When I was very young, my mother’s hands were as white as porcelain, as smooth as silk, with each long slender finger tipped with fire engine red. I loved their beauty and inherent strength, their ability to dwarf my own, and the fine cursive handwriting and pencil sketches they could do.
They looked nothing like my own hands. Mine were tiny and insignificant, always dirty from playing in the garden and scratched from climbing trees. I wanted mine to be more like hers. I wanted to be more like her. I admired her for her courage, her beauty, and most of all for her strength. I thought she could handle anything. Read more
Intellectually, I’ve always known where the hamburger sitting on my plate came from. Intellectually. I mean, nobody has ever plucked a side of beef off a bush, we all know that. But denial has such a way of sugar coating everything, of allowing us to stay the course, even when that course is not good for us. Things wrapped up neatly in packages did not compute as having once belonged to a living, breathing creature. I was able to distance myself from the whole nasty affair.
That came to an end 23 years ago, when I was writing for my local newspaper, and doing a story on a woman who rescued Dobermans. Read more
When I was very young, my mother’s hands were as white as porcelain, as smooth as silk, with each long slender finger tipped with fire engine red. I loved their beauty and inherent strength, their ability to dwarf my own, and the fine cursive handwriting and pencil sketches they could do.
