One of my favorite places to visit is the beach at Big River in Mendocino County. Not just because its beautiful and full of wildlife, but because I always seem to find something a bit magical every time I walk its sandy shore.
Like one foggy morning when horses were trotting on the sand. Or another morning when I met the person I want to be in old age: A woman well into her 80s who swims in that water every chance she gets.
“You do this every day?” I asked her as she treaded water in that beautiful spot, made even more beautiful by the ripples of light in the waves she was creating.
She paused, likely deciding whether or not to even respond to this stranger interrupting her meditative exercise, then finally answered me with a simple: “Try to.”
That was cool.
Because I’ve thought about her ever since, this woman fully embracing life, not content to waste her last years letting her body decay in a recliner while watching television like another woman I knew on the edge of 80.
So the next time I was at Big River, I was drawn back down to the shore, hoping she might be there again. And though she wasn’t swimming in the river that day because it was wintertime and the water too cold, while searching for her again I found something even cooler: A whole group of women who swim there every day!
A member of the Big River Swim Team poses near the team's decal.
Members of the Big River Swim Team, they are a group of friends in their 50, 60s and 70s, who don wetsuits to brave the cold beauty of Big River for their daily swim.
“Why do you do this?” I asked them, though of course I knew why: exercise, companionship, accomplishment, and nature. All things that make you feel better, all things included in one daily swim at Big River.
And of course those cool women knew the first swimmer I met, but told me she didn’t swim in the river past November.
“I want to be her,” I told Eileen, 64, who was drying off after swimming nearly two miles in the river.
My favorite movie I saw in December was also my favorite Christmas present this year, since it gifted me 90-plus minutes of hanging out with three of my favorite people: Jack Black, Paul Rudd, and a beloved family member.
Yes, the first two were technically only present on the movie screen, and yes, my companion and I didn't have to go to the theater to watch those actors together, but we did need a break from our menfolk.
So I respectfully disagree with a recent column by Mick LaSalle, a film critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, in which he couldn't come up with a reason for anyone to see a movie at just a standard multiplex playing new releases anymore. Because we had two very good reasons to go to the movies that day: First, to escape our spouses and enjoy some belly laughs together, and second, to hear those laughs magnified by all the people around us. That was very cool.
The movies I saw in December were:
1. Anaconda (12/26/2025, in the theater) Grade: A
This movie was everything I wanted, an impressive feat given how excited I was after first seeing the trailer: Jack Black? Good! Paul Rudd? Good! Goofy reboot of Anaconda? Super good!
And unlike the disappointing sequel to The Accountant that also had me super excited after its trailer (more on The Accountant 2 here), this movie delivered, being both fun and relevant for people my age, with just enough silliness on top to entertain any kids (and grandkids!) we brought along.
2. Fatman (12/20/2025, Netflix) Grade: B
This movie was a slow burn, one best savored by super fans of Walton Goggins and Mel Gibson who are not expecting typical holiday fare, as this was a most a-typical Christmas movie with a most a-typical Santa.
And while I certainly appreciated every scene with Mr. Goggins, I could have enjoyed much more time with grumpy Gibson driving around in his Ford pick-up with a bottle of milk balancing on the dashboard and plate of cookies next to him on the seat, especially since an older Ford F-150 is just about my favorite vehicle to watch, either on screen or in real life.
3. Song Sung Blue (12/28/2025, in the theater) Grade: C-
It breaks my heart a little to give this movie a poor grade, because Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson were delightful as low-rent lounge singers who find success as a Neil Diamond tribute band, and I could have happily watched many more scenes of them learning to harmonize, arguing over which song to start their concerts with, and how much time and effort they were going to spend getting his hair just right.
But much like the recent Bruce Springsteen biopic (more on “Deliver me from Nowhere” here), this movie spent way too much time off-stage wallowing in the sad parts of the story instead of giving the audience what it really wants: to sing some fun songs with some fun, good-looking people who also happen to be pretty good singers.
And much like Jackman’s Lightning refusing to start concerts with the fan favorite “Sweet Caroline,” it felt like this movie just didn’t want to give the audience what it wanted. Proven by my theater’s response to the credits, which was crickets: How could you possibly have more than two hours of Hugh Jackman, Kate Hudson and super-catchy Neil Diamond songs and not have people at least clapping afterward, let alone cheering?
I think most people, including me, would have enjoyed this movie much more if it left out many of the tragic twists and turns of the true story it was based on, letting its perfectly cast stars shine as the charismatic and talented real people they were portraying, while letting audiences seek out the rest of the story on the documentary that served as its source material.
I also wish Jackman had asked James Mangold, who directed him in "Logan," to take the helm, since Mangold proved twice, first in "Walk the Line" and next in "A Complete Unknown," that he can make meaningful-yet-enjoyable movies about imperfect musicians that neither skirt nor dwell on the bad bits.
Now, at last, the movies my grandmother saw in December of 1998:
Thursday, Dec. 3:
Ate KFC, pot pie.
To Show, “Bug’s Life.”
Home 4:30 p.m., worked on taxes.
Thursday, Dec. 10:
To McDonald’s for coffee.
Looked for pants at Penney’s, Gottschalks. Some Vanderbilts and Lees.
To show, “Home Fries.” Drew Barrymore, Luke Wilson? About “country” folks!
Friday, Dec. 18:
To post office, mailed 7 cards.
Longs, returned video.
To show, “Prince of Egypt.” Good.
Saturday, Dec. 19:
Coffee and donut on Ocean Avenue.
To show, “Gods and Monsters.” Ian McKellan, wonderful film.
Newspapers sold out in many places, found 3 left at Drug Emporium.
Thursday, Dec. 24:
Justine here 3:30 p.m. Drove to see lights.
To show, “Gods and Monsters.” She had pizza.
Home 9:30. Some TV.
Tuesday, Dec. 29:
Wakened by quakes, 4:38. Back to sleep after moving lamps and gorilla.
To show after donut/coffee. “Shakespeare in Love.” Great.
The best thing I did in 2025 was also the craziest: Driving several hours just to see a big wooden troll.
And while I still don’t know exactly why I felt compelled to see Lulu, the first Thomas Dambo troll to be installed indoors at the California Nature Art Museum in Solvang, I do know that meeting her sparked an obsession that soon had me driving across two states to see six more trolls in the Pacific Northwest.
That was cool.
Because after seeing Lulu, I started researching the other Dambo trolls I could drive to, and soon found myself visiting an old friend in Washington State who lived near five of his sculptures.
And though I hadn’t seen Patty in 10 years, she still dropped everything to not only offer me a place to stay, but to spend a full day driving us around (and across!) the Puget Sound so we could fulfill my dream of seeing all five of the Thomas Dambo trolls near Seattle in one day.
“That’s why we’re friends,” Patty said. “We both like doing crazy stuff like this.”
And after eight hours of searching that included two ferry rides, when we reached the fifth troll on Bainbridge Island and completed a mission we were told halfway through was “impossible,” I was high as a kite.
“We saw all five today, this is our last one!” I exclaimed proudly to a woman who just happened to be visiting the same troll with her young daughter.
“Wow,” she said flatly. “That's a lot of driving.”
At first confused by her response, I soon realized that she probably just wanted me to go away because I was not only a stranger, but a super strange stranger who was super excited about some super crazy quest that just sounded like a super big waste of time and gas.
So if you don’t want to find yourself on some super crazy quest like me, whatever you do in 2026, don’t go see Lulu.
Or on second thought, maybe do.
Because if I hadn’t gone down to see Lulu, I wouldn’t have climbed Valencia Peak in Los Osos and met my new favorite picnic table. (More on that here.)
And then I wouldn’t have completed my “impossible" quest with Patty, a great travel companion who I am already planning another grand adventure with for 2026. And though talking to that unimpressed woman at the fifth troll on Bainbridge Island had me briefly second-guessing my life choices, on my drive back to California I became even more grateful for Lulu and the troll fever she gave me.
While staying in Oregon on my drive home, I learned that my mother-in-law had taken a bad fall and would not be able to go home again. Even worse, she very likely would never walk again.
The next morning, I got back on the road as soon as it was light, and around sunrise I stopped at a covered bridge I spotted from I-5 in southern Oregon.
Named “Grave Creek” in honor of a 16-year-old who died while trying to complete a far more important quest than mine, that bridge felt like the perfect place to end my journey: Because while walking over it, all I could think about was how just being able to walk at all would feel like an impossible quest to my mother-in-law, which made me even more grateful that I could still take road trips. And, yes, that I decided to take that silly one to meet Lulu.
So my advice for 2026 is this: That crazy quest you're dreaming about? Just do it. And do it now.
I saw two Predator movies last month, and of course the one I liked the most was the one my husband didn’t like at all, declaring it tedious and, worse yet, “not a Predator movie!”
And while I agree that “Predator: Badlands” was more Star Wars than Predator, I disagree that it's a bad thing, since its many nods to my favorite movie franchise made it my favorite of the movies I saw in November:
1. Predator: Badlands (In the theater) Grade: A.
The only thing I didn’t like about this movie was the beginning, as the first fight felt too much like watching a video game, and the movement of the predators’ mouths felt too much like watching a surgery.
But the movie won me over as soon as our main character begins his mission. First with the interesting plants and animals Dek initially tries to fight, and next with introducing us to Elle Fanning as the bubbly sidekick he initially tries to ditch.
Fanning plays two androids in this movie, but of course the one I loved was her C-3PO-like Thia, who quickly convinces Dek that she is necessary enough to strap on his back like Chewbacca did for the golden droid when he also lost his bottom half.
And Thia being split in two created my favorite scene in the movie, as watching her top half and bottom half battling foes twice as effectively as a tag team was the funnest fight scene I've seen since the women fighting with plates in Ballerina.
I was also a sucker for the movie’s main messages about how respecting the plants and animals we live with is always the best choice, even if you don't need them to complete a quest, and how finding a new family is often better than clinging to our first.
2. Prey (On DVD, rented from the library) Grade: A-/B+
Like “Badlands,” this movie was directed by Dan Trachtenburg and centers on a warrior needing a successful hunt to prove themselves worthy of their clan, only this time the warrior is a young woman.
And while I certainly appreciated having our hero be a heroine, I was taken so far out of the story by such an unrealistic-looking CGI bear that I could never get fully immersed again.
Or maybe, I got so spoiled by all the Star Wars that Trachtenburg put in his other Predator movie that I couldn’t enjoy one without it. If you haven’t seen either yet, maybe learn from my mistake and check out Prey first.
3. Roofman (In the theater, 11/4/2025) Grade:B-
There was a lot to like in this movie, especially if you enjoy the Channing Tatum cocktail: Two parts a sweet goof who looks great with his shirt off, one part that pal you can call when you need to rob a bank.
Served with that cocktail is a great heel played by Peter Dinklage, because that’s what his prickly charm is best suited for, and a love interest played by Kirsten Dunst, who perfectly channels the hopeful angst of a single mom daring to believe Tatum’s handsome stranger isn't too good to be true.
And though I certainly enjoyed the extra seconds devoted to watching a completely naked Tatum scramble up a wall to his hidden toy store bedroom, this movie was far too long. Even with all the fun and apparently realistic details the movie includes about the true crimes and people this movie is based on, there was no reason it needed more than 90 minutes to tell us its story, let alone more than two hours!
4. Beau is Afraid (On DVD, rented from the library). Grade:D-/F+
This movie was an impulse watch, one that I picked off the shelf mostly because of Joaquin Phoenix, and which I now mostly regret.
Because the best thing about this movie was also the worst: An opening sequence where our main character is trying to get out of his apartment to catch a flight to his mother’s funeral, but everything that can go wrong does, especially since he appears to live on a city block full of actors trying out for the next spinoff to The Walking Dead.
The opening is both brilliant and horrible because it is anxiety come to life, with everything a fearful person could possibly imagine going wrong when they open dare their front door not only going wrong, but spectacularly so. If you’ve never felt such anxiety and have always wanted a master class, then watch the beginning of this movie for the best visual representation I’ve seen yet.
The only other reason to watch this movie, other than another admirable performance by Joaquin Phoenix, is to see the huge penis monster our hero battles in an attic, an absurd scene that gave me the only laugh in this dismal and confusing slog of a movie that took me two days to finish watching after giving up more than once.
And the movie remained a confusing mess until I read a review by Richard Brody of The New Yorker, who neatly summed it up as just another story about a mom who tries to keep her son from having sex. And Beau’s mom achieves that seemingly impossible goal by telling her son he inherited a horrible infliction that causes a fatal heart attack during the act, a theory he never tests for decades, though Brody rightly wonders how we are expected to believe that not once, not even during his teen-age years, did Beau get desperate enough to decide sex was an experiment so tempting and necessary it was worth dying for?
Now, finally, I offer my grandmother’s movie reviews from November of 1998. (And boy, do I wish I could know what she would have thought of Beau is Afraid!):
11/7/1998
Wrote letter, to Kmart for lunch at 11.
To show, “The Siege.” Good. Annette Bening, Denzel Washington. Bruce Willis, not listed in front.
11/14/1998
To post office, KFC for lunch.
To show, “The Celebration.” Danish. Man is 60, has abused his children, son tells all. Odd photography, mostly face shots!
11/18/1998
Slept til 8. Usual breakfast. Chores.
To show, “Meet Joe Black.” Liked. Anthony Hopkins.
Home, washed clothes.
11/26/1998: Thanksgiving
To show, “Elizabeth.” Good.
11/28/1998
To Show, “Enemy of the State.” Will Smith, Gene Hackman. Great suspense.
Bed 9, awake 12:30. Drank milk, read New Yorker til 1:30.
I never paid much attention to the weather forecast until I moved to Seattle. Because before, I never felt like the clouds were trying to kill me.
No, for my first 30 years on the coast of California, moisture mostly came from the sky in 30 shades of gentle gray, like fog and thicker fog. So a weather forecast? That was something you checked to see if that fog would turn to rain just in time to ruin your weekend plans.
But the skies over the Puget Sound dropped 30 shades of danger, giving me a crash course my first winter in things like graupel, freezing rain and my new boogeyman: Black Ice.
And when two super scary commutes — one an aborted mission to work on a road turned skating rink, the other a trip home through a surprise snowstorm that had me abandoning our pick-up truck halfway up Queen Anne Hill — had me vowing to never drive to the office during winter again, my boss introduced me to the “Forecast Discussion.”
That was cool.
Because while other forecasts will give you the main points of rain, sun or snow, the Forecast Discussion is a detailed dive into the next 24 hours of weather written by meteorologists who are not only experts in weather, but experts in your local weather.
And I never drove in Seattle again without reading it, since I wanted to know exactly when the temperatures were expected to go above and below freezing, so I could time my drives properly to avoid the worst of the road hazards.
Years later back in California, I gained even more appreciation for the Forecast Discussion when I started talking to the people behind it in my work as a reporter.
Tasked one day with writing a story about an expected deluge of rain that would likely bring flooding, I was told to call the weather service our newspaper paid for.
After dialing the 1-800 number to put in my request, I waited at least an half an hour for someone from across the country to call me and basically read me the sentence the service prepared for our area. No matter how many questions I asked in an attempt to get more information that might be useful to our readers, the person would only parrot back what I already had.
So I turned to the list of helpful numbers prepared for the newsroom by previous reporters, which luckily included a number for the local office of the National Weather Service in Humboldt County described as the “press line.”
And that call finally got me to person who could tell me what I needed: Helpful details about my local weather, a meteorologist who knew what had happened in the past under current conditions, thereby providing helpful insight into the forecast for my newspaper’s readers, all this expertise provided free as part of the National Weather Service.
I was hooked, and never called the corporate line again. Why call someone across the country who couldn't even pronounce the city I was calling from, when I could talk to a person who was looking at (almost) the same sky I was, since the clouds above them might soon move south above me in Mendocino County.
Though mostly friendly, sometimes the NWS staff were hesitant, and some did not want to give their names for fear of harassment (yes, even 15 years ago!), but all gave important and useful information to me and all others wanting to know what to expect from the sky.
“Science is the foundation of how we understand the world, make predictions, and actually manage everything from the private sector to our responses to things like natural disasters and fires," said Rep. Melanie Stansbury of New Mexico, who used to be a middle school science teacher, speaking during a forum on NOAA earlier this year. “And it plays a major part in even the landlocked parts of our country in terms of managing the weather service and advising us on climate issues.”
And I get it, really smart people can make you feel dumb, just like the kid in class who always knew the answers to the teacher's questions was was always raising their hand. And sometimes they use really big words like “anomalous” when “unusual” would do just fine.
But I like knowing there are smart people in charge, silently and competently watching models and data to let me know if its safe to drive, but also whether a flood, tornado or lightning storm is likely to destroy my home, or half my town.
As climate scientist Daniel Swain wrote, “NOAA Research costs every American citizen less than a cup of coffee a year, with large returns on this small investment. This is a prime example of effective government, one that helps grow the economy and keeps people safe.”
And yes, paying too much attention to weather data can make you feel like the planet is collapsing before our eyes. But when given the choice between truth or happiness, I will take the truth every time. Because without it, I can’t be happy.
I watched three movies in October, and the one that impressed me the most was a 90-year-old horror classic I loved seeing in the theater.
1. Bride of Frankenstein (10/28/2025, in the theater) Grade: A.
Yes, this was the original Bride of Frankenstein (though shouldn’t it be Bride of Frankenstein’s Monster?) with Boris Karloff released in 1935, and it was definitely a treat to see it on the big screen. The visuals and practical effects in this film are astounding, particularly those in the last 15 minutes.
I also appreciated its commentary on the dangers of seeking perfection, especially from humans, as we are the most imperfect beings of all. Instead, the movie advises, maybe we’d all be much better off if we just spent more time pursuing what Frankenstein’s monster did: “Friend, good! Drink, good!”
2. One Battle After Another (10/05/2025, in the theater.) Grade: B-
There are a lot of great things in this movie, including one of the best car chase scenes I have ever watched: Leonardo DiCaprio as a desperate dad in a beater sedan he is begging to climb over hills in time to rescue his daughter.
I also loved watching DiCaprio as a pothead dad running around Humboldt County in a robe and knit hat, especially when Benicio del Toro adds his calm slyness to the mission.
The bad things were the first 20 minutes and a very distasteful role for Sean Penn, who for the first time made me wish for less of him, though my husband pointed out that we were supposed to hate his character. Still, I think the movie would have been much better if it started with DiCaprio settling on the couch with a pot pipe after his daughter heads to the school dance, and her mother and Penn are only shown in flashbacks.
3. Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere. (10/31/2025, in the theater.) Grade: D+.
Jeremy Allen White was great as Bruce Springsteen, so you might think that since he was in nearly every scene, this movie would be great, too. But it wasn’t.
The story centers on Springsteen hunkering down in a rental home while creating the album Nebraska, and I was encouraged when Paul Walter Hauser shows up as the recording tech helping Springsteen put his new songs onto a cassette tape he later delivers with no case, only a hand-written letter. But then Hauser disappears as the studio techs (one played by Marc Maron, who seemed to have been hired mostly to grin, which can we all agree is not his best skill?) are tasked with finding someone who could do the impossible: make the songs Springsteen recorded in his bedroom album-worthy, while somehow still retaining the rawness the artist insists be preserved.
I wanted to know much more about how this feat was accomplished, but the movie barely scratches the surface of that painstaking process, and instead takes a magnifying glass to Springsteen’s past, offering twice as many flashbacks than was needed to understand his troubled childhood and strained relationship with his father.
I also wanted more of Springsteen on stage at The Stone Pony, sweaty from performing to adoring fans, and less of him staring at the ceiling, sweaty from lying on the carpet all day. Because it’s not only very hard to make the interior process of wrestling with psychological demons visually interesting, I would also argue that even attempting to dissect anyone’s brain to get to the source of their creativity usually only succeeds in killing any magic they conjured, so it’s best to just sit back and enjoy what they offer us.
But instead of bringing us onto the stage to soak in Springsteen’s star power close-up, this movie kept taking us back to the dorm where our depressed roommate has again spent all day playing crappy music and watching crappy television while “making my art, man.” And though we are meant to understand that the art he eventually does complete is far from crappy, the movie makes no real attempt to explain why these songs were so meaningful to either Springsteen or his fans.
I will admit that I was never a fan of Springsteen or even bought any of his music, and that I couldn’t help comparing this film to James Mangold’s far superior movie about Bob Dylan, “A Complete Unknown,” which gave audiences more music, more performances, and more intimate moments with incredibly charismatic people.
Because a good musician biopic understands that what we all really want from such films is the ultimate backstage pass, a chance to see firsthand what usually only their roadies and band members get to witness: That moment when an artist drops their mortal mask and steps on stage, giving us one second of feeling like we breathed the same air as an immortal.
Finally, here are the movies my grandmother saw in October of 1995:
10/4/1995: To show: “Seven.” First couldn’t hear, dark also. But fast, good direction. Awake early. Muffin at mall. 10/7/1995: To show at 41st, “To Die For.” Nicole Kidman, Matt Dillon. Watched, “The General Died at Dawn,” Gary Cooper, M. Carroll. 1936. I never saw it! 10/10/1995: To show “Kids.” Gross. Library from 11:30 to 2:30, got 3 books. 10/18/1995: To show, “Strange Days.” Loud, 2000 LA in chaos, based on police killing blacks. Felt director inferring LA on edge of anarchy. Home 4 p.m., read, watched news. 10/23/1995: To show “Get Shorty.” Breakfast McDonald’s. Talked to woman. She also likes travel, opera. 10/26/1995: To show, “Scarlett Letter.” Background Nova Scotia, beautiful scenery! World Series: Cleveland 5-4. Hershiser, Maddux mad, lost it. HR in 1st inning. 10/31/1995: To show “Copycat.” Scary. To Ross, got turtleneck, Cinnamon.
For more on my grandmother’s journals and why she loved breakfast at McDonald’s, watch this video:
When I needed a book to read for a high school history assignment, I picked “Gone With the Wind.”
That was cool.
Because following a woman as she adapted to the destruction of her way of life was exactly what I needed to pull me through the decimation of my family.
My teacher chose the book because its portrayal of Southern plantations like Tara crumbling after the Civil War had enough history woven in to qualify as homework.
But I chose the book because it was free, since I found a copy on my mother’s bookshelves. Also, I figured a novel would be less boring than my other options.
And from the first page I was hooked on the unapologetic audacity of Miss Scarlett O’Hara, though at first we seemed to have nothing in common but seeing no point in being demure.
She was wealthy, I was not. She was boy crazy, I was not. She spent her days in fancy dresses and hairdos she didn’t want to muss up while dreaming of marriage, and I spent mine dreaming of the days when I could still climb trees because I wasn’t suddenly expected to wear stupid skirts and sandals.
But soon I had more in common with Scarlett than anyone else.
“Did your dad give you a big hug this morning?” my Spanish teacher asked when I returned to school after my mother’s death. Though all my teachers were told what happened, Mr. Riordan knew the most about my family since he also taught Driver’s Ed, and learned all about my parents while taking me home after lessons.
So he was the only person at school to even mention the crash that cratered my life, a kindness my face made him immediately regret. He turned to the blackboard and tried to erase his question, while I sat at my desk and tried to remember the last person who hugged me.
Not my father, who was still in bed when I left the house.
Not my best friend, who just sat quietly next to me when I began sobbing into my lunch, realizing my mother would never make me another sandwich.
Not my sister, who had moved out after making it clear our mother’s death would not suddenly make us close: “You just want to talk about it to make yourself feel better.”
No, the last hug had been at her memorial, a day that wrapped me in supportive arms and words that felt like a life jacket keeping me afloat.
But soon the sympathy moved on, my sister moved out, and now it was just me and my father swimming with no land in sight.
And when I began to wonder how much longer I could keep my head above water, and who would even care if I stopped trying, Scarlett floated by, reminding me she had handled far worse.
Because she came home to a mother gone and a father gone useless, but also had a household to support. To eat she had to figure out how to grow crops, I just had to figure out how to buy food and cook it.
And while my father was unable to take care of me, he could at least still take care of himself (mostly), so again I was a bit better off than her. And if Scarlett could keep going, I told myself, then so could I.
It made perfect sense to me that the friend I needed was in a book, since I had always found more acceptance and companionship with girls like Pippi Longstocking and Harriet the Spy than girls I met in real life.
An odd kid from an odd family with a secret not even we talked about, I had never learned to confide in others about what was really going on in my home. And I wasn’t about to start when it was just my father and me left, because I feared I would be taken away to live somewhere even worse.
I do recognize that many people find the depictions of slavery in “Gone With the Wind” to be very painful reminders of an unforgivable chapter in American history, and might feel that Scarlett O’Hara, who fully embraced the ownership of fellow human beings, should not be celebrated in any way.
But the grit Margaret Mitchell breathed into that deeply flawed character helped me survive a devastating chapter in my life that I truly believed was not survivable. And I feel that not giving both the author and her character credit for that help would be more unforgivable than her portrayal of a shameful chapter in American history.
Because on mornings when I just couldn’t get out of bed, sure no one would care if I never went to school again, the only thing that helped me push off the covers and stand up was picturing Scarlett steeling her shoulders to the next task. Then she picked up her skirts, and we both walked out my bedroom door.
***
Real-life role model: After my father remarried and moved away, my grandmother stepped in to protect and support my sister and I as we moved into adulthood, becoming an even more important inspiration than Scarlett O’Hara for the next 30 years.
But my grandmother was a very reserved, even prickly, person who kept everyone at arm’s length, even her granddaughters. And it wasn’t until after she died and I found her journals that I finally felt close to her, and realized how much she inspired me. So maybe I’ve always needed to read people on the page to really understand them?
See her journals and hear about her long, full life in this video:
