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...

Near Walking Lightly Ranch, Whitefish MT In the East and Midwest, it’s sometimes so chilly in October that you have to wear a heavy jacket over your Halloween costume. On the other hand, I remember a Missouri heat wave that lasted until Election Day. It was 86 degrees in Santa Monica today—as much as 20 degrees hotter inland. So for all practical purposes it’s still summer. Maybe it’s always summer here...I don’t know yet; I’ve only lived here five weeks. It’s not Fall in Southern California. I mean, obviously, it’s Fall, or Autumn if you prefer, according to the calendar, but there are no obvious seasonal changes as far as I can tell. It’s green and warm—hot even—and I haven’t even thought about pumpkins, gourds or goblins. I did see a home in our neighborhood with cobwebs strewn about the yard, but I don’t think it was intentional. It’s pretty eclectic here.  By the way, palm trees do occasionally drop their leaves; when they do, it's "look out below!"...

"I wish I could quit you!" You know when you reach that point in a relationship where it’s just not fun anymore? Where your nausea and racing pulse aren’t because you’re love sick, but heartsick? That’s where I am, dear politics, my old friend. I can stomach the abuse no longer. I will fondly remember the old days when the worst thing anyone did was steal a yard sign, and negative ads were risky and frowned upon. No more. The campaigns themselves are bad enough, but the splinter groups which claim lies as truth, and fiction as fact, are like out of control adolescents—impulsive, dodgy, polarizing and non-apologetic. The difference? There’s no growing out of it. Nasty videos and spiteful blogs ignite on the web faster than a California brushfire. When friends can’t discuss candidates or issues without anger, judgment and hurt feelings, something is definitely wrong. Some say, “It’s just politics; don’t take it personally.” But you know what? I’m a person and that...

Kristen and I jumped into the rental car at Maui’s Kahului Airport. Primed for adventure, sunshine and Mai Tais, we were Thelma and Louise. Okay, so Brad Pitt didn’t tag along and our Alamo rental may not have been a ’66 T-bird, but at least it wasn’t a minivan. While the iconic characters, played by Susan Sarandon and Gina Davis, had some significant legal troubles, the closest my cousin and I came to breaking the law was meandering off the trail in the Iao Valley State Park in search of a promised but elusive waterfall. Who could blame us? This was an escape, after all, a brief respite from daily pressures of work and family and, for Kristen, the looming cold, snow and darkness promised by another Alaskan winter. We needed to bank some serious Vitamin D. One way to stay a step ahead of the law is to not drink and drive. That means grilled fish and frothy blended piña coladas at the condo… or a walk on the beach to happy hour and dinner. The sunsets are spectacular and, later,...

I get why teenagers want to go out on New Year's Eve, I really do. It's because they want to make us crazy. The reason I know this is because I was 17 once. There were few things worse than being home on New Year's Eve. It was worse than missing Prom, worse than not going to Florida for Spring Break, worse than flunking your driver's test. Dear old Dad always called New Year's Eve "amateur night"--a night fraught with beginning binge drinkers making asses of themselves, generally wreaking havoc, and possibly jeopardizing life and limb. Going out on this auspicious occasion was seriously frowned upon. (The same was true for the purchase and use of roman candles, smoke bombs and bottle rockets on the Fourth of July.) Participating in year-end revelry was even more strenuously discouraged if it involved driving. Ask to borrow Dad's car on December 31st? Fuhgedaboudit! I have no memory of my parents ever going to a fancy, grown-up New Year's Eve ...