by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 12, 2017 | 60 to 60, Columbus GA, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
1997: Kathleen turns 16, gets her license, and drives out the driveway while my face is plastered to the window. It doesn’t seem possible. Sam is 3 1/2 and he and Jack and Bobby are the three amigos. I have enough free time to think about going back to...
by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 11, 2017 | 60 to 60, Columbus GA, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
1996: Kathleen gets her learner’s license. I pay someone to plant daffodils in the yard–yes, pay. I have free time again–seven days this year, six in February and one in May. And I write on our new computer. I start a story about a woman who wants...
by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 9, 2017 | 60 to 60, Columbus GA, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
I wake up realizing that completely absent from my mind when I wrote yesterday’s post was the fact that Sam was born on our anniversary. It seems impossible I could ever forget that. 1994: We all go skiing except Sam. Cal’s mother and the housekeeper take...
by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 8, 2017 | 60 to 60, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
1993: Bill Clinton is sworn in as President. Kathleen stars in a play. Cal and I go to Bermuda. For the first time, we can know the sex of the baby before he or she is born. I want to know; Cal doesn’t. So they tell me, and I keep it a secret. The baby is due...
by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 7, 2017 | 60 to 60, Columbus GA, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
1992: Late one night, when Cal arrives home from a business trip, he comes into the bedroom holding a scrap of paper. “You have to get this book,” he says, handing me the paper. “I heard her on NPR.” On the paper, Pam Houston, Cowboys Are My...
by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Mar 6, 2017 | 60 to 60, Columbus GA, continuous life, life, marriage, memory, time, truth |
1991: We may have moved in, but the house is not finished. Every morning, trucks line the driveway and the street. I must be fully dressed when I come downstairs. Before I start the coffee, I can smell the possibility and hope. I can see all the light and the unfilled...
