In a Catholic cemetery in Danvers, Massachusetts there is a tombstone that bears the name of my grandfather, Herbert. Etched on the line underneath him is listed my grandmother, Alice as “his wife”. This is an old-fashioned tradition that dates back centuries, but I take great issue with listing my spunky grandmother in this secondary position, as if her identity was wrapped up in servitude to her husband - because their partnership was nothing of the kind. Although I can

This is a real gravestone in Georgetown, Massachusetts at Harmony Cemetery. David Brockelbank was my father, and he was a pretty funny guy. He was also eternally young... and had kind of a Peter Pan outlook on life. He left our family when I was 10 and I didn't see him for a long time. But as an adult, we rekindled our relationship and I was finally able to get to know him. He served in the Navy on the aircraft carrier U.S.S Randolph from 1954-1958. During his service, his su

In short, an olla (OY-A) is a clay-pot watering tool, invented thousands of years ago by people who lived in arid climates to water their crops. Unglazed terra cotta pots with small openings were inserted into holes in the ground. Water poured into the pot would slowly seep into the soil around it, keeping plant roots moist. Each drop of water was used with purpose. I first learned about ollas while watching a YouTube video posted by Tanya Anderson of Lovely Greens. Tanya

During the pandemic, I, like everyone else, was stuck in my house, using the internet as a tool to learn. My mother had just died, and I was getting used to the idea of making decisions about my childhood home, which included over seven acres of land – three of which were cleared and plantable, ready to be transformed from boring lawns into lush gardens. Decades ago, our land had been used for horses, so pastures had been cleared of small trees by my father, and trails blaze

My boyfriend Steve was a modern day Renaissance Man. On our first date I learned he was a graduate of the culinary institute Johnson & Wales, and a chef at a prestigious seaside French restaurant (read about my coffee enlightenment here). A gifted pianist, his apartment was stuffed with the requisite keyboards and two huge, old-fashioned amplifiers from the 1950’s. He was also a scuba diver, having grown up in that world due to his father’s involvement in the industry. I a

My relationship with coffee started at my first summer job in Boston while working for a law firm. I was earning money for college in the fall, and had a difficult early morning schedule. I rode into the city with a senior colleague who insisted on leaving our small town at 5:30 am to avoid the traffic into the city. We were the first ones to arrive at the office every day. My overachieving colleague was delighted, but my only objective was to stay alert and involved (so

I grew up hearing stories about my ancestor, Captain Samuel Brockelbank, from my father and mother. In my small town of Georgetown, Massachusetts, he was famous. His former home, one of the oldest houses in town now entitled “The Brocklebank Museum”, bore a sign in the 1970’s that read, “Captain Samuel Brockelbank, killed by Indians in King Philips War”. As a child, this seemed like a sad thing to announce on the outside of the home where the man once lived. It wasn’t un

I fell in love with books at a young age. The first volumes I owned were secondhand paperbacks, handed down to me by relatives and neighbors. I remember the outline of thin treasures lined up on my bookshelf, dogeared and thumbed-through hundreds of times, lovingly memorized by a child willing to take another journey through her imagination at any moment. I wept when bedtime came because that meant lights out, although I learned some stealthy ways of keeping my reading are

As a child I spent parts of my summer vacation with my mother’s relatives, mostly her sister. My Aunt Jo had two daughters my age, and since my own sister was five years my senior and wanted nothing to do with me, having two playmates who actually wanted my company was a welcome change. I went from my rustic home on the farm to the relatively urban life of Beverly, where my cousins had a swimming pool in their tiny backyard, and walked down busy streets to find ice cream st

When I was a kid, all activity in my house stopped when the Olympics came along. In those days, we had to wait four long years for a double-header of Summer and Winter events scheduled tightly within several months. We gathered in front of our flickering black and white television, eagerly watching the best athletes from all over the world as they competed for those shiny medals. Sports were a pretty big thing in my house anyway, but the Olympics were really something spec

Why are we obsessed with Frida Kahlo? Over the past several decades her popularity has soared. She is one of the most famous female artists in the world, instantly recognizable due to her thrilling self-portraits. Her fame has eclipsed that of her husband, Diego Rivera, who at the time they were married was the most important Mexican artist and a world celebrity. If Frida saw the intensity with which we scrutinize her artwork and examine her life today, she might be ent

Dos Mujeres is one of the few works by Frida Kahlo that you can see outside of Mexico. It was purchased directly from Kahlo in Mexico City in July 1929 by American industrialist Jackson Cole Phillips. It was the first painting that Frida Kahlo ever sold. The piece remained in Phillips' family's private collection for decades. The Boston MFA's Art of the Americas team discovered the piece in New York and acquired it on December 16, 2015. _____________________________________

When I had my DNA tested several years ago, I was disappointed that there was no scientific trace of Native American ancestry, as family legend claimed there was. (This is a common myth in many New England families; I think it comes from a desire to be legitimately attached to the land that we occupy.) However, my test did reveal a couple of surprises. This pale white person has some Mediterranean (Italian or Greek) blood - perhaps explaining my love for garlic. It also re