Mary Novaria

This piece is revised from an earlier version written upon Neil Armstrong's death. When Neil Armstrong died on August 25, 2012, I wondered if maybe, beyond the moon and well into the heavens, my dad had already given Armstrong a handshake or a friendly pat on the back. I turned ten the summer of 1969 that the American astronaut took that giant leap for mankind, which, being young and a child of JFK's  New Frontier, seemed a perfectly natural event. We were vacationing in the New England seaport town where my mom grew up--catching up with cousins, body surfing at Hampton Beach, and squealing with both horror and delight through visits to the lobster pound. The banded claws didn't convince us that the creatures wouldn't break through the brown paper bags on the floor in the back of the car, crawl up onto the seat, pinch our sunburned skin and never let go. One thing I'd really looked forward to on that trip was seeing my Red Sox game at Fenway Park--Carl Ya...

As featured in the Huffington Post My mother embraced all things Irish: shamrocks, soda bread and fishermen’s sweaters. She chose St. Patrick’s Day for my father’s funeral and, the night before, she mended the old green, white and orange flag so we could fly it at the house during a reception following the service. My mom could tell you the names of the villages in Cork, Kerry and Limerick where her grandparents were born, and I knew my dad’s people were from County Tyrone in Northern Ireland. I’d always been told I was 100 percent Irish and I believed it every St. Patrick’s Day of my life — until now. I recently ran my DNA and the surprising results, which estimate I’m 94 percent Irish, indicate the percentage could even be as low as 81. Surprisingly, I have DNA from Finland/Northwest Russia, but I have a feeling those ancestors go so far back I’ll never find them. Click here for the rest of the story... 

The third installment in my series on moving... Ask my husband or my college roommates and they’ll tell you--I’m neither a neatnik nor a clean freak. I often toss my clothes on a chair instead of hanging them in the closet and I generally iron on an as-needed basis. I don’t always make the bed (although I’m happy to rearrange the pillows after my husband does). I’ve probably done my kids a terrible disservice by not insisting on made-up beds before leaving the house in the morning. Please don’t judge me… I remember the battles with my parents to pick up my room. I did a great job shoving things under the bed or behind the closet door, despite my dad’s credo: “A place for everything and everything in its place.” Anything to retain TV privileges or get the car keys. My dad was a great one for sayings. He had a million of them and half were in Latin, like our family motto: Spectemur Agendo . Translation: “Let us be judged by our deeds” . There’s that word: Judge . May I ...