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...

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 ...