One of my oldest friends called me yesterday. She lived 10 minutes away from Robin Williams and wanted to talk about him. She'd recently seen him at a bookstore and one of her kids had gone to school with his stepdaughter. My friend and I are alike in many ways, but perhaps in one that is most important: suicide hits too close to home.
We've been spending our weekends at the Jersey Shore this summer, and that means company. Between the laundry and the grocery shopping, the wet bathing suits falling off the rail into the bushes, the making up of the pullout couch, the root-beer cans piling up in bathroom wastepaper baskets, and the towels hidden under the beds, sometimes, it feels as if my husband and I are running a B&B.
That mushy steamed spinach au gratin? The Brussels sprouts in... whatever that sauce is? There may be more than a bit of green left on the plate when you push the chair back from the Thanksgiving dinner table. And if you get any grief for not finishing your vegetables, you may have evolution, and fear, to blame.