Creative forces

On my birthday and the birthday of my Substack, some (more) Mom musings

Exactly one year ago today I posted for the first time on here, having no idea that the micro essay about a new birthday hat likely should have been a note — because I didn’t even know the difference between a note and an “article.

Articles are what I used to to write for more than 20 years for The Washington Post Magazine, its Home and Living section and the Washington Business Journal. Substack has been my off ramp as those assignments ended.

Essay seems the more appropriate term for the 57 pieces I’ve published since May 18, 2025 My first real one, “Split (Almost) in Two” was about the undeniable closeness of my mom and me. About our shared pain and our inability at times to keep our emotional and physical realities separate. Talk about a tone setter!

Mary June has starred in about a 20 percent ?? (as she says: I don’t do numbers) of my essays, and continues to fuel the creative flow. In the past year, we’ve moved her out her house and into a retirement villa. I’ve mostly taken over finances after a few scam attempts. We are finally closing on the sale of her home this week, nine LONG months after it went on the market. I’ve written about her pain and abuse at the hands of men who were supposed to love her. I’ve written about the hilarious stories she tells, about letting Muhammad Ali and James Taylor. She’s fallen on her head and bounced back with no concussion. I’ve called her stupid when she accidentally posted financial information on Facebook. I’ve written about the need for tech desks at every single retirement community and already come up with a name for it: A Place for Mom’s Phone. I’m sure Joan Lunden would approve. I’ve written about her strength and her fragility, about her blind spots to my pain and eating disorder and her refusal to condemn my asshole of a grandfather for touching her in ways no father should. I’ve likely caused her shame in my efforts to cauterize wounds with exposure. She remains my biggest fan. She’s welcomed my help at every stage — only recoiling when I mention how much the fancy ass Ford Escape that she bought from my sixth grade boyfriend who owns the big dealership is costing her.

I’ve rediscovered and relied on Hoosier hospitality as I’ve called her bank, her financial advisor, doctor, realtor, lawyer, HOA and resident assistant wonderwoman at the retirement community. I’ve celebrated and memorialized her brother, Bert, who died last summer, having taught us all how to keep on living loving, cussing, inhaling and playing after being paralyzed from the waist down in his late 40s and getting cancer in his last decade. I’ve become the family memoirist, without asking permission.

The woman who created me is in my every creation. It seems fitting to celebrate and acknowledge that on the birthday of A Long Story.