Happy New Year and Thank You
That’s grandson Milo in the above photo, captured at seven months old by his devoted father, Alejandro Molina. An enlarged version of this picture hangs on our wall because I can’t see it without feeling hopeful. Look at those little arms and legs, propelling him into the future, toward the light.
I wish I felt that way as each year comes to a close. Alas, I am a New Year’s Eeyore, mostly because I find it unsettling to imagine what the New Year might bring. As I’ve learned over the decades, each year has its share of the unexpected, some of which I could have done without.
Certainly, this was true of 2023. The best of life unfolded, as it always does, and I am grateful to summon those good memories. The world feels like it’s on fire, and who am I to lament anything about my lucky life? Still, here I am, with my grievances. I lost two friends, and they are on my mind.
My friends would want their departures to bolster my ability to cherish every day, and I’m working on that. But I miss them, and isn’t that a tribute to them, too? Most of us hope to be unforgettable, to somebody.
I have already written about Bonnie Mollica, on Facebook so that her many friends could read it. Bonnie had written her own obituary because she knew she was dying, and she didn’t want anyone speaking for her. I smile every time I think of the last time Sherrod and I visited Bonnie. In my tribute, I wrote about what happened after she asked if I had read her obit, in which she had named both Sherrod and me.
I grabbed her hand and said, “It was very nice of you to mention us, but you don’t need to do that.”
Bonnie squeezed my hand a little too tightly. “Did I ask for an edit?” she said. “This is my column, not yours.”
I miss you, straight-talk Bonnie.
Casey McIntyre was an editor nearly half my age who became a friend after she believed, long before I did, that I could do something bigger than I had dared to imagine. I hope to tell you more about her, and the dream she helped me bring to life, next week. It has taken a while for me to find the words.
Also this year, I was introduced to a version of myself I’d like never to see again: Sick, sniveling Connie. For the first time in years, a respiratory illness (not Covid) wrestled asthmatic me to the ground—make that the couch—for nearly two months last spring.
For the first few days, I lived in denial. The turning point came after I fell asleep in my car in a CVS parking lot a mile from our home. (I apologize to my husband that he is only now learning this. Thanks for reading, honey.) I finally did the unthinkable: I admitted to numerous people in my immediate orbit that I was sick and could not do whatever it was they wanted from me. Total surrender, with mixed results.
Learn from me: If you’ve spent your life insisting that you are the strongest person in every room--always the helper, never the helped—some people may ignore your distress signals. So, if that’s you strutting your stuff like Wonder Woman, knock it off and live your lectures: Asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness, and kindness is a superpower even when you are the one who needs it.
This year, I am grateful to those who stubbornly insisted on helping when I was tethered to my nebulizer. (So attractive.) Sherrod, who became the nurse neither of us knew existed. And friends who swooped in like a murmuration of starlings—Gaylee, Sue and Jennifer, in particular. Apparently, they have been laughing at my cape and crown for years.
My daughter, Cait, texted me throughout the day for weeks and shipped the best chicken soup I’ve ever tasted. This is hard to admit, as I thought I made the best chicken soup in all the land. Wave after wave of humility. Thanks, 2023.
One more time, I apologize to my son, Andy, for not letting him know I was sick. He lives just close enough that I was afraid he’d drop everything and jump in the car for the daylong drive to our house, where he would find a mess of a mother surrounded by clouds of crumpled Puffs and infused with enough steroids to convince her she could leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Inexcusable, he told me when he finally found out. One of my worst habits, this pretending everything is fine, always fine.
His righteous outrage reminded me of a long-ago moment, four years into my decade as a single mother. He was in his early twenties; his sister was 10. We were sitting at the table in our tiny kitchen. I don’t recall what led to this emotional moment, but I do remember saying, in a trembling voice, “I just never want you kids to think you have to take care of me. I want you to believe I’m strong.”
His response, in his best deadpan voice: “I think you’ve got that one covered.”
My uneasy mood around the New Year always puzzled my mother. She liked to say I was born happy. Maybe, but it seemed I was also born to take care of my three younger siblings. As a six-year-old mother, I learned early to worry about the people I love. In my defense, they give me plenty of reasons to do so.
Occasionally, I wonder if I’ve missed my calling as a worst-case scenario expert. There is not a situation you can describe that I can’t turn into a disaster, waiting like a panther to pounce. An inevitable outcome of a career in journalism, perhaps. So often, I’d hear a bizarre account of human behavior, turn to a colleague and say, “Who does that?” And then I’d write about it.
Man, I love this job, still.
I will start this New Year as I’ve begun it for decades, by making a list of who and what I’m grateful for in my life, right now. Doing this fills me with joy.
Throughout the coming year, I will write down moments of gratitude and toss them into this ceramic rooster, which sits on our kitchen counter. No matter how bad the day, I can find at least one moment of gratitude. I confess that sometimes I stand there for a while before thinking of something. I’m disclosing this to make clear I’m no saint. Not that any of you would ever thought I was, but I have a gift for stating the obvious, I’m told, and I play to my strengths.
My 2023 list of gratitude includes all of you who are reading me here on Substack. This was a new endeavor for me, and I conjured every worst-case scenario as a possible outcome. The absolute worst: Nobody would read it.
Thank you for proving me wrong, which is not something I typically relish.
December 21st marked the five-month anniversary of Hopefully Yours. We’re almost at 23,000 subscribers, paid and unpaid, and this has exceeded my expectations by miles upon miles. Paid subscribers have helped me keep this available to all readers, and that matters a great deal to me. What I wrote in July in the About section holds: If you can’t afford to pay, you’re still welcome here. I remember those years when $5 a month was five dollars too far. I remember how it felt, too.
One more story before I go.
This purple hat sits on the lampshade at my desk in the sunroom, where I frequently write. My blue eyes have a vampire’s sensitivity to light, so on sunny mornings I wear this hat to shade my eyes. It’s made by Anna Shoub, at The Hat Junkie.
A few years ago, my grandchildren started calling it “Grandma’s writing hat” after they learned I often it wore while working on my first novel, The Daughters of Erietown. To them, this hat was magical, which I discovered after eavesdropping on a conversation between 7-year-old Jackie and her 5-year-old cousin, Carolyn, as they stood by my desk.
Carolyn had pulled the hat onto her head, and Jackie was alarmed.
“No, take that off!” Jackie said in a loud whisper. “That’s Grandma’s writing hat. She puts it on, and the voices tell her what to write.”
Carolyn shrieked, pulled off the hat and tossed it across the desk. Breathlessly she declared, “I just heard them!”
I am never parting with that hat.
Happy New Year, dear readers. On we go, into that light.
Oh, Connie, I love this so much. You might not see yourself as a real hero, but I do. I look for your writings on FB every day, and I am always so thankful that I did. Some days you post news that I know is well vetted and true. Other days you post photos of your wonderful family, often adorable grandchildren. Other days you just remind us to breathe through all the trials we face. But no matter what you post, it always resonates with me and makes my life somehow fuller, better, and I thank you for that. I had no idea you were so ill this past spring as your writing did not seem to miss much of a beat...but that is what heroes are made of. Happy New Year to you and Sherrod and all your family. I will now face it with such gratitude thanks to you!
Great column. And here, Connie, is fabulous material for your next children's book: The Writing Hat: A few years ago, my grandchildren started calling it “Grandma’s writing hat” after they learned I often it wore while working on my first novel, The Daughters of Erietown. To them, this hat was magical, which I discovered after eavesdropping on a conversation between 7-year-old Jackie and her 5-year-old cousin, Carolyn, as they stood by my desk. Carolyn had pulled the hat onto her head, and Jackie was alarmed. “No, take that off!” Jackie said in a loud whisper. “That’s Grandma’s writing hat. She puts it on, and the voices tell her what to write.” Carolyn shrieked, pulled off the hat and tossed it across the desk. Breathlessly she declared, “I just heard them!”