Mary Novaria

For some, February 1 is a “Rabbit, Rabbit” thing. And February 2 is Groundhog Day. I’ve written before, with apologies to T.S. Eliot, that it is February, and not April, that is the cruelest month. Dates and anniversaries are important to me. Even when I neglect to send a card or outwardly acknowledge an occasion, I’m usually mindful, grateful, and thinking fondly of the people or events involved. My niece was born 17 years ago this weekend. February 1 there was a terrific ice storm in Kansas City. Lots of folks lost power — good thing the hospital didn’t! — and my brother and sister-in-law had friends without light and heat staying in their home while they were welcoming their first born in the hospital. That same day, one of my besties (we’re sort of Three Musketeers) was traveling by train to KC from western Kansas for a routine doctor’s appointment. The ice forced delays; her Kansas City hotel was without power; the other bestie and I brazenly inte...

The funny thing is, it really doesn’t feel like we’ve never met; technology provides us with a virtual kitchen table we can gather around any time we like. When my daughter was in high school, she struck up a friendship with a girl on the East Coast—a friend of a friend—and they spent hours a day chatting online and texting on their cellphones. Since we didn’t know this girl or her parents, I wasn’t comfortable with the arrangement, but seeing her on Skype at least assured me she was, in fact, a teenage girl and not some Internet predator. Still, I didn’t understand how my teen could have such a close bond with someone she hadn’t met in “real life.” I just didn’t get how they could be so important to one another.   Sure I spent time talking long-distance to my besties on the phone, but I actually knew them. We’d traveled together, shared meals, beach walks and hot tubs, and laughed and cried over tea or wine at each other’s kitchen tables. Later we’d attend our kid...

I'm currently mortified because I didn't send thank you notes after my birthday this year. The flowers have long since drooped and died, but other presents -- a couple of gift cards, an adult coloring book (very Zen), a cuff bracelet -- are tangible reminders of my negligence. It's not like me and I feel guilty. It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. And I was raised better than to blow off this time-honored tradition and most basic piece of etiquette. My mom drilled into me as soon as I could write, it seems, the importance of acknowledging a gift-giver's thoughtfulness and generosity. After every Christmas and birthday she provided me with stationery, stamps and addresses, and hounded me until I wrote my notes. The year she gave me sealing wax and a brass stamp with an "M" on it I couldn't wait to get to the task so I could light the deep red wax like a candle and watch, mesmerized, as it dripped onto the back of the envelopes. I'm gratef...