Burnt Chocolate Stories

I’m in Charlevoix for the week with seven other good women.   Wat  Water, stones, sand dunes, trees, grass.  The empty beach reminds me of summers in Union Pier when I was a child.      If I close my eyes, I can smell the pungent odor of clay, taste melted cream cheese and jelly sandwiches, feel the texture of peeled green grapes against my tongue, relish the flesh as it bursts warm and watery in my cheeks. The northern tip of Michigan has its own flavor. Multicolored, striated Petoskey rocks form a crust along the water’s edge.  Across the bay on Washington Island , pure white stones bake in the sun.        Streams along the edges of boulders produce silky strands of orange and mustard colored moss.  I stare at the waves, mesmerized by the vast space.  The season has shifted from summer heat to crisp autumn. The women move easily among each other.  We take walks down the beach, watch sunsets, c...

Each morning I say today is the day I will post on Burnt Chocolate for all the good people who have asked about how I am feeling, how our family is managing but the days and weeks passed in silence. Until now. What I want to say is that we are all doing well, returning to some semblance of normalcy. That's what I wish was true. And in some ways, it is true. We've gone to a movie, eaten a few meals out, spent some time with friends. We had a restful week in Connecticut with our son Matthew and his family. We spent a day in Chicago with Josh and his daughters. Zoe makes us laugh with her antics. But the deeper truth is that there's a huge space in my heart that will never be filled. I know that's true. At first I thought it was possible to find another piece of work or love to fill the hole, that eventually, it would somehow close up or shrink. But I've come to realize that learning to live with the emptiness is the task at hand. When a friend suggested I write a...

Matt, Josh and Ben, 1991 Dear Ben, Today is a very sad day for me, for you are my brother, and now I must learn to live without your wonderful smile. I didn't quite know what to tell your friends and family about you so I decided to write you a letter instead. In your final days, while the spoken word escaped you, you were still writing things down, with your toes and your beautiful eyes, guiding the curser of your life. They tell me you worked until the very end but I will let others tell of your successes and your incredible work ethic, for these are things of less import to me today. You were such a wonderful brother to me Ben, and truly, you were my best friend in this world you have left me to dwell alone, to navigate without you, my information post, my source of information, my personal news bulletin of my life. You knew me better than anyone. Even when I was screwing up, really screwing up, really bad, you didn't care, and you listened to me, and more important...

Many of you first met Ben after his illness struck. Some of you knew him before. I had the great pleasure of birthing this magnificent man into the world. And he gave me the rare gift of being able to hold his hand and kiss his cheek as he took his last breath. From the time Ben was three, we teased that if we took him deep into the forest and cleared his pockets of breadcrumbs and stones, he’d still find his way home. The middle child of five is no easy place to land in a family, but Ben served as our family heart. His feisty spirit challenged each of us and bound us together from the very beginning. Several months after his diagnosis he said, ‘Mom, I’m going to make a movie about ALS.” Without a clear focus or story line, he began to film and, more importantly, make a life for himself to fill whatever days remained with purpose and love. This past week, we arrived in Cleveland with the great hope of extending Ben’s life in the ways he most wanted to live. He filmed those three final ...

From left: Ben, Matt, Becky, Sarah, Josh When the children were very young and my days were filled with diapers and car pools, school conferences and laundry, I pined for free time just around the corner when I’d have a few hours each day to myself. In 1976, I imagined writing great prose, getting published, doing book tours. Sometimes, at midnight, I’d get a few lines written that made no sense the following day. Most of the time, I scrambled to make space for my creativity that I believed lurked just below the surface, if only I could reach it. A neighbor was kind enough to loan me her porch where I could store paper, a typewriter and have some distance from the household chaos. One afternoon, I’d written half a page when I heard Ben teasing Sarah on the front lawn. I called and asked the housekeeper to put Ben on the phone. “Stop driving your sister nuts.” I scolded. “Where are you?” Ben’s voice held amazement. “Everywhere!” I said and hung up. Ben wandered down the...

When friends and I meet for morning coffee once or twice a week, we talk about the usual stuff of politics, movies, travel plans. A few days ago it was wrinkles, face cream and the ravages of advanced middle age. That conversation made me think of an incident on a trip our family took years ago. We rode into the Yellowstone wilderness on horseback with our three sons, then all under the age of ten. The wranglers pitched our tents and prepared our meals. Looking for a family pioneer experience, we'd given no thought to the isolation, lack of medical facilities or danger. We rode forth in blistering heat, rain, then sleet and finally freezing cold. On day five, we reached the pinnacle of the mountain range. From our vantage point, we saw the rivers flow in opposite directions from the Great Divide. Along with the mules and wranglers, our group had stopped our horses in a long row to rest and enjoy the magnificent view. Hail, the size of golf balls, then pummeled us. I remember ...

Emma, Summer of 2000, 4 Years Old Emma’s gone. She died at the end of January after a brief illness of severe arthritis combined with spinal stenosis that incapacitated all four of her legs. Twelve and a half is old for a dog like Emma whose mixed heritage of Sharpei, Pit Bull and Black Lab frightened more than a few passersby. But most saw her sweetness. The wrinkles surrounding her face and sleek brown/black coat combined into a regal beauty and loving demeanor. As a pup, she challenged us every day.  She ate batteries, table legs, one fur jacket, wood trim, plaster walls, and dismantled a steel cage. A constant moving target, she skittered up and down front stoops, sniffed bushes, and reversed direction halfway across a street. Emma moved from puppy hood to old age overnight. One day she leaped onto our bed, balanced on her hind legs to open the laundry room door for a drink and raced down the street to chase a squirrel. And then she didn't. In November, Emma refused t...

My 60th Birthday Present from Steve Created by Steve in a Neighbor's Barn Perhaps you’ve wondered how Steve and I ended up in Dodgeville , Wisconsin , of all places. The short answer is that around our thirty-fifth anniversary, we thought a place in the country might be fun. A family retreat for our children and grandchildren appealed to our sense of adventure. But, like a lot of things, it’s more complicated. In 1974, we moved to an expansive home next to Lake Michigan in Evanston , Illinois. Some years later, we renovated the nearby University Club, converting it to a celebrated public museum only to have it destroyed by an electrical fire before its third birthday. Once the details of that disaster settled, and the last of our children left for college, I felt the urge, the necessity, to move away. It didn’t matter where. Just someplace new and different. Long Grove was both of those things and it was there we experienced both anonymity and life as incorrigible ...

We’re buried inside on this snowy day. Winds blow thick tufts against my balcony door. Driving is a needless risk, walking past the mailbox a foolish notion. Super Tuesday primaries have settled enough to turn off the television and enjoy Leonard Cohen’s music, read a book, write a few words. Years ago, when Rebeccah was a toddler, a similar snowstorm piled mountains of the stuff on our front lawn, covering sidewalks in five foot drifts and blockading streets. A Chicago mayor lost her job, disgraced by irate citizens for her delayed response to the blizzard. But for me, those few days remain a cherished memory. Time stopped. We had plenty of food, wine, books, each other. Quiet moments, safely inside. Respite. I’ve recently emerged from a different kind of respite, one filled with fear and sadness. But being at this end reminds me that I can still surface, that I still have enough spirit left to carry me the distance. Just a few days after I last posted, Steve slipped on ice from...