Mary Novaria

For the last week we’ve been furiously scratching out or backspacing on 2024 and replacing it with 2025 in dismay that the century – the one we fretted so much about back in Y2K – is already a quarter gone. Yes, we know it’s a New Year, that the calendar page has flipped. The capitalistic evidence is everywhere with offers of gym memberships, weight loss programs, and tips for keeping those pesky resolutions. If we believe the hype, those of us who choose to ease slowly into the year are the outliers, while it seems everyone else is primed for success, progress, forward motion. New Year, New Me! Best Year Ever! My mother was a firm believer and practitioner of the seasons of the Nativity, beginning with lighting a new candle on the Advent wreath on each of the four Sundays before Christmas, and celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. Among other things, it was always the day my mom took down the Christmas decorations. Legend has it that Epiphany, also called Twelfth Night o...

Published at Mary's dad with his mum (right) and sister in the early 1940s in Poughkeepsie, New York. We memorialized my father 20 years ago this St. Patrick’s Day.  “Oh, your father would have loved this,” more than a few people said. But I knew my father, who’d died four days prior from heart disease, likely would have been unmoved by sharing the occasion with Ireland’s patron saint.   The youngest son of immigrants and 40 years sober, he’d have rolled his eyes at the holiday many Americans use as an excuse to drink beer and paint themselves green, just as he did regarding New Year’s Eve, which he often proclaimed “amateur night.”  In the early 1970s, my dad took a brief interest in his McAleer roots, even procuring the family coat of arms to display in our suburban Chicago entry hall. A onetime Latin scholar, he frequently reminded my brothers and me of the family motto: Spectemur Agendo -  Let us be judged by our deeds. That was the sum of his investment in ...

Mary (left) and Catharine at my parents wedding in 1958. My parents named me after my two grandmothers, Mary and Catharine. I have no memories of my paternal grandmother Mary, who died before I was 2 years old, but Catharine, my mother’s mother, was my beloved Grammy. For most of my childhood we lived a thousand miles from her, but she visited for weeks-long stretches during many summers and occasionally over Christmas. A few times we road-tripped from Chicago to Boston to see Grammy, my mom’s siblings and my cousins. Grammy loved to get mail. “Just write and tell me you went uptown and got a stick of gum,” she’d say. So I would and she’d write back, always slipping in a few dollars she probably couldn’t afford, the same way she did with birthday cards. Regrettably, I didn’t save the letters, but I recently came across one she’d written to my mom. Isn’t the national campaign crazy? Just now, I think that the best candidate for the Presidency is Robert ...

As seen in the Huffington Post.   I was careless with my skin as a teen and now I’m terrified of getting skin cancer like my father. Even though my fair, Irish skin would freckle and burn it didn’t stop me from trying to achieve that golden glow featured in glossy magazine ads for Hawaiian Tropic and Bain de Soleil. I envied my girlfriends who tanned so easily and were burnished and brown after just one afternoon at the pool or the tennis court. My mom brought what we used to call “suntan lotion” on family vacations. The smell of Coppertone still takes me back to Hampton Beach on the New England shore. In fact, those Coppertone billboards with a little dog pulling down a blond, pigtailed girl’s swimsuit bottoms were a staple of my childhood. Still, my mother was nowhere near the sunscreen police that I became with my kids. They’re fair like me—a blonde and a redhead—and I slathered them with SPF 50 practically from the moment they were born. I knew my vigilan...

Get the Picture? A Father's Legacy and the Love of Art BY MARY NOVARIA June 17, 2016 Published by The Good Men Project My dad was a first generation Irish-American who grew up playing stickball on the streets of New York. His father, a laborer from County Tyrone, had an 8 th  grade education, never took his family to a museum, and didn’t play classical music in the home. The radio, which was considered a luxury, was for listening to “Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy” and the New York Giants baseball games. My father was in his 30s before going to the top of the Empire State building—he took out-of-town guests—and was well into adulthood before he was exposed to the treasures that lay behind the doors of MoMA or The Met. Click here to continue reading... I'm Not Sally Draper But I Could've Been BY MARY NOVARIA March 27, 2015    Published by the Huffington Post             ...