The Postscript

Peter didn’t know the kinds of games that cats like to play, so Felix had to train him from scratch. This has been a lot of work for Felix, but he is patient, and Peter is a remarkably good student—for starting his training at such an advanced age.

So many authors and artists I admire died very young. They made this huge splash, and their ripples are still being felt, but they didn’t live long. I like to imagine that, since I eat a lot of broccoli and don’t drink bourbon, I might squeeze out more than the expected number of years to write things and tell my stories. I like to think that the actuarial tables do not apply to me. But, of course, they do.

It sometimes feels wicked to imagine my clothes living on someone else’s body. I imagine there are people who wouldn’t like the idea, and that’s why they buy new clothes. But I have lived in plenty of houses where other people have lived, so the idea that my clothes have had another life is not troubling.

I’ve been able to sit through all of this, almost like a normal person, just because I am reassured every minute that Janet Leigh was safe, no children were pecked by birds, and that terrible shark was, in fact, a very troublesome mechanical device named for a lawyer.

But every day on my walk, I see dogs. And this time of year—when the hydrangeas have started to turn pink around the edges and the berries are turning red on the trees—this time of year is called the dog days of summer, and I believe the dogs know it.

I’m looking forward to learning how this whole thing works. I want to see how the sausage is made. I want to see how these editors and designers and directors and marketers do what they do so well. I want to work with a whole bunch of people who know a whole lot more than I do and to keep learning. My plan is to have a good time—and to keep writing every day.

I remembered the conservative pastor’s wife who changed her name from Alice to Twyla when she discovered her birth mother. But I had no idea, after she became a widow, that she took to making corn wine or that she broke her arm when she fell off a table at the VFW.

I am looking forward to being in my tent again—sensing the changes in the weather, hearing the animals move around at night, feeling that I am entirely outdoors, with nothing but a thin layer of polyester between my tiny tent and the great open sky.

Before long, there is a large pot of soup and everyone in the village is fed, including the two soldiers. A village where everyone said they had no food, eats a meal together—a meal that would not have existed if it were not for a stone.

I told my husband, Peter, when he first announced the idea, I thought it was dumb. I probably didn’t say, “dumb,” because I try to be nicer than that. But I let him know I thought his idea of getting exercise by climbing stairs in the stairwell was, well, kind of dumb.

Usually, I am just finding my way to the coffeepot around 8:30. But now there are men standing on scaffolds, jackhammering bricks at 8:00 right outside my window. If I open the drapes, I can see their boots.

An hour passed, and Katie had almost convinced herself that Felix was gone for good. That’s when he popped up from the basement, his face festooned with cobwebs.
There was a third bloodcurdling scream.

I’m not sure what I expected. But if you ever want to have a renewed appreciation for the U.S., I recommend you go to watch 136 immigrants getting their citizenship.

I thought about what a great idea it was to write a play about a town that was helpful. It was such a simple idea, yet so absolutely right.

We take stories from our youth and struggles we’ve had as adults and heartache and disappointments and moments of indescribable joy, and we make sense of them in a way that defines us—to ourselves.

It is hard to ask for help, but it shows wisdom to ask when you need it. Asking in the way my father does makes it feel like a privilege to be helpful. I hope I can be as gracious when I need help—tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.

I honestly don’t mind not having a tattoo. I figure they are like every other kind of fashion and will come and go. If I manage to live long enough, not having tattoos will probably be cool, allowing me to be a very cool nonagenarian. I have that to look forward to.

Peter and our cat, Felix, have been playing their nightly game of chase and tag. Peter always loses. This might be because Felix makes the rules—and is the referee.

I remember that feeling of being convinced there was this world of secrets I did not know, and I’ve been reminding myself there is a very good chance that there is no secret. And then reminding myself, if I don't know something, I can always just ask.

I saw Ruthie, and she had not made pickles. Maybe the cucumbers had not cooperated. Maybe she was working on other things. Maybe she just lost interest in supplying every relative in her large family with pickles. A person does not need a reason not to make pickles, and yet I felt Aunt Ruthie owed me an explanation.