91/366: Anita

Forthright, outspoken, funny, Anita recently told me she didn’t think she “had any Fragomeni in her.” I was astonished. It’s not so much her energy, her enthusiasm, her determination, her accomplishments in life. It’s the way she takes care of those around her. She’s more like Nana than most of us.

90/366: Betsy

She loved "Sex in the City," hated Love in the Time of Cholera. As the years pass, I feel more of the things we don't have in common, fewer of the ones we do. Yet we can't help but love each other; we're bound close, for reasons I will never understand.

89/366: Joy Mappes

She and her husband both taught in the Philosophy Department. In that cold mountain town, she always wore pants and turtlenecks. She was tall, with short blond hair and an intensity that bordered on fierceness. In the mid-70s, her Women’s Studies course was breaking new ground. I was amazed by her.

88/366: Paul LaChance

Teaching the Romantic poets, Yeats, Joyce, the modern British novel, he showed us how together they formed an arc that spanned centuries, epitomizing Blake’s “Jerusalem.” From then to now, I still see the spiral of innocence to experience. As a person, he was spacey and self-centered. I adored him, of course.

87/366: Tim (2)

Handsome, with an easy laugh; an amazing artist; passionate about fly fishing, strong coffee, the northern woods. Plays the recorder; gives great hugs; once took second place in a trout stamp competition. But it is his evident love for his wife, also a dear friend, that makes me smile the most.

86/366: Sally

We laughed at the same jokes, shared coffee in the morning, traded nightgowns. We both liked Grape-Nuts, new stationery, old teacups. She was drily funny, a great dancer. And she was in love with my husband. I just didn’t know it. They’re still married, with two kids. Life goes on.

85/366: Michael

We did the hard, honest work of a real marriage. In those years I was nearly drowning in depression. When I found a way to cut loose the weight, to swim free, things got worse. Then there came a day when he told me he was in love with someone else.

84/366: Diane

She has this prickly exterior, but I have seen her compassionate heart. She held me when I was falling apart after my husband left me. She reminded me of what I’d learned growing up, how it had taught me how to cope with the present: “Disasters were the way you lived.”

83/366: Andy (2)

I thought he was everything I wanted: smart, funny, sweet, sexy, unafraid to talk about anything. We spent many hours confiding in each other. Unfortunately, it was about how unhappy our marriages were. Somehow he worked it out; he’s where he belongs, now. And though I’m now alone, so am I.

82/366: Judy

As a child I was intimidated by my older cousin’s razor wit and sardonic humor. It wasn’t until she died that I found out about her kindness. But I remember, at my dad’s funeral, how I had nothing to wear. She took me shopping, spent hundreds of dollars, over my protests.

81/366: Becky (2)

Fun, infuriating, a master of diplomacy, a self-centered clod. In everything, my boss knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Once she dreamed that she’d been given a baby to care for. She was terrified until she remembered that I was there, and everything would be all right.

80/366: Cathy

Growing up, living on opposite coasts, we wrote letters constantly, reams of pages. My cousin was as blonde as I was dark; they called us “chocolate and vanilla.” When my dad died, she just happened to be in town with her husband and kids, their first trip East in 20-odd years.

79/366: Becky

My cousin Becky was my designated guardian one summer when my parents were traveling. She took me to my first R-rated movie: “The Godfather.” She gave me a book on astrology that ignited a lifelong interest. We got stoned in the evenings with my friends. It was the best summer ever.

78/366: Aunt Marian

Dick’s wife was a stunning beauty in her youth. When I was sixteen, she took me aside and said she knew what was happening in my house. “If you need to get out,” she said, “don’t just run off. You call me collect, anytime, and I’ll send you a plane ticket.”

77/366: Uncle Dick

A hot summer night in downtown Tucson. Music playing everywhere; storefronts open to catch any breeze. “Follow me,” he said. Winding through throngs, he led me into a punk bar where the sound would make your ears bleed. He turned to me with a wide grin and said, “Isn’t this GREAT??!!”

76/366: Chuck

My dad’s brother’s son has that dry, Midwestern wit, baby-blue eyes, and an eternally boyish face. He might seem aloof, but if he cares about you, he will rally to you in any time of need. I had a crush on him when we were little; I think I still do.

75/366: Dr. Adams

Fifty-something, with shoulder-length, white hair, he sat down facing us and said eagerly, “Let’s talk about sex.” What followed was a glorious exploration of John Donne’s erotic sonnets. His love of literature, of language, of life and human nature, he imparted with a passion that is now ingrained for a lifetime.

74/366: Annamarie

Dancing. Dogs. Politics. Literature. Music. Long discussions on her front porch on warm June evenings, lit only by fireflies (and the occasional illicit cigarette). She and her sweetheart became part of the Vermont diaspora after the ’04 election. She says she misses the fireflies, but she’s a New Englander at heart.

73/366: Margot

Before I ever met her, I worshipped her from afar on the dance floor. Up close, she is every bit as beautiful and magical as she seemed. We joke that, when we’re forgetful, we keep the other half of each other’s brain. But she keeps a part of my heart, too.

72/366: Charmaine

Vince was the first of Nana’s children to marry. Nana was not happy that he didn’t pick an Italian girl, but Charmaine won her over. How could she not, with that sparkling-eyed laughter? My dear Aunt Charmaine: I loved her like my own mother. Another breast cancer victim. I miss her.

71/366: Mary Lou

I loved staying with her family when we visited the relatives in South Bend. She lives where I want to live: in Tucson, in an old adobe house that she and her husband remodeled. Mary has her mom’s laugh and bright eyes. She’s more than a cousin to me: a sister.

70/366: Gina

Vince’s youngest was constantly in trouble as a teenager—skipping school, running away. When she came out at age 16, no one took her seriously, but I did. I love her for her humor, her laugh like her mother’s, her courage in insisting on living her own life in her own way.

I have so many stories about my cousins that it’s hard to write just one entry for each of them. I can’t let Gina go by without passing on this bit of family lore: When she was in high school, she’d stop by Nana’s house every day for lunch. So, whenever we were out with Nana, she wouldn’t let us throw any of our food away. She’d insist that we take everything home, because it could be “Gina’s lunch.” She’d make us wrap up extra rolls, leftover sandwiches, even sausages, and she’d put them in her purse—or worse, make us put them in ours. To this day, my sister and I still joke about leftovers at restaurant meals: “Don’t throw that away! That’s Gina’s lunch!” Someday we’ll have to send Gina all the leftovers we’ve amassed over the years...

69/366: Vicki

Always short-shrifted by her dad for not being her brother, Vic resents her twin to this day, but I know she can’t help but love him. I admire the hard path she chose, working with abused kids. When we travel to Italy together, we both feel like we have come home.

68/366: Vince

Growing up, Vince was the bad boy who never got caught. He made good by becoming a surgeon. The story goes that, not to be outdone by his sister Mary, Uncle Vince announced the birth of his first kids to Nana: “We had twins too! And one of them’s a BOY!”

67/366: Tina

At our reunion, the cousins exchanged gifts of jewelry. I got Tina’s silver oyster shell pendant. One of the “big kids,” she intimidated me in childhood. Now it is a privilege to know her strength, her delicate beauty, her wide smile, her black eyes. And now I see the pearl inside.

66/366: Anthony

Even his sisters had a crush on Tony’s smoldering Italian sexiness. The family’s black sheep eschewed academia, owned a popular bar in town. His first troubled marriage produced a troubled daughter who became a teenaged mother. One night he drove to the hospital with chest pains. He died two days later.

65/366: Roberta

As kids, it was Roberta whom I played with in the Lukes family. She played viola, studied ethnomusicology, painted beautiful watercolors. She may have died from the cancer, but she didn’t lose the battle. She faced both life and death with more courage and grace than most people can even imagine.

64/366: Marguerite

Mary’s youngest child is as beautiful as a movie star, speaks three languages, and originated one of my favorite life sayings. Referring to the futility of expecting what some people (such as a mother or a boyfriend) just cannot give you, she said, “You can’t buy cabbages in a shoe store.”

63/366: Stephanie

The family lore is that she and my sister looked so much alike, they could have been twins. Mary’s third daughter taught piano, played the organ for a synagogue, and died at 46 of colon cancer. She left a daughter, Carolyn, and a son, David, who studies piano and plays brilliantly.

62/366: Kathleen

Once, discussing our mutual desire to remain childless, she said, “You can love things and not want to have them. I love monkeys, but I wouldn’t want one in my house.” Like all of her observations, spot-on, and dispensed with wit. (And did I mention her beauty?) Happy Birthday, sweetie.

[Tried to post a pic here of you and Gwen, but Blogger isn't cooperating!!!]

61/366: Mary Ellen

The youngest of Nana’s grandchildren is gorgeous, like all of Ro’s kids. Diagnosed with a brain tumor last summer, she is recovering from the surgery. "Taking care of myself has become my full-time job," she says. But she remains one of the the most loving, generous, sweet-spirited people I've ever known.