A woman representing an Irish cultural organization told me yesterday that I have Irish eyes. I thanked her, because these are my mother's eyes, the clear blue, arrestingly wide eyes framed by tilted eyebrows suggesting sorrow even as the irises twinkle with laughter. It is the one visible trait I received from my mother. More... Continue Reading →
Since my father died, I've been surprised at the freedom of thought and speech that I feel. We weren't in contact except for the occasional letter back and forth, but I was keenly aware of his presence in the distance, a governing force on my thoughts. Don't go there, the little internal voice would say,... Continue Reading →
When you're a kid, you don't realize that the way you see the world isn't the way everybody sees the world.
In Grace and Frankie, you and Tomlin have shown how large life can be for women beyond the all-consuming family-raising work.
Perhaps the biggest lesson so far from living alone is my shifting attitude about housework. Raising the kids, I resented the endless cleaning, the thanklessness of the repetition, the demeaning scullery-maid position into which I was forced. If I wasn't the person responsible for cleaning something, I was responsible for telling someone else to clean... Continue Reading →
Meg Currell 