Triple Crown

The sky over Lake Erie was slate gray when I heard the first rumble of thunder. I knew then that I wouldn't be going to the 5 p.m. Mass that Saturday. I wasn't worried about the storm. I was worried about my dad.

A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.

And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.

I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.

When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.

Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.

Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.

Mr. Zinsser

William Zinsser died last week. He was 92 and nearly blind, though from what I've read, age and infirmity did little to dull his quick mind.

Mr. Zinsser's classic guide to nonfiction writing, "On Writing Well," made me a better writer. It made me a better editor and teacher, too. I owe him a great debt.

Mr. Zinsser visited my university many years ago and said he considered it his mission in life to go around the country giving college students permission to be themselves in their writing. What a remarkably liberating message for young writers struggling to find their voices.

Mr. Zinsser believed in the power of brevity -- that when it comes to the written word, less truly is more. He could not abide the fluff and nonsense that clutter up American English. (The chapter in "On Writing Well" titled "Clutter" should be required reading for every high school and college student in the land. I can think of a few politicians and CEO's who might benefit from it, too.)

Simply put, William Zinsser respected the written word. He just wanted the rest of us to do the same.

Big brother

When you grow up with four older brothers, you get used to the jokes about having your own "army" of body guards to chase away anyone who hassles you -- and to screen the guys who show up at your house, asking to take you out.

My brothers might have chased away an occasional playground bully, but I spared them the need to discourage potential boyfriends by not having any until I went away to college. High school was, um, not much fun for me, but I got through it -- in large part because of one big brother and his fiancee (later his wife), who made sure this gawky, self-conscious, over-protected introvert wasn't stuck at home (even though that was often where I wanted to be because I felt safe there).

They spent time with me, took me fun places, made me laugh. And over time I began to break out of a shell that once threatened to suffocate me. They pretty much saved my life.

I hope I told my brother that. I owed him that much. All the things I wish I'd told him have been on my mind these past few weeks since he succumbed to an illness he'd been diagnosed with only a week before his passing. There's never enough time to say all those things we meant to say, is there.

I used to bemoan the fact that I didn't grow up with a sister, even though it meant I got to have a room of my own and didn't have to wear hand-me-downs. No, I had brothers. An abundance of brothers. It took me a long time to realize what a blessing that is.

A matter of style

One of my students writes a fashion blog -- sort of an anti-fashion blog, actually. One of her posts, in which she thought back to her personal style in high school, jarred loose a memory of a photo of me with some friends that was taken in a corridor of our high school. We look like what we were -- the "out" group.

No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.

Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.

Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.

These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.

Getting older has its perks.

Good Friday, 1958

I can't say with absolute certainty that 1958 was the year I first "got" the significance of Good Friday, but by then I'd made my first confession and my First Communion. So I had, no doubt, been well-versed in the events of Holy Week.

Mom had been a Catholic all her life. Dad was a protestant, but he drove us to church every Sunday morning and made sure we all went to Catholic schools (he converted when I was 9). So Mom decided how we would spend Good Friday, and inevitably that led to St. Mary's Church.

We'd arrive well ahead of the start of the Good Friday service so we could sit, in silence, while Mom said the rosary. I suppose we squirmed a good bit, too, but all it took was a look from Mom to tell us our souls would be in danger of eternal damnation if we didn't settle down.

On those rare occasions when we didn't accompany Mom to church on Good Friday, we were told to keep silent between noon and 3 p.m., the time during which Christ hung on the cross. We couldn't eat anything then, either. In fact, we weren't supposed to eat much at all that day. We couldn't wait until 3:01.

I'll be going to church this afternoon. I'll even be singing with the choir as we mark another Good Friday. I might even try to keep silent for awhile before I go, and if I eat anything for lunch it'll probably be no more than a carton of yogurt.

I'm no saint. I'm just the daughter of a woman of faith.

Mended

I'll say one thing for being sick: It gives you permission to nap. A lot.

Which is what I did on Tuesday when, ordinarily, I would have spent the day teaching. I napped, stared out the window, thought some deep thoughts and read some Jane Austen. It was that kind of day.

Today is the first official day of spring, allegedly. It's snowing here; we're supposed to get 2 to 4 inches before this latest storm moves on. But the red-winged blackbirds know that winter's days are up. I saw a flock of them descend on a field down the road yesterday, the sun shining on their black feathers and those brilliant patches of red.

No naps today. I'm back on my feet and I have to clean the fridge -- something I'd planned to do earlier this week (putting off housework is another perk of being sick).

So, happy first day of spring. May red-wings grace your neck of the woods, may you wake up to the song of house wrens and may you soon see the bright green tips of those crocuses you planted last fall poking through the soil (or at least see that 2-foot pile of snow in your yard withering away to a mere 4 or 5 inches).

Winter is dead. Long live the spring.

Mending

Nothing puts a crimp in your writing career like the stomach flu.

I'll spare you the details.