My Friends

 

My Friends

By Fredrik Backman

Friendships mean everything. They shape our lives in ways we often don’t fully grasp until something shifts. I’ve written before that my mother once told me I was blessed with the gift of friendships. She reminds me often: I’ve always been surrounded by people who truly care for me… who show up… who would do anything for me… who love me deeply. I’ve never doubted it. But since moving recently, I’ve felt that absence in a way that’s hard to put into words.

In My Friends, the story portrays the power of friendship as a lifeline through grief and chaos, showing how shared memories and quiet loyalty can transcend time, loss, and even art itself.

“That’s all of life. All we can hope for. You mustn’t think about the fact that it might end, because then you live like a coward—you never love too much or sing too loudly. You have to take it for granted, the artist thinks, the whole thing: sunrises and slow Sunday mornings and water balloons and another person’s breath against your neck. That’s the only courageous thing a person can do.”

But lately, I’ve felt that courage slipping. The news is a relentless drumbeat of grief. I hike alone, paddleboard alone...seeking peace in solitude...but even there, I hesitate. Because people are being murdered while simply living their lives. Buying groceries. Walking dogs. Laughing with friends. And suddenly, the breath against your neck feels like a risk. The sunrise, a fragile promise. It’s terrifying. Lord, come quickly.

And yet...what choice do we have but to keep loving too much and singing too loudly? To take it for granted, not because we’re naïve, but because we refuse to let fear steal the music from our lives. 

The story follows Louisa, an almost-eighteen-year-old aspiring artist who becomes captivated by a famous painting, "The One of the Sea." Where most people just view the sea...they miss the three tiny figures tucked into a forgotten corner of the canvas. Most people overlook them. But she doesn’t. She becomes determined to uncover their story. Her journey across the country mirrors her internal one: a quiet search for meaning, for connection, for a way to make sense of her own sorrow.

Decades earlier, in a seaside town, a group of teens with fractured home lives found refuge on an abandoned pier. They spent their summer telling jokes, sharing secrets, surviving in the only ways they knew how. That summer, and the love they found in each other…inspired the painting now in Louisa’s hands. What begins as a mystery becomes something deeper: a meditation on growing up, on memory, on holding grief and joy in the same breath.

Twenty years later, the artist literally bumps into Louisa…quirky, awkward, fiercely intelligent, raised in foster care…as she flees the church where his painting was auctioned. He instantly recognizes her as one of them. He devises a plan, enlisting Ted to carry it out before he leaves this earth. That’s how Louisa becomes part of their love story and discovers the true meaning behind The One of the Sea…a painting that isn’t about the sea at all, but about the depth of friendship… and yes, a fart.

Louisa says, "This is a painting of laughter, and you can only understand that if you are full of holes, because then laughter is a small treasure. Adults will never understand that, because they don't laugh at farts, and how the hell are you supposed to trust the judgement of someone like that with something as important as art?"

There’s something quietly brutal about how this book explores growing up. How people drift. How those we swore we’d never lose slowly fade into the background. Sometimes you don’t even notice it happening. One day you just… stop talking. And you don’t know why. But then a book like this comes along, and suddenly, you feel sad…nostalgic…a little broken…a little grateful.

My Friends gave language to a grief I didn’t know I was carrying. It made me mourn people I haven’t even lost yet. Maybe it’s the move. Maybe it’s something deeper.

It reminded me that connection doesn’t vanish. It shifts, it evolves, but it doesn’t disappear. Grief is just love with nowhere to go. And art…whether it’s a painting, a story, or a shared memory…is how we hold on. It’s how we say: you mattered to me.

This story reminds us that life often gives us exactly who we need, exactly when we need them. These characters endured the worst of humanity, yet together they found what their families couldn’t: a safe space to be their truest selves, and moments of joy in a place that had so little to offer.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes, it’s worth a lifetime. And sometimes, that lifetime…is a summer.

TOMORROW!

 

Beautiful Girls

 

Beautiful Girls 

A 1996 Romantic Comedy-Drama

I wrapped up the Bentley Pontoons photoshoot this past week, and over the weekend, I gave myself permission to simply unwind. I had a punch list of tasks waiting, but I barely made a dent in it. Instead, I found myself drawn to rewatching familiar movies…there is comfort in nostalgia. 

One of them was Beautiful Girls…a classic. Great cast, unforgettable soundtrack, and a storyline that makes the relationships feel real: friendships, romances, even the messy affairs.

The story unfolds during a ten-year high school reunion in a snow-covered Massachusetts town where most of the graduates never strayed too far…except Willie (Timothy Hutton), a struggling pianist who finds himself at a crossroads…professionally…romantically and existentially.   

For me, it’s Marty, Natalie Portman, who steals the show. An impossibly wise 13-year-old who sets her heart on Willie. “I’m 13, but I have an old soul,” she says. And “My name is the bane of my existence.” She calls Willie “a dude in flux.” Her intellect, charm, and emotional depth are far beyond her years. And yes, she is…was…a beautiful girl.

The scenes between Willie and Marty are brief but tender. Innocent, yet deeply affecting. Their connection becomes the emotional heartbeat of the film…genuine, endearing, and unforgettable.

The ice pond scene stands out most for me. Marty asks Willie to be her boyfriend, saying, “If your feelings for me are true, you will wait,” and “Yep, wait five years for me… I’ll be 18.” Then the line that lingers: “We can walk through this world together.”

It made me wonder…do we look back with longing for what might’ve been, or do we lean into the unknown of what’s next? Do we cling to the wild, untamed spirit of youth, or embrace the steadiness of commitment and growth?

Overall…the movie is a snapshot of small-town life and the emotional growing pains of men who haven’t quite grown up.  It seems relatable…funny and deeply human. 

One obsesses over supermodels…one clings to his past glory…and then there is Willie…paralyzed by indecision. 

"Supermodels are beautiful girls, Will.  A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning.  She can make you feel high...full of the single greatest commodity known to man...promise.  Promise of a better day.  Promise of a greater hope.  Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl.  In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay.  The supermodels, Willy?  That's all they are.  Bottled promise.  Scenes from a brand-new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels." - Paul

There’s something hauntingly poetic about this. Beneath the romanticism lies a subtle melancholy...as if Paul knows that this “promise” is fleeting. Bottled promise isn’t just a clever phrase; it’s the emotional undercurrent of the entire film. It threads through the characters’ longing, their nostalgia, their quiet desperation to hold onto something pure before it slips away.

It felt...to me...like a quiet rebellion against growing up. A race to figure out what life is supposed to be before the weight of adulthood settles in. The film doesn’t mock that yearning...it honors it, even as it gently nudges its characters toward reality.

Maybe it really is that simple. Like Uma Thurman’s character says: “All she needs is to hear four words before she goes to sleep. Four little words. ‘Good night, sweet girl.’ That’s all it takes. I’m easy, I know, but a guy who can muster up those four words is a guy I want to stay with.”

Do we overcomplicate things? Maybe. Maybe not. That’s for you to decide. As for me, I’ll keep hitting play on Beautiful Girls. Again, and again.

Good night, sweet readers.

 

River is Waiting

 

Wally Lamb

River is Waiting

I picked up this book simply because I’ve enjoyed Wally Lamb’s previous work. I didn’t even read the synopsis…I just dove in completely blind. In hindsight, I wasn’t prepared. I’m still not sure how to talk about it, except to say…this was brutal.

I finished it over the weekend, and if you’re considering reading it, I’d urge you to ask yourself…are you emotionally ready to take this on? The book demands your full attention and deep empathy. More than once, I had to walk away. It doesn’t sugarcoat the darkness, and even now, I’m trying to shake it off.

Within the first 12 pages…you’re delivered a very dark, disturbing and HEARTBREAKING intro to a book…haven’t read one like that in a while.  For some reason, I kept going.

The protagonist, Corby, is deeply flawed…believably so. Before the tragedy, he’s already unraveling. He’s selfish, impulsive, and makes terrible decisions. But aren’t we all flawed in some way? The thing is…he thinks he is fine.  His growth is messy, slow, and hard-earned. There’s no dramatic turnaround…just a painful crawl toward something resembling redemption.

Corby loses his job and starts his morning with Ativan chased with hundred-proof rum…the real kicker…he is a full-time care giver to his two-year-old twins during the day.  His addiction steals the life of his son, Niko.  I won’t say how, it’s revealed early, and in excruciating detail.

From there, the novel becomes a deep dive into the American prison system. We follow Corby as he navigates incarceration, and the story becomes a study in brutality, injustice, and survival. But at its core, this is a story about empathy….about facing your demons, atoning for your past, and questioning whether true change is even possible.

What did I like?  There’s a heron mentioned, lol. 

The title, River is Waiting, refers to the Wequonnoc river.  For Corby, it was a childhood sanctuary from his abusive father, and later, a place to quiet his racing thoughts. The river borders the prison, and he can hear it from his cell. He reflects that its current flows south…toward home. But does he even have a home to return to?

I expected the book to end with his release and a resolution with Emily, the mother of his daughter. Throughout the novel, she tells him she needs more time. She doesn’t know if she can forgive him. But maybe she always knew. The ending shocked me. Most stories follow predictable arcs…this one didn’t. I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t.  

A quote that hit me hard…“Having hope was never going to hurt me, but having unreasonable expectations could clobber me.”

Horrible things happen to good people. This book is a reminder to check yourself…emotionally, mentally…before you read it.

Finally, I’ll leave you with this quote, “Worrying is carrying tomorrow’s load with today’s strength…carrying two days at once. It is moving into tomorrow ahead of time. Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.”

It empties today of its strength…what a powerful reminder to live in the present.  To be kind to others, and to be kind to yourself.  Aren’t we all just doing the best we can?

Can I recommend this book? Honestly, I’m not sure. Part of me wishes I hadn’t read it. But I did. Remember the book, Let Them?  I’ll let YOU decide.

 

 

 

Ordinary Grace

 

Ordinary Grace

By William Kent Krueger

1961. Frank Drum is thirteen years old, living in a quiet town in Minnesota. That summer will change his life forever. Ordinary Grace is his story…told from Frank’s perspective forty years later.

I spent most of my own childhood in a small town in Indiana. I remember riding bikes without helmets, playing kick the can until the stars came out, catching fireflies in jars. Looking back now, I realize how fearless our parents seemed…never doubting we’d return home safely. Those were the days.

In the novel, five lives are lost during that summer, each death rippling through the town and reshaping the lives of its people. I turned the final page late last night and lay there, thinking about this past year…about the many people I’ve lost.

Five friends. All but one my age. All gone.

• David – Suicide
• Kelly – Died in her sleep
• Michelle – Heart failure
• Fred – Heart failure
• Moses  – My dearest friend, Katie’s beloved dog whom I loved dearly - Died in his sleep

It’s staggering. Mortality feels closer now, more personal.

The book asks us to consider grace in its quieter forms…the kind that shows up without fanfare, through compassion, presence, and courage.

It made me ask myself: How do I respond to grief? How do I carry the weight of my mistakes…the pain I’ve caused others? And most importantly, how do I show up for others when life is hard?

I believe grace requires presence. It asks us to sit with others in their pain, even when our own hearts are breaking.

“The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds, and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.”

Frank’s summer is filled with mystery, crime, secrets, prejudice, and lies. But this isn’t a traditional crime novel. It’s a meditation on family, community, and the nature of grace…whether granted by God or by flawed, fragile human beings in moments of crisis and loss.

Frank’s father is a Methodist minister and WWII veteran, carrying the weight of old regrets. His mother, artistic and restless, seems quietly disappointed by the life she’s built. His older sister is a gifted musician bound for Juilliard, and his younger brother Jake struggles with a severe stutter.

I won’t give everything away, but there’s a moment at a funeral when Frank’s mother asks her husband to offer, just once, an ordinary prayer. Jake, usually silenced by fear, stands, bows his head, and speaks without a single stutter:

“For the blessings of this food and these friends and our families, we thank you.”

That was it. Simple. Ordinary. Yet across the forty years since it was spoken, Frank has never forgotten a single word.

Ordinary. Grace.

This book is about life and death, and the emotions that shape us. It’s about bearing witness to pain without being consumed by it. Grace often lives in the small moments…a stranger’s smile, a shared meal, a hand reached for and held in silence. These are the acts that hold us together when the world feels like it’s falling apart.

Grace isn’t unattainable. It’s ordinary. Woven into our daily lives. Waiting to be recognized. Waiting to be shared.

We only need to choose it.

 

 

Just Like That...A Complicated Return to the City

 

Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what kept me hooked… but faithfully, I was.

As someone who adored Sex and the City, I came into Just Like That with high hopes and a heart full of nostalgia. SATC wasn’t just a show…it was a cultural awakening. It made me dream of becoming a journalist, living a life as bold and stylish as Carrie Bradshaw’s. It was groundbreaking: women choosing careers over marriage, owning their independence, and smashing gender stereotypes with wit, heartbreak, and unapologetic glamour.

But Just Like That is not SATC. And maybe that’s the only way to watch it…by separating the two entirely.

Carrie’s return to dating is… frustrating. Her storyline with Aidan feels like déjà vu in the worst way. His decision to disappear for five years to focus on his kids? Maddening. Watching Carrie repeat the same emotional missteps makes you wonder….has she learned anything?

Worse, Carrie herself seems changed, and not for the better. There’s a despondency in her eyes, a coldness in her interactions. She’s arrogant, selfish, and strangely disconnected from the vibrant, fun and light-hearted woman we once knew.

The best part of the show? Carrie’s cat. And the worst part? The absence of Samantha. Her energy, her humor, her fearlessness…none of the new characters quite fill that void. Seema and Lisa feel like placeholders, not people we’re invested in.

Sure, there are still the outfits, the romantic flings, the odd celebrity cameos, and the kind of New York real estate that borders on fantasy. But the scenes often feel awkward, the chemistry forced, and the sparkle dimmed.

It ended with Carrie twirling in a tutu-like red dress and pink heels, as the voiceover declared, “The woman realized she wasn’t alone, but on her own.” Isn’t it all about perspective?

Those final scenes...intimate glimpses into each character’s private world…felt strikingly real. Charlotte with her family, Miranda and Joy, Seema and Adam, Anthony and Giuseppe, Lisa and Herbert…each vignette captured the quiet, messy, beautiful moments of everyday life. Yes, shit happens (literally). But it’s in those unassuming moments that we see what truly matters.

All of those people are Carrie’s family. She may be on her own...but she’s certainly not alone.

So why did I keep watching? Maybe it’s loyalty. Maybe it’s hope. Or maybe it’s just the lingering magic of a show that once made me believe in the power of female friendship, self-discovery, and a really good pair of heels.

Turning the Page: A New Chapter in Columbia

 

I’ve officially relocated to Columbia, SC.

 

Over the past few months, life has been a whirlwind—changing jobs, selling my house, relocating, unpacking, producing a Dealer Meeting (with a photoshoot to follow), and trying to keep my sanity somewhere in between.

 

Anyone who’s ever packed up their life knows the drill: boxes everywhere, giving things away you swore you’d keep, endless logistics, and a healthy dose of unexpected chaos. No one asked…but if you’ve been wondering why it’s been quiet around here, I’ve been busy trying to calm the storm.

 

As much as I’d love to be curled up with a book and sharing my latest thoughts...the move, the show, and the mountain of unpacked boxes have temporarily taken over my schedule.

 

But I’m finally starting to settle in…thankfully, Vanessa came to the rescue.  She literally walked in the door…set down her bags and started moving things into organized piles.  Within three hours she had created a living room, a reading nook and told me to order some pizza. 

 

The photo is of my new reading nook, a little corner of calm in the midst of the madness.

 

It is starting to feel like home, and I’ll be back soon with fresh thoughts, bookish musings, and maybe even a TV series or movie review.

 

The Correspondent

The Correspondent

By Virginia Evans

Dear Readers,

Do you ever write a letter? I mean truly write one…sit down with pen and paper, jot down your thoughts, seal an envelope, place a stamp, and send it off through the postal service?

I do. I did. I used to love writing thank-you notes, always including a photo from the moment we shared, hoping my words carried the weight of my gratitude.

I love hand-written letters…both sending and receiving them.

Last week, I moved. While packing up, I found a love letter dated June 26, 2000. Twenty-five years ago! I smiled as I read it, grateful I’d held onto it all this time. I’ll never throw it away. I adored his words…the way he wrote them, the penmanship, the spacing, the red ink. But mostly…I loved his words.

Then there’s Sybil.

She’s 72 when we meet her in the novel…crotchety and outspoken, intelligent and well-read, fiercely independent and beautifully flawed. She’s just learned she’ll gradually lose her eyesight. She’s made some devastating, life-altering mistakes and carries the weight of guilt. She tries to make amends where she can, but that isn’t always possible. Like the rest of us, she’s doing her best.

Sybil pours herself into her letters…her love, grief, regrets, humor, and hope. Her relationships unfold through correspondence with her brother, sister-in-law, children, old work associates, and, delightfully, literary icons like Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry. Some letters she sends. Some she doesn’t. The most haunting are those she writes to a shadowy figure from her past…never mailed, but full of ache.

One letter to a young correspondent reflects deeply on the immortal power of writing; others are hilariously blunt, layered with her sharp, salty charm. Evans crafted Sybil with brusque vulnerability…a woman brimming with opinions, keen advice, and blind spots about her own tangled truth. Through her letters, Sybil slowly peels back the layers of her heart. The book reads like a character study told through correspondence…a slow unraveling of what makes Sybil who she is.

I’ll sign off just as Sybil does in letters to a beloved friend: What are you reading?