Mary Novaria

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...

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!"...

‘Twas a week before Christmas, and we had just put up our second tree of the season. Not an elegant extra tree, hung with designer ornaments and placed in a room where children aren’t allowed. Nor was it a children’s tree decked with popcorn balls, construction paper garland and those painted dough ornaments from the second grade. This was a replacement tree. Twenty-four hours earlier, I was musing on the glorious fragrance of pine and the nostalgic unwrapping of tissue from the decorations we’ve accumulated during 20 years of marriage. Several Old World Santas once belonged to my mother-in-law; we nestle them high upon the tree, away from little fingers. Over time, those same fingers have contributed some treasures of their own, like the precious, felt and fur Bishop Nicholas made one year in Sunday school. A couple of other St. Nicks were favors at a holiday dinner party celebrated with dear friends who’ve moved away. A beautiful bone china creche with a gold star on top was a gift...