Mary Novaria

  John and I went camping a couple of weeks ago. Toasty fire. Dinner by flashlight. Scrabble by candlelight. “All Things Considered” on a hand-cranked radio. If I’d had more notice, I’d have had the makings of ‘smores on hand. But this wasn’t one of those adventures for which you plan ahead (unless you are one of our overachieving neighbors with a generator). This was an accidental campout.  It began at 7:45 on a Monday morning, when our little rural mountain electric co-op texted that we were part of a widespread outage. That we got the text at all was amazing, since our cell service up here generally ranges from zero to half a bar.  We heat the house with propane, but we need electricity to turn on the furnace. The house was cold and would get chillier as the day wore on. John and I sat in bed and stared at our phones while wearing puffy jackets and stocking caps. No hot coffee. No hot tea. No hot anything. The text from the co-op estimated our power would return betwee...

An earlier version of this essay appeared in HuffPost on 11/10/2015 I was mortified because I didn’t send thank you notes after my birthday the year my mother died. The flowers had drooped and died, but other presents — a couple of gift cards, an adult coloring book (very Zen), a cuff bracelet — were tangible reminders of my negligence. It’s not like me and I felt guilty. It’s not that I wasn't grateful. I was. 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 ...

What an 80-Something Couple at the Grocery Store Taught My Husband and Me About Aging Three years later, I still think about these strangers. By  Mary Novaria     Jul 19, 2019 TEMI OYELOLA There’s nothing especially unusual or remarkable about the older couple I wheel past at the cheese case in the grocery store. She’s sporting a faded lavender tracksuit circa the 1970s that’s seen better days. Her husband’s khakis are baggy, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt despite the 90-something degree weather. The duo is huddled together, each steadying themselves with one bony hand on the cart as they squint at a wedge of sharp cheddar...or maybe gouda. The cheese has aged, and so have they. Aging is considered desirable in cheese and wine—but for people? Not so much. Especially not in Los Angeles, California, where there are billboards for Botox, plastic surgeons, and vein clinics on seemingly every block. Click here to read the ...

If you had told me I’d be going to my high school reunion with a cast on my arm, I wouldn’t have believed it. After all, I was still in recovery mode and doing physical therapy following hip surgery a couple of months before. I could almost picture going to my 60th in bad shape, but my 40-year reunion? Never. Earlier in the summer, I endured two weeks on crutches after spending the past year on and off a cane following a serious tendon injury I got in a dance class at the gym. I wish I could remember the name of the song I was so enthusiastically shaking my booty to, but all I remember is searing pain, white-hot light, and wondering if I were going to pass out. I somehow managed to limp out of class, hobble to my car and drive myself home. Pride stood in the way of my asking for help. Pride reared its head again as I prepared to go to my class reunion. Click here to read more. Photo Credit:  sbhsclass84  Flickr via  Compfight ...

I reach for the bananas in the grocery store and feel an unexpected pang of sadness. Out of the blue, I miss my mother.   Over years of her decline, I chauffeured her on errands and sighed deeply when she admitted she’d meant to make a list, but…   I knew what would be on the list—muffins, butter pecan ice cream and bananas—but I wanted her to write it all down. Addled by dementia, not only did she forget to make shopping lists, she often couldn’t remember how to use her cell phone or turn on the TV. I knew it wasn’t her fault. Even so, there were times when my patience wore thin. If only she could jot down a few grocery items on a piece of scrap paper or the back of an envelope, I could take it as a sign that she still had some faculties. Twenty months after her death, here I am frozen in momentary grief in front of the banana stand. We didn’t agree on bananas. I preferred them firm and still tinged with green, she agreed with Chiquita Banana’s recommendati...

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...

This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post. They say moving is one of life's greatest stressors -- right up there with death and divorce. I'd like to see the stats on moving as a cause of death and divorce because if anything will make you feel murderous and conflicted, it's moving. After living in the same home for 18 years and in the same community for nearly 30, my husband and I relocated halfway across the country and have now moved three times in less than three years. So, you'd think I'd have moving down to a science by now. I don't. Unless it's a Psych 101 experiment designed to discover how many ways a move can make you completely insane. After a charming apartment that was close to the beach but way too small, and a house whose breathtaking view did not outweigh its considerable deficiencies and not-so-charming landlord, we found The One. Or so we thought. My husband and I are realistic enough to know that nothing's perfect, but ...

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...