Parsing what I experienced earlier this week and one thing lingers. I learned that one of my mom’s cousins passed away unexpectedly last week. This cousin I barely knew. I met her once–in 2015 at a family reunion in rural Wisconsin where our shared relatives from Norway built a life, family, and farm.
The time I met my mom’s cousin–I found her to be a lovely person. She had a bright way about her. Her eyes sparkled and she laughed easily. We hit it off the bat, as the English expression goes. The conversation was easy, fluid. She offered to give me a ride to the farmhouse where one of our relatives lived. She drove. We talked.
At some point our discussion turned to her mom and she began to cry. She shared that her relationship with her mom was difficult and her mom sometimes treated her poorly. I remember asking myself, Why is she sharing this with me? But I nodded and listened. There were decades of hurt feelings rushing to the surface, bursting perhaps, and in the tiny enclosed space of her car, our souls–tiny as they may be–collided.
A week later we traded emails and she wrote: I wish I could have talked to you more about what is going on in your life. Time was too short! Take care, sweet girl.
Take care, C. Rest easy.
To watch Ashe compete is pretty breathtaking. He was a master tactician; he had fantastic skill at the net; and he knew how to uncork his opponent with a backhand slice or well-timed lob. And uncork Connors he did.A few years ago UK writer Paul Newman parsed the drama and context of this championship in an 
