Mary Novaria

As seen on  Photo Credit:  Ondřej Šálek  Flickr via  Compfight   cc “I want to die.”   It was hard to hear when my mother first said the words to me over the phone, but I understood why she felt that way. Besides robbing her of memory, that thief dementia had stolen my mom’s independence, dignity and ability to have an adult conversation. She repeated herself incessantly and often had trouble spitting out a coherent thought. “Oh, never mind,” she’d say when she couldn’t get the words out. I could tell she was confused, frightened and depressed at the turn her life had taken. I tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up in assisted living every morning and not remember where I was or why I was there. The thought terrified me. “I just want it to be over,” she said, in a rare moment of clarity.  She hadn’t been so definite about anything in five years or more. At first I didn’t know what to say, but a...

As seen on Huffington Post This was supposed to be about Mary Tyler Moore. As a young broadcast journalist, living by myself in a studio apartment, I couldn’t help but liken myself to Moore’s iconic character, Mary Richards, associate producer of the news at WJM-TV. Besides sharing the name Mary, we both produced the news—she in television and I in radio at the local NPR station. Mary modeled for us independence, encouragement, integrity and, that plucky quality her boss Lou Grant hated—spunk. I wanted to be just like her. Truth be told, though, I was a Rhoda, more bohemian and sarcastic than the well coifed, tailored and graceful Mary Richards. Still, to this day, when I think of that studio apartment—the first place I ever lived all by myself—or any young woman living alone in a studio, it always conjures up visions of Mary.   What was it about that apartment in Minneapolis? It encapsulated the freedom we had achieved through the women’s movement: to have career ambi...

Girls in the rain in Torbeck, Haiti Haiti is one of those places that steals your heart and then breaks it over and over again. The country is still trying to claw its way back from the devastating earthquake that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives in 2010. Now, nearly seven years later, with tens of thousands of Haitians still living in tents, along comes Hurricane Matthew, the latest in a long string of disasters—both natural and man-made—to befall our hemisphere’s poorest nation. The latest death toll hovers around 900. The collapse of a major bridge has choked off traffic and prevented much-needed supplies from reaching the hinterlands, and there is fear of another cholera epidemic. I’ve been to the south of Haiti twice and have a number of friends who have been many times more than that (under the auspices of the Haitian Episcopal Learning Programs), building schools and hospitals, conducting medical clinics and forging lasting friendships and partnerships w...

This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post. I was on the verge of succumbing to a Mother's Day pity party. My kids and my mother live more than half a continent away. I ached with missing them and, frankly, I was feeling sorry for myself. I also had a vague sense of guilt for not being with my mom because, at nearly 84, who knows how many Mother's Days she's got left? Although I'm a reluctant empty nester, I really do believe my kids are right where they're supposed to be -- and that my husband, John, and I are too. I'm grateful for the technology that keeps us so regularly tethered by phone, text and Facetime, but I miss their physical presence, their auras, their hugs, their interaction with each other... Last year, I was spoiled with many opportunities for family togetherness. A graduation, a wedding, all the kids here for Christmas. And now, it's been a long four and half months without them. I'm missing everyone gathered around a table...

When I walked through our neighborhood to church this morning, I saw a business that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s called First Century Bank. That seems very odd in this 21 st -Century world and it led to several strange images in my head. The first is Jesus and the moneylenders, so I saw Jesus walking into this bank on 4 th Street, all angry and turning over the desks. Later, I told my friend Cherie’ about it and she thought it was funny, too. So we wondered about the banking. Did people bring in fish to trade for shekels? It conjures up visions of a Vacation Bible School marketplace. How can I not love this? I got to church and leafed through the bulletin to see what hymns we’d be singing. None of my favorites, unfortunately. And we had incense since it was the Feast of All Saints, so people were already coughing and clearing their throats, even before the procession. Anyway, I looked at the schedule for Sunday School and the names of the classrooms got me giggling a litt...

"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...

In a world where there never seems to be enough time, we lost an hour “springing ahead” over the weekend. Who can afford to lose an hour? We need more hours, not fewer! Or so we think. What woman hasn’t wished for more hours in the day? Even if nothing more is accomplished, it would be nice to have those extra hours for sleep. It seems counterintuitive, but when I start wishing for more time, it’s usually a sign that I need to slow down rather than speed up. Saturday, my Beloved and I spent a chunk of time car shopping for safe, reliable transportation for the Teenager. At the risk of generalizing, or sounding like one of those people who lump folks into stereotypical categories, I will say that in my experience men don’t mind giving up a weekend to look at cars. Discussing features, kicking tires, test driving—it’s in my Beloved’s DNA. It was in my dad’s. It’s in my brother’s and my son’s. Not in mine. I can give it about an hour before I start to get antsy. I stray from the prac...