I was three-quarters of the way through reading Ellen Goodman’s column when it was time to walk David to the door. I stood in the open doorway in the chilly Montana morning pinching dead heads from my trailing petunias and listening to the whistle of an owl (You’re thinking owls hoot, they don’t whistle. But some do, as I learned at a Raptor Day seminar a couple of summers ago). I felt contentment as I looked at the lush green maples in my backyard, while feeling a sense of change. Summer is passing quickly and soon autumn will be upon us. As I waved good-bye to my husband, I thought about Ellen’s column.
I rarely read her column nor do I usually identify with it. But, today I read about a different side of her; the one in the Maine farmhouse with the grandchildren that came to visit for the summer in which memories were made and traditions were followed. It was a different perspective and a refreshing change from the woman I have considered to be “just a feminist”.
I’ve lived a different life than Ellen Goodman. I don’t write for the Boston Globe, nor am I a Pulitzer prize winning columnist. But, when she tenderly spoke of family and tradition it struck a chord with me. You see, just as she, I’ve been weaving my tapestry of life with simple things that make memories and establish tradition.
I try to follow through whenever I am drawn to read or watch something. Usually a question is answered or a message is revealed. In this case, reading Ellen’s column was a reminder of how we as human beings are so different, yet so similar.