The year was 1996, and my husband, Dan, had never stepped foot outside this country. So when I suggested celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary in Paris, I knew he would balk but eventually say yes albeit the anxiety of navigating foreign soil, exchanging dollars for francs, and trying to decipher menus written in French.
The fasten seatbelt sign illuminated as the pilot described unexpected turbulence and midwestern storms up ahead. The need to drop altitude, slow down air speed. The result — a delayed arrival by nearly one hour. Perturbed passengers. Hot air and anger thickening the already stagnant cabin.
Here we are, commemorating the Armenian Genocide, mourning for those who could not make it out early enough, fortunate to be the seeds of those who did. Am I too late to apologize and acknowledge? To tell my grandmother I finally understand?
Despite busy lives and the decibel level of family gatherings, they hold our most precious and guarded treasures: traditions, rituals and even recipes — handed down through generations, anchoring us as family.
Really good friends always show up and listen to your problems ad nauseum or until even you are bored with them. As I age, I’m finding myself growing more reliant on these old friends, touchstones to my past.
Columnist Armen D. Bacon had a coincidental meeting with the father and grandfather of Janessa Ramirez, an 8-year-old child who was shot and killed in the crossfire of a gang shooting while standing outside a laundromat.
That night, while two courageous climbers attempted their historic ascent of El Capitan’s Dawn Wall, we sat in our den, contemplating what might feel to us like a climb up Mt. Everest. Could we do it, we wondered? Abstain from alcohol for a week, a month, maybe even a year?
I sat in the driver’s seat eating my half-soggy sandwich, a few crumbs falling onto a new glittered sweater, this Season’s splurge. The rain had finally arrived – so much so it fogged the windshield, blurred my vision, and drenched both my shoes and pant legs, putting a slight damper on last minute shopping I’d hoped to do. Pulling into the parking lot of a neighborhood strip mall, I turned off the engine, unbuckled my seat belt and sat silently gazing out the window.
"Hurt kids hurt kids." A psychologist friend of mine once shared these prophetic words with me and I never forgot them. They came to mind last week while I was reading about the Seattle freshman who brutally murdered classmates before taking his own life. I had to read the article several times, and even then, couldn't make rhyme or reason from the text. How? Why? Is it us, them, the times?
A few weeks ago, while my computer was being infected by what some have told me is the deadliest and most fatal of viruses (as far as computers go), my next-door neighbor's daughter was about to be wheeled into surgery for a life-saving procedure: a liver transplant.