fifty-one times three hundred sixty-six

93/366: Mary Beth

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 19:56:00 +0000

She used to intimidate me because she seemed to be everything I was not: thin, beautiful, a talented rider. So naturally, I thought she was a dressage queen. Now that she has let me in, I am privileged to know her as straightforward, honest, loyal, and caring—and a true friend.

92/366: Michael (2)

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 01:41:00 +0000

He married Roberta in 1990. Nine years later she was diagnosed with breast cancer. He took care of her for ten years. It was what he did. Now she is gone. “There is no going around it,” I told him. “You just have to walk through the fire.” But he knows.

91/366: Anita

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 00:31:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:18:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 00:47:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 00:46:00 +0000

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)

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 00:28:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:27:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 00:27:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 23:30:00 +0000

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)

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 23:29:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 23:27:00 +0000

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)

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 23:25:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 13:44:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 01:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:28:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 23:28:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 23:17:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 17:23:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 21:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 12:48:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 14:13:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:05:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 11:19:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Aslo White) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 15:08:00 +0000

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.