentimes STAND and drink your espresso. You nurse it. You enjoy it. When you’re done, you leave your empty cup behind and carry on with your day.

[After-school coffee, cocktails, and candy!]

[You also have the option to enjoy a cocktail with or instead of your coffee, by the way. All of the little cafes and roadside stands offer alcohol.]

Here is what people here DON’T do:

They do not take a 12 ounce cup of coffee with them, walk around with it and then throw the cup and its plastic lid away.

As far as I know, in this place, “I’ll take mine to go” is NOT a concept.

Furthermore, come to think of it, I have never seen anyone walk around carrying bottles of water, or sucking the straw of those ubiquitous 24-ounce Stanley, Owala, Yeti or other stupidly expensive branded bottles that seem to be everywhere these days.

Below is one of the many fountains in town. I’ve watched as people approach with cups, fill them, and take a swig.

[So … I gave it a try.]

Surely — when people from other countries visit the States they must wonder what is wrong with Americans and why we are so obsessed with super-sized hydration.

I mean — since when does a person need to drink a gallon of water every day? Is this practice something that has been sold to us by Coca Cola? Perrier? Is this a deep-state Aquafina conspiracy?

In asking the Internet this question: “Why do Americans drink so much water?,” the Internet coughed up a story from Fortune, which explains the phenomenon.

(And our weird hydration obsession is explained using exactly all the dumb reasons you imagine.)

And so this is my re-set this year.

This is the souvenir I want to try to take home with me:

I want to maintain a new habit. I’m going to take time to enjoy my coffee and snacks in place. Sitting or standing still. Enjoying.

No more drive-thru meals and drinks.

No more eating and drinking in my car.

[Honestly, I’m not all that confident that I can keep this little promise to myself. After all, Keto went by the wayside, and I didn’t even last the whole 30 days of Whole 30.]

I will miss my time here. I will miss the sky, the sea, and the way the villages along the coastline climb up the sides of mountains.

I’m going to miss the local shopkeepers who beckon me in and who patiently exchange small talk.

But the only thing I’ll take “to go” are the memories.

Ciao!!

******

Have you made it all the way to the end? Please do shoot me a “heart” or comment. I read and try to respond to all of them.

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BOOM!

Of course you are, because you are an American human, and you have a brain, a heart, and a soul.

But the calendar has delivered a sweet tonic to treat our troubles, because today happens to be a day when ancient wisdom tells us to take some time to “Do the little things.”

Today, March 1st, is the feast day of the patron saint of Wales, St. David.

So let’s take a break and celebrate Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant (St. David’s Day).

Actor Matthew Rhys has released an extremely charming short video outlining a lot of connections between America and Wales, making an excellent case for why we should all celebrate St. David’s Day.

I highly recommend committing 2 minutes to watching this, and then I highly recommend taking some time today to follow the instructions of St. David, to “Gwna’r Pethau Bychain.” Do the little things!

The short list of “little things” to do in honor of this day is quirky, weird, random, extremely Welsh, and very sweet — and I love it.

Matthew Rhys saves this list for the end of his tutorial.

OK. Maybe you can’t get your hands on a leek to chomp on. Perhaps your local bakery is all out of Welsh cakes. But oh — perhaps you can find a daffodil to treasure.

We need to let this early spring bloom’s sweet and cheerful shape and color remind us of the small miracles that surround us.

(I LOVE daffodils. Every spring I collect buckets of them.)

Do something little today, for yourself and for someone else.

“But Amy,” you ask. “What’s up with you and Wales, anyway?”

I’ll explain. Five years back, one of my favorite Ask Amy Q and A’s was published, and this particular answer inspired a really delightful connection between me and the entire country of Wales.

In a long career as an advice columnist, I don’t think I ever provided an answer that brought me so much personal positive attention. The spirit of my response really is about sticking up for the little guy … in this case a very little country that has survived centuries of oppression. How very St. David’s Day of me!

And that’s why this particular Q and A zipped across the Atlantic and landed on the front page of the independent national news site, Nation.Cymru in Wales. In response to my column, I was also interviewed by the BBC and invited to come to Wales, which, of course, I plan to do.

To read the story in Nation.Cymru, you can click below.

SO PROUD!

To read the original “Ask Amy” Q and A, you can

CLICK HERE

One more little thing:

I’ve become obsessed with the musical stylings of a young dad named Steven Spenser, who takes his three-year-old daughter’s adorable and rambling stories and puts her narratives — verbatim — into song.

So funny! So sweet!

My favorite is “Apple Man.” One minute of adorable. You will spend the rest of St. David’s Day smiling.

A final note:

***** Thank you all, so very much, for the many responses to last week’s newsletter: The Dependables. What can I say? I feel seen. And after several months of being buffeted by some tough losses, I really do feel better.

Please do share this free essay if you have a Dependable in your life.

[Another final note: I “paused” payments for subscriptions last month. They resume today. And thank you, as always, for supporting my work!]

Love,

Amy

[** first a note. I refer to sister/cousins several times in this essay. In our extended family, we are so loaded and blessed with close women cousins that we tend to classify our cousins as sisters.]

When it comes to health, my clan is an ordinary American family marked by garden-variety cardiac disease, auto immune disorders, unhealthy habits, and rudimentary health care.

Our preferred form of medical treatment seems to involve a combination of denial and sarcasm.

Given these contributing factors, in my youth, back in the day, all the old people in my life had the good sense to die relatively young.

I have almost no memories of my maternal grandparents, who lived very nearby and who died in perfect sync with Census data showing the average lifespan of an American in the 1960’s (67 years for men, 73 years for women).

Fortunately for me, I do hold one great specific memory of my grandfather. This involved him doing a magic trick by making a walnut disappear. He died when I was four, and I’m still wondering where that nut went.

Otherwise, I know my grandparents only through photographs and other people’s stories.

I have no memories at all of my nearby maternal grandparents’ final illnesses and deaths, and no direct knowledge of any extended hands-on care they might have received from any of their four daughters — my mother and her three sisters.

Now I’m nearing the age my grandparents were when they died, and – rather than crafting some sort of plan for the rest of my own life -- this entire phase is all about hands-on caregiving, caretaking, loss and grief.

And it’s not just me. Every single woman I know in my age group is taking care of at least one elder loved-one.

This is THE story of our lives right now.

(I’m certain that men do this kind of hands-on caregiving, too – but frankly, I don’t know any men who do.)

At the age we are now, our own parents, in their orphaned state, might have been experiencing something called “retirement,” where they relocated to a warm place, drove an RV across the country, took lots of cruises, and doted on their grandchildren.

[Amy, enjoying a brief preview of the retirement she’ll never have ..]

But our elders are hanging on for much longer than the previous norm. They’ve enjoyed 20 years of retirement and are now living well-deserved lives into their 90’s and beyond -- with the benefit of healthier habits and more consistent health care.

We late-boomers (those of us bringing up the back end of the Boomer demographic) are not the “sandwich generation …” we are the gray-haired club sandwich generation, because we have three layers of people to worry over and provide care for: Our parents, sometimes our spouses or partners, our adult children, and our grandchildren.

My own close family of sisters and sister/cousins has experienced an unexpected cluster of people who’ve needed us to shepherd them toward the end of their life’s journey.

Unfortunately, as a group, I would describe my family of women as “not at all like a group.”

My mother and her three sisters raised their daughters to be like they were: strong, opinionated, independent, and … individual. [And … in my case, HILARIOUS.]

[Future Dependables: Rachel, Amy, Anne]

My two sisters and I, along with our large group of close sister/cousins*, have been locked in a lifelong geometry of shifting alliances, long silences, lengthy distances, loving moments and respectful competition.

Our collective mothers were skilled boundary builders who conducted their personal lives behind an opaque privacy screen.

But I’ve always felt that our generation’s boundaries have been a little too high. We are not the hand-holding confidence-sharing talk-every-day-on-the-phone tribe of sisters as portrayed in popular media.

Dang, I’ve always wanted that. But while our dynamic has always been mutually supportive, it’s also been a little bit … spikey.

[When I was a kid I dreamt of being in a sister-act. I’ve always loved the Lennon Sisters and this number is a REAL HONEY.]

I have often wondered what would happen if my sisters and I were forced into a common predicament and were compelled to work together. We got some practice at this at the end of our mother’s life, when we all stepped in and stepped up – but still, we did this separately and each in her own way.

This current cluster of unexpected emergencies started several months ago.

We who live locally responded as the individuals we are – pitching in here and there, taking someone to a doctor’s appointment or to buy groceries.

Then things ramped up extremely quickly, and we three who live in town (my sister and I, and our sister/cousin) started pitching in more often, until we were providing 24/7 care in the home of two older sister/cousins who didn’t have children of their own.

We held emergency Zoom “team” meetings with our sister in Maine, strategizing about how to patch things together, but for several weeks it was just three of us who live in town (our average age: 70) trying to keep our elder family members safe during one of the most brutal winters in memory — while we tried to figure out what else to do.

We developed our own spheres of competence. I started spending nights at our elders’ house, in part because I am a life-long insomniac and am used to running on fumes. My sister took a lot of day shifts, which came with their own set of tremendous challenges, and our cousin, who holds a leadership position in this particular system – ran the show as Power of Attorney and health care proxy, did a lot of night and weekend shifts at the house, and continues to work full-time. (She’s 75, by the way.)

Our group motto has been: “This is not sustainable.” And yet we’ve kept going.

Many of our group communications seem to revolve around Depends. We launch lengthy text chains devoted to who has a package of Depends in her car, who is buying them before her shift, and how many are left in the upstairs bathroom.

We also trade anecdotes about the process of purchasing this product at our local small drug store, joking that as we gray haired women struggle to the cash register with a jumbo package of Depends, surely the clerk must wonder if we are buying them for ourselves.

Eventually, two additional sister/cousins who live hundreds of miles away discerned the need and the burden and jumped onto planes without being asked. They moved into our elders’ household in the middle of a blizzard, giving our trio of exhausted caregivers an important break of a few days.

Our sister in Maine drove many hours through the latest blizzard and also moved in, taking as many shifts as she could during the weeks she was in town.

And guess what? We got sort of good at it. We had to.

And I can’t help but notice that over time our caretaking has become caregiving.

We are women who put all of our own personal issues and interests, marriages and families on hold, indefinitely. Without being asked or assigned, we showed up when we were needed. We’ve dispensed medication, made phone calls, toured nursing care facilities, gone through paperwork, wrestled with appointments and insurance. We’ve done the grocery shopping, made the appointments, raced to the ER, gotten up during the night to deliver a glass of water, learned to hide the remote and police the stove, helped to undress, dress, find matching socks, and kept vigil over the exits to try and protect our loved one who has started wandering.

I’ve come to think of us as:

The Dependables.

This experience has, without question, brought out the best in all of us. What started out as dutiful caregiving has transformed into lovingkindness. We communicate better, and much more often. We bring each other coffee and treats, laugh at our occasional incompetence and take turns having breakdowns. We are more patient, forgiving and tolerant of our different styles than we used to be.

Every single day during this period, I’ve thought so often about the many family caregivers I know who have done this — not for months, the way we have, but for years.

Bless you all.

This period of our family’s life is drawing to a close, because – as all caregivers know – the only way this phase of life ends is through loss.

As our family moves through this next season of loss and grieving, I hope that we Dependables will be able to turn our attention elsewhere, but that we’ll also continue to take good care, both of ourselves and of each other.

Now that we know how to do it, I’m convinced that we will.

[pondering my options in the Depends aisle]

Care to commiserate? Hit me up in the comments section.

Love,

Amy

Bonus: Above: A short walk down Main Street at midnight.

Dear Readers:

First, this. I am “pausing” subscription payments until February 28th — and possibly beyond that — because I have not published any essays since January 18th. My goal — and my promise to you — is to publish a weekly newsletter.

If a newsletter does not arrive, you should not be charged for it.

And now, THIS:

In our family, if you’re going to die, you’re going to do it in February.

Our most recent funeral was a week ago, when we laid to rest a beloved family member — our cousin, Nancy.

Our February funerals are so frequent that we more or less have a standing arrangement with our minister at the Freeville United Methodist Church.

All of these occasions are very sad, but last week’s loss was particularly tough. Witnessing a person’s suffering pulls such contrasting feelings and emotions through the witness’s body and heart.

Because you don’t want anything to end.

And yet you do. You really and truly do want it to end.

For the past eight weeks or so, my sisters and cousins have been providing constant in-home care for our ill cousin, whose partner of 40 years unfortunately has dementia.

Today was my break in the care-rota, and so I put on my favorite hat and a few sweaters and luxuriated in the cold. The temperature was -4, with a wind-chill of -27.

Below, my commute:

I took myself on a little waterfall tour, and I found lots of ice and plenty of metaphors.

Can spring be far behind?

No matter how frozen-over the world seems right now, there IS life roaring beneath.

Bonus: Main Street, Freeville on a Friday night:

Subscribe now

Love,

Amy

Young Amy thanks you.

Old Amy does, too.

[Stay tuned for more Young Amy diary entries …]

And now, this:

[** note — this newsletter contains a number of videos. I strongly recommend watching them, if possible.]

I’m not much of a “sports person.”

Honestly, the fact that I use the phrase “sports person” should point to my cluelessness when it comes to professional sports.

However — and bear with me here — I definitely possess the temperament and the heart of a fan.

I’m talking about a big, sloppy, sentimental desire to latch onto a team. To cheer their legendary loser backstory. To want to wear a souvenir jersey to bed.

A fan’s love passeth all understanding. What I mean is that a fan — a real fan — will sit in the snow and yell their voice raw while they watch their team lose.

When I lived in Chicago I was all about the Cubs. Of course I was.

Moving back home to central New York State, my sporting affections sought a target, sort of the way Young Amy sought a date for the Sadie Hawkins Dance …

… with the interior energy of a heat-seeking missile.

Better put: A heart-seeking missile.

In my home region, you can root for Boston or New York. You can root for Pennsylvania or New Jersey. We are, as our slogan states, “centrally isolated.”

Which brings me to Buffalo.

Buffalo is a quintessential sports town: Big shoulders, tough climate, falling down, rising up, rusty and resilient.

The Buffalo Bills football team has experienced its share of slumps (droughts, they call them), but last year and this year …. things are looking up. Way up.

They’ve got a devoted, sentimental, and sweetly weepy Billionaire owner. They’ve got a brand new stadium (as of last week) — with NO DOME — because Bills players and fans love to play in the snow.

To wit:

Dateline: 1 December, 2024

Place: Highmark Stadium

Conditions: Heavy snow with a chance of victory

In the clip above, the Bills were scheduled to play the 49ers, but very heavy snow threatened the game.

Ground crews AND DOZENS OF FANS worked through the night to clear the stadium.

The Bills won.

Read more

Or maybe, like me, you’ve resolved to be a better diarist.

I’ve kept diaries off and on for most of my life — starting on Christmas Day in 1972, when my mother gave me a fancy leather diary with my name stamped on it in gold lettering.

So fancy! So important!

I realize now that this was my mother’s way of encouraging me to be a writer.

Thanks, Mom. It’s been a grand adventure in wordsmithing.

(My writing career once took me all the way to Jackson Center, Ohio to cover an Airstream convention. Photo by Emily D Mason)

Back to diaries.

Last year the old barn behind my house got a thorough facelift. This extreme action was to save it from falling into a heap, like so many of the other barns around these parts.

I hadn’t dared to walk up the rickety staircase to the second floor of the barn in at least 30 years. I didn’t think there was much up there of interest — maybe a couple of busted chairs and a guano encrusted chifforobe or two.

Right before two of Bruno’s bravest young workers bounded up the stairs, I called out to them:

Hey — if you find an old box with a lot of crap belonging to Young Amy in it, bring it down, would you?

This particular cardboard box contained every treasure from my childhood, and it had been missing for over 40 years.

Honestly, I was joking when I directed the guys to find it. After all this time, I’d started to believe that the box was a mirage of sorts — a virtual amalgam of events, memories, ribbons, trophies, and bad hair cuts.

Here’s what they found in the second floor of the barn:

No busted chairs.

No guano-laced chifforobes.

No gardening tools, broken toys or busted buckets.

There was only ONE item in that large space:

A cardboard box. MY cardboard box.

Raccoon and squirrel urine must be a great preservative, because the contents of that box were surprisingly intact.

Read more