The backstory is rich and complicated, but suffice it to say this: Matt Dibley died two years ago in July. Not long after, people started finding dimes, as can be the case when someone dies and the living are more tuned in to spiritual activity. Sometimes the dead leave feathers, sometimes they present as a bird or a butterfly.
We all know it’s true: life is a journey filled with fast lanes, traffic jams, breathtaking vistas and ugly roadside motels. What that journey isn’t filled with is dead ends and U-turns. There’s no going back in this long, strange trip—only forward, and this week’s bio comes from a Charlotte woman who, after feeling as though her time here in our little town had run its course, took a deep breath and found that it isn’t the physical place that fulfills but how to occupy that place.
This February I was diagnosed with early stage, highly treatable breast cancer. I will be fine after the treatment, which began in earnest two weeks ago. In my case, cancer comes with an incredible village of friends who want to help me through this.
A goal I had in visiting Cuba was to discover, as best one can in 11 days, how the Cuban people feel about Fidel and Raul Castro, whose socialist government has ruled Cuba for nearly 60 years. Much like Americans today, Cubans are deeply divided in their views and in whether and how they would like their government to change.
My Grandmother Hiles and Auntie Pasco, her companion of 50 years, were inveterate travelers in the early 1900s. A worn postcard recently surfaced, written to father in spidery handwriting from his mother: “Unable to attend your Yale graduation. We’re riding camels in the Gobi Desert. Hope to catch up eventually.”
There is an old sugar maple outside our house with a lower branch that reaches out over the lawn. It is a perfect structure in many ways, stately and well-formed. I pamper this tree by enforcing No Parking near its root system and only tapping it for sap every few years.
My husband, John, and I paused on Park Avenue in front of Mr. Saitys’ store with its enticing American Indian and Tibetan jewelry. I pressed the buzzer and Mr. Saity unlocked the door. He welcomed us as if we were former friends, although we’d never met, and began sharing the history of his jewelry. He took a prominent piece from a case.
In the early evening, the five of us gathered in the still steamy plaza to enjoy a last dinner together. Our table was littered with plates of sautéed peppers, vinegary bocherones, fried calamari and glasses of vino verde.