The theme of this piece appeared in this photo I took yesterday in my mother’s bedroom, where I have set up a card table to…
It's Still Too Late To Quit Posts
So picture my dear mama (emphasis on the second syllable – as elocuted in Downton Abbey) Sylvia Myers Willoughby, age around 88, sitting comfortably in a corner of this settee, crime novel in hand. It’s cocktail time at the Lake, which invariably involves gin and tonics and a tray of sharp, sweating Vermont cheddar perched atop Triscuits.
It was about six years ago. I was riding a bicycle across the multiple train tracks in a small, charming rural town in Cajun Prairie country, in Louisiana. I had my laundry carefully folded and packed into two large plastic bags that were hanging from my handlebars. Apparently, I hadn’t really thought through the mechanics of this transport.
I was 48 when I started running marathons. I did not do it to get into better shape; I did it because I was desperate to go to Hawaii. So what if I was middle-aged and had not run in twenty years?