earth. And I never once took it for granted, because my mother was always with me, standing offstage with a wistful look on her face.
So here’s the simple truth: I would no more exchange those early years of my life for a “regular” childhood than I’d trade a twelve-ounce filet mignon for a can of pickled pig’s feet. Arthur accuses me of false modesty for not being more forthright about this, but since there’s no way to say something along these lines to people without coming off as even more of a pompous ass than
he
is, I lie to them instead, and tell them I don’t remember.
Of all my children, Caitlin has always been, by far, the brightest. In her chosen field—English Literature—she’s a respected and widely published scholar, and she’s also a surprisingly effective teacher (in spite of a notable lack of patience), as evidenced by her winning Pritchard University’s coveted Teacher of the Year Award three times in the last five years. Her critical essays frequently turn up in prominent magazines like
The New York Review of Books
and
Harper’s,
and she’s considered one of the top experts in the world on both Milton and Donne. She does a great deal of traveling as a guest lecturer to various institutions around the country, where she’s wined and dined and treated as royalty, and ever since she assumed the chairmanship of her department seven years ago, the number of English majors at Pritchard has nearly tripled.
She’s equally impressive outside her work. Her lifelong hobby of oil painting has always earned her enormous praise, and a few years ago a small but posh contemporary art museum in Chicago even purchased half a dozen of her still lifes to hang in its foyer for a season. Besides that, she can also cook as well as almost any professional chef; her specialty is Italian food, and her dinner parties, though extravagant and far too formal, are the stuff of local legend.
What’s not so well known anymore is how good an athlete she is. When she was a young woman she was formidable at both tennis and soccer, and to see her swim was like watching a plump white seal slice through the water. She was preternaturally good at skiing, too, even though she only did it once, on a rare family vacation to Montana.
That particular trip was an ill-conceived notion Arthur dreamed up thirty-some years ago during a long and irritating Christmas break. He’d jammed his fingers at the end of the term and was unable to practice for a few days, and without access to his beloved violin he couldn’t tolerate “just sitting around the house.” Somehow he got it in his head that a ski trip was the answer to his boredom.
I told him he was out of his mind. “What about Paul? Have you forgotten what he’s like whenever he leaves Bolton? We’ll have to sedate him to even get him in the car.”
“Nonsense. He’ll be fine.” Arthur always pretended that Paul’sstrange aversion to travelling wasn’t a problem. He was the same about Jeremy’s morbid fear of heights, and Caitlin’s bizarre daily craving for peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.
My children were, and are, the most neurotic people on the planet.
“Right,” I muttered. “We’ll get somewhere in the middle of Nebraska and he’ll start screaming for us to take him home. We’ll have to abandon him at a rest area to get any peace.”
He ignored me and I watched him dig our suitcases out of the closet, noticing that his stomach was slightly bigger than when we’d first met.
“Stop that at once, Arthur,” I demanded. “You’re not thinking clearly. Even if Paul doesn’t have a meltdown on the way, you can’t hold a ski pole with your fingers like that, and I’m not about to take the chance of destroying my other wrist, too. What do you expect us to do when we get there?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Read a book. Drink Irish coffee.” His eyes flickered. “Take off our clothes by the fire in our room, and have a lengthy
So here’s the simple truth: I would no more exchange those early years of my life for a “regular” childhood than I’d trade a twelve-ounce filet mignon for a can of pickled pig’s feet. Arthur accuses me of false modesty for not being more forthright about this, but since there’s no way to say something along these lines to people without coming off as even more of a pompous ass than
he
is, I lie to them instead, and tell them I don’t remember.
Of all my children, Caitlin has always been, by far, the brightest. In her chosen field—English Literature—she’s a respected and widely published scholar, and she’s also a surprisingly effective teacher (in spite of a notable lack of patience), as evidenced by her winning Pritchard University’s coveted Teacher of the Year Award three times in the last five years. Her critical essays frequently turn up in prominent magazines like
The New York Review of Books
and
Harper’s,
and she’s considered one of the top experts in the world on both Milton and Donne. She does a great deal of traveling as a guest lecturer to various institutions around the country, where she’s wined and dined and treated as royalty, and ever since she assumed the chairmanship of her department seven years ago, the number of English majors at Pritchard has nearly tripled.
She’s equally impressive outside her work. Her lifelong hobby of oil painting has always earned her enormous praise, and a few years ago a small but posh contemporary art museum in Chicago even purchased half a dozen of her still lifes to hang in its foyer for a season. Besides that, she can also cook as well as almost any professional chef; her specialty is Italian food, and her dinner parties, though extravagant and far too formal, are the stuff of local legend.
What’s not so well known anymore is how good an athlete she is. When she was a young woman she was formidable at both tennis and soccer, and to see her swim was like watching a plump white seal slice through the water. She was preternaturally good at skiing, too, even though she only did it once, on a rare family vacation to Montana.
That particular trip was an ill-conceived notion Arthur dreamed up thirty-some years ago during a long and irritating Christmas break. He’d jammed his fingers at the end of the term and was unable to practice for a few days, and without access to his beloved violin he couldn’t tolerate “just sitting around the house.” Somehow he got it in his head that a ski trip was the answer to his boredom.
I told him he was out of his mind. “What about Paul? Have you forgotten what he’s like whenever he leaves Bolton? We’ll have to sedate him to even get him in the car.”
“Nonsense. He’ll be fine.” Arthur always pretended that Paul’sstrange aversion to travelling wasn’t a problem. He was the same about Jeremy’s morbid fear of heights, and Caitlin’s bizarre daily craving for peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.
My children were, and are, the most neurotic people on the planet.
“Right,” I muttered. “We’ll get somewhere in the middle of Nebraska and he’ll start screaming for us to take him home. We’ll have to abandon him at a rest area to get any peace.”
He ignored me and I watched him dig our suitcases out of the closet, noticing that his stomach was slightly bigger than when we’d first met.
“Stop that at once, Arthur,” I demanded. “You’re not thinking clearly. Even if Paul doesn’t have a meltdown on the way, you can’t hold a ski pole with your fingers like that, and I’m not about to take the chance of destroying my other wrist, too. What do you expect us to do when we get there?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Read a book. Drink Irish coffee.” His eyes flickered. “Take off our clothes by the fire in our room, and have a lengthy
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