Something has occurred to me. As I have mentioned before, our mother was timid. And shy. In groups of more than two, her stories and jokes were as wobbly as her confidence.
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?
Full Interview: In this podcast, we discuss: 1. Pauline describes drawing strength from her joyous childhood in nature. Segment only audio: 2. Triumph of Joy is a book birthed…