Lots and lots and lots and how forward of you to ask!! However, the one I’d like to revisit is Y2K. Y’all, I went so far down the rabbit hole on that one that I’m both gratified and horrified by the memory. I bought books on the subject and implored my computer programmer husband to read them and then got a ridiculous amount of angry when he assured me he had an adequate grasp of the subject. I begged him to withdraw all of our money from the bank, to buy a gun and move our little family to the mountains. The fact that I had no clue which mountains seemed irrelevant. However, thanks to my husband and his gentle patience we did none of those things. Instead, we celebrated New Year’s at home and took a picture of our daughter as the new millennium rang in. The next morning as we made pancakes and poured syrup from one of the three gallon jugs I had bought I ruminated about how glad I was that we hadn’t gone over board like some people. My husband, to his credit, did not laugh at me. At least not out loud. I will add that the sky is falling folks never got me again. I learned my lesson. I made it through numerous hurricanes, the pandemic and the last few elections and have not had a single crazed thought. This is not to say I don’t still make sure I’m always prepped and ready. Turns out the third jug of syrup tasted as good as the first.

The chair would be a cheery red with a chenille pillow placed just so. There would be a roaring fire and, other than that, silence. In one corner, a gleaming table would hold my lap top. Not a desk. The space isn’t that specific in its use. Other people rent it for a ski getaway or family Christmas. I, however, paid Daniel, the slightly too friendly proprietor, for two months up front. I cleared my schedule and said no to people I’ve never said that to before. I am here to finish my book. It’s happening. Me and my novel just moved to the top of the list. My list anyway. This is the risk I dream of taking as I write tiny snippets between appointments and buying lettuce and school plays. My grandchildren’s but still important. It’s all important. Can’t quite figure out how to pretend it’s not. So, until my cabin with crunchy snow and a red chair, I will revise chapter three early on a Sunday morning and fix that paragraph that is bugging me in the parking lot of the dentist and make all the opening nights of school plays and answer prompts like this.

The thing I’m most proud of is that my kids call. Not because they have to, or even just because they need something. Nope. They call to talk politics and to tell me about a new song they heard—most of the time I hate it but I still listen. One likes death metal and the other likes Bruno Mars—you can’t win ‘em all. Sometimes, they call me to talk about food. Food they’ve eaten, or made or bought or seen. None of us really care. We just love food. The daughter calls more than the son and I understand that—it’s the way it goes. But they both call. I lost my dad in my thirties and my mom in my forties and life as an orphan is not my fave. In fact, it’s kinda awful. But my kids make it better. Their calls make it better. And I am so so proud that they want to. That we have cobbled a close family. Now if I could just get them to call each other and their grandma I’d be the winner of parenting. That’s a thing right?

Something most people don’t know about me is that I will keep a little bit of them when we part ways. I’m realizing that sounds somewhat concerning, but I don’t mean it to be. I just love humans. I think it’s part of the reason I write. A need to catalog all the specimens and their quirks. I can still remember how one of my first bosses used to stand with both of his hands folded into the small of his back while he surveyed the tiny gas station he owned like it was a kingdom. I hold onto the look of surprise on my favorite teacher’s face the time I caught her smoking backstage at a one-act play competition. She was nervous we would lose and we did. Maybe she smoked a whole carton when she arrived home. The point is, every interaction I have with another person is fascinating to me. I take them all home with me and add them to my scrap basket of memories. When I am an old woman—way too soon—I will have them all to keep me company. Until then, I will use them in my favorite way to cope with this messy life—throwing words against the wall and seeing what sticks.