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Travel

Place of Many Wonders, A Day in My Shoes at the American Museum of Natural History

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

On my last visit to the American Museum of Natural History, a year and a half ago, I arrived at the Hall of Ocean Life just as the security staff was closing it to the public to set up for a private event. So much for saving the best for last, I’d thought, feeling disappointed. This time around, I made sure to make it my first priority.

I stroll along the mezzanine level of the gallery, my boots silent on the carpet, taking a good long look at my old friend, the big blue whale. Suspended from the arched ceiling in simulated mid-swim, this giant will never fail to impress me. A bench beneath a model of a, relatively, small squid with razor-sharp tentacles beckons me toward it. I oblige, already sure my feet will be giving me hassle by the time the day’s exploring is through. That’s what poor planning will do though, what coming on a whim to a sprawling museum in New York City in inappropriate shoes will do, that is.

I take my time sitting here on the squid’s bench, with the whale for company. I make wary eye contact, my imagination immersing us both in the ocean with the help of the muted lighting and the adventurous soundscape emanating from the speakers nearby. You look tired today old friend, I think, but maybe I’m just projecting.

A mom walks past with her little kids. “Ooh, look at the jellyfish!” she says to her daughter.

To be small and full of imagination in such a place of many wonders as this one. One of life’s greatest adventures, to be sure.

I abandon my bench after a while and visit the Antarctic Ocean Bottom diorama nearby which houses the aforementioned jellyfish, which is enormous. I read that due to the extreme cold temperatures and slower metabolisms, creatures living in this environment can grow to be many times larger and live many times longer than their warm water counter parts. For instance, a sea spider which may be invisible to the naked eye in a coral reef environment, could be the size of a dinner plate in Antarctic waters. Fun.

My eyes dart to Big Blue every couple of minutes. My mission is to take my time with the place on this visit. I complete the mezzanine loop and head down the stairs to the lower gallery. The manatee draws me in, my spirit animal, as Mike and I have joked in the past.

I pause at each display on my way to join a small crowd that has formed in the back corner, where a museum staff member is shining a flashlight on a dark, glassless display case. The Squid and the Whale. The scene portrays a fight to the death in the dark depths of the ocean. I’m happy not to have to stand here by myself.

Before heading onto my next stop, which is yet to be determined, a video on a large screen grabs my attention. It is about blue whales and how these creatures, the most massive animals living on the planet today, are able to thrive because of their efficiency in feeding. I learn that the lines on the creatures throat mark an expandable pouch that they fill with water and prey as they swim, unable to take another mouthful until the water filters out and they have swallowed back their meal. I wouldn’t want to find myself too near one in the ocean, I decide. With one last wary look, I move on.

I’m working my way up to facing a particular display case in the Hall of Biodiversity, but I’m not ready just yet. Instead, I wander past the magnified Life of the Forest Floor display that used to terrify me as a kid with its giant millipede, daddy long legs, and ant, each enlarged to 24 times their natural size, and into The North American Forests permanent exhibit. This one has never really captivated my attention until now. There’s a first time for everything though.

I explore the intricate forest dioramas, sweeping my gaze between the tree trunks, the wild brush and along the forest floor, up into the branches that hide little elusive creatures, and to the painted backdrops beyond. I take a seat on a wooden bench beside a diorama depicting a Northern Spruce and Fir environment, a safe distance from a mosquito that is attempting to rival the creatures in the Antarctic Ocean Bottom case in its enormity.

Sitting here, among the trees, I feel a sense of calm. I look up and spot a marten in the branches and remember a Scottish Highlands episode of Escape to the Country which I’ve watched more times than is socially acceptable probably. I am living in my head and I am at peace with it.

I wind through the rest of the exhibit. Two women are reading half of a plaque that pertains to a gargantuan slice of a Giant Sequoia’s trunk on display.

“This tree is a thousand years old,” one says with awe, “Amazing.”

I read the plaque when they are gone and two more women come up.

“It’s all about the rings,” says one to the other. She’s out of breath from rushing about.

Circle, circle, circle. Tap, tap, says her finger decisively on the picture on the plaque before she darts on to whatever she plans to breeze through next, not noticing that encased along with the description of the sequoia is a slice of a much smaller tree trunk that was 1500 years old when it was cut.

I decide the meteorite room doesn’t have the same nostalgia pull for me since the museum redid it, changing the fun, carpeted stair pit that once was a makeshift playground in my childhood to a more refined gallery space befitting of the bright gems it houses within. It can wait till next time, I think.

There’s a more pressing matter at hand for now. It’s time to face a big fear of mine… in the wimpiest way I can think of.

On my last visit to the museum, as I looked among the massive backlit wall of shadowbox displays of crabs, lobsters, and insects in the Hall of Biodiversity, I should have expected the spiders. As soon as my eyes processed what they were seeing, imposing hairy creatures the size of my hands, girthy bulbous bodies sprouting with legs and fuzzy pincers, I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the pounding in my chest, the sweat dampening my hairline at the back of my neck. I felt the static heat of irrational panic and hurried away.

Not this time.

Guarded by a full-sized tiger for protection, I look from far away at first, shortening the distance little by little until I am about three feet away from the case. I do not look away this time. I focus on my breathing. I read the plaque on chelicerates and am interested to learn that horseshoe crabs, a creature of which I have no fear, are more closely related to spiders than to crabs. I imagine how I’d feel if the hand-sized spiders were moving and my heartbeat quickens.

This DIY exposure therapy is necessary in my mind as my phobia is threatening to keep me from experiencing an important life experience, the upcoming wedding of two friends in South America where there is a non-zero chance of seeing a spider of substantial size. There is a much greater chance of me not being able to sleep due to my irrational fear, both during the trip and leading up to it, so I need to learn to face this before it potentially gets worse.

I leave the spiders when I am ready to move on, pleased enough for now with my brain’s ability to prevent itself from overriding my nervous system to the point of complete uselessness. I remind myself that allowing fear to dictate life can lead to missing out on experiences that enrich and enhance it. I’ve decided I’m not willing to let fear rob me of living fully, of living well.

The North American Mammals exhibit calls me next. The wolves and the brown bears, the grizzlies, and the buffalo. I pause by the diorama titled Fisher and Porcupine, recalling the time this summer when Mike and I saw a family of fishers while hiking the Mt. Tammany trail. The plaque tells me that the porcupine is the fisher’s favorite meal. Seems like it’s probably an acquired taste.

I wander upstairs to the Hall of African Peoples to face a former fear that I have already overcome. My feet aren’t aching yet, but I park myself on a bench near a case entitled Science and Faith. People come and go from this dark little alcove of the exhibit, glancing at the glass case of artifacts with half interest before moving on. I watch them as they do not think to look up, where, just above their heads is a life-sized diorama of a man in a trance, perched on the limb of a tree, his face shrouded in the skin of a leopard, the whites of his eyes shining through, as he fixes his perpetual sights on his unsuspecting prey, below.

I first noticed The Leopard Man on a visit to the museum in my early twenties. I had been to the museum multiple times before on trips with my family or school or summer camp. Never before had the man perched on the limb caught my attention. When he finally did, it scared the Hell out of me.

Reading the Leopard Man Societies information plaque on the wall offers no comfort. To summarize the description on the plaque, the practice of Leopard Man Societies was born in response to times of tribal crisis. The members of this secret, esteemed, anyota (Leopard Society) would enter into dissociative trances as a means of communicating with the spirits of their ancestors for guidance. During these trances, they would adopt the behavior of leopards, an animal representative of death in the community of the Baali people of the Congo, attacking random victims from above and cannibalizing them as a ritual sacrifice to ward off conflict and avert disaster for the tribe.

As I sit on my bench, I wonder if any of the passing visitors will look up, but no one does. On my previous visit, a few women had parked their strollers beneath this diorama and tried to soothe and shush their babies as the babies wailed. They were completely unaware of the predator perched just above.

I bid farewell to The Leopard Man and continue on, following my intuition as it guides me up to the third floor and down a bare corridor to the Hall of Pacific Peoples. I pause briefly on my way in to listen to Barbara Walters singing the praises on a small screen of someone named Margaret Mead before perusing the exhibit.

The speakers in this exhibit pump out a soundscape of instruments and songs traditional of various rural communities in the Pacific Islands. I attempt to read a plaque beside a replica of an Easter Island Moai statue’s head, but there is a clump of people waiting to take pictures with the statue so I can’t get close enough. I loop around the back of the Moai and stop by a case on the other side, recognizing a black and white photo that was shown in the video on the small screen at the entrance to the exhibit. Margaret Mead as a budding anthropologist on her first field visit to Samoa in 1926, clad in traditional ceremonial dress.

I decide I am fascinated by this twenty-three year old anthropologist’s determination to travel to Samoa in 1925 and observe of the lives of its people for the purpose of better understanding Americans’ place within their own culture when it came to child rearing and young adult advancement. I pull up my library app and request three books to read more about her life and her wave-making first study, Coming of Age in Samoa.

I watch the whole video on Margaret Mead before heading out of the exhibit, but I do not leave her behind. She is going to be the primary source of resonance from my day’s adventure, I can already tell.

I backtrack to the Mexico and Central America exhibit, then the South American Peoples exhibit. My feet are aching and my steps have slowed. I have been here for over two hours, about my usual museum quota for a day.

The park is whispering through the walls from across the street, with its collection of meandering paths, towering trees, birds, lakes, explorers and inviting reading benches.

I wind my way back to The Rotunda and take a last look at the towering Barosaurus skeleton replica on display before heading out into the sunshine and across the street to Central Park where the trees and the animals are living, where the people-watching is abundant and accessible, and where the air feels as fresh as it gets in the city that never sleeps.

I leave behind the fossils and the dioramas, the Moai and The Leopard Man, the spiders and the big blue whale, carrying only intrigue of Margaret Mead and her adventurous spirit with me as my sole souvenir from my day’s adventure in the place of many wonders.

Cozy Posts

In Like a Lion

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Bonjour, mes amis! It’s March and today just seemed like a good day to write a blog post. I have no idea where this particular post is going yet, so just bear with me and we’ll meander on the screen together. How’s that sound?

Like crickets.

Ok. Good! Allons-y! What’re we waiting for?

Life’s been a little stressful lately, but nothing we can’t handle with little tiny baby steps, day by day. The temperatures here in our corner of the world dipped into low single digits a few weeks back and let’s just say the pipes at my family’s home and rental property down the shore didn’t fare so well. That’ll be a story for another day though, once I can draft a worthy intro, unlike that in today’s post, and once I can process the whole experience and all that’s been in the works since, amid a reconstructed setting.

Today’s a morning for decaf Earl Grey in my favorite mug, a big little thing that’s helping me keep sane amid the upheaval of the past few weeks. Writing has been another salvation, when I get the time for it, and reading, of course. I’m crawling through Maeve Binchy’s Circle of Friends and having a lovely time of it, with Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere on deck.

I’m wrapped up in a big fuzzy, brown sweater today and my most comfortable blue jeans, my cross between Hagrid energy and power outfit for the day, with a big splash of cozy. I feel tired already and there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep on the couch at 9 pm yet again, in exactly what I’m wearing, too warm and cozy under the sherpa fleece pumpkin blanket that Danielle and Corey gave me for my birthday a few years back now, so there’s that to look forward to… What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as the saying goes, and also makes you inexplicably sleepy, apparently.

We change the clocks this weekend and the days are getting lighter for longer. Spring is on the horizon and, with it, warmth and progress. I’m looking forward to some travel this month, to white sand and turquoise waters, to good music and a reunion with a goddess, but more on those adventures to come.

In the meantime, stay sane, stay warm, and find a little moment of happiness in today. 💖

Books · Cozy Posts · Health & Lifestyle · Mental Health · Reviews & Reflections

In Pursuit of Living Well

Beth DeFries5 Comments

It’s January once again, friends. The treadmills at the gym are more populated than usual, the temperatures outside are biting and sharp, and the potholes are expanding into craters with each new round of salt and snow.

The December electric bill revealed a number that I was shocked to see, so I’m choosing to live in fleece, chunky sweaters, thermal leggings, and wool socks regularly, to keep the cold at bay and the thermostat a little less high. I boil the kettle a few times a day and bundle up for brisk walks through the park or to the library.

In 2025, our resolution was to travel somewhere different every month and that was fun and a little bit intimidating at the onset, to be entirely honest. We actually managed it though, something I was skeptical would happen if you talked to me this time last year. These trips have enriched our lives and fueled our sense of adventure, though I’m not itching to go anywhere else just yet. The break from constant trip planning and booking and financing is a welcome one. I’m sure I’ll be desperate for some journey sometime soon, but for now, I’ll take the calm with gratitude.

2025 was a year of trying new things, of starting from square one, and of pursuing my creative goals with more focus and intention. The act of writing my January Postcard on this same day last year served as a major catalyst for this switch in my creative approach. Here’s hoping this post leads me to as much motivation as that one did.

I read a few books this year that helped me improve my productivity, nutrition comprehension, and relationships. I am grateful to have come across these books and to the library for having them. I’d recommend them all: Atomic Habits by James Clear, Eat, Drink, and Be Healthy, The Harvard Medical School Guide to Healthy Eating by Walter C. Willett, and The 5 Love Languages by Gary Chapman, particularly this last one which really had me reflecting on all of the relationships in my life as I read, from that with my husband to that with my family members, my friends, etc. I think that it is extremely important to be conscious of how the people that you love best receive love.

Coffee has not been a part of my diet since mid-April and I’m really proud of myself for this. This is the longest I’ve gone without coffee since before I started drinking it my sophomore year of college. I don’t miss the impulsiveness, the anxiety, and the aggression that accompanied the habit, for me. Whenever I hear a car honking at someone on the road these days, I think, “Somebody hasn’t had their coffee.” No, I don’t miss that agitation for myself one bit.

I haven’t set a resolution for this year yet. Perhaps I’ll aim to be more mindful, to be intentional with what I consume, and to be better at recognizing all the little things that are good rather than all the little things that are bad. I don’t know if a negative bias can be flipped, but I am going to actively try. In broad terms, my resolution is to live well, for myself and for those around me and to not take away from them living well. I will read plenty and write plenty because it gives me a sense of purpose and fulfillment which leads to more happy days. I will spend time in the company of the people who I love and I will be present and grateful.

I hope you are all reading this somewhere warm and pleasant, whether it is at home, in your office, or on your phone. Wherever you are, I challenge you to internalize three things that are good today, as you are, no matter how big or small. Two for me are writing this post and knowing that some of you are reading it. Thank you for being you and for being part of this cozy community. Cheers to all that 2026 has in store for us, the ups, the downs, the learning moments, the successes, and the failures to balance them out and make the good moments really shine. Wherever you are and whatever you do, I hope you are living well. Thanks for reading!

Books · Cozy Posts · Travel

Monday Observations

Beth DeFries4 Comments

I’ve been waiting for a cool, gray day where the seagrass sways and the rose of Sharon bows in the damp and the breeze. The curtains billow at the open windows, faithful spectrals awaiting loves long lost at sea. Come back to me, they whisper, unanswered. I don’t have the heart to tell them.

The ocean’s an unraveled bolt of fabric, pre-hemmed with white and ready to cut, too unwieldy for the machine, too expansive for the hand, destined to sit on the shelf, admired and fading, to inspire projects too elaborate for fruition, aspirations never addressed, dreams destined to remain unrealized.

A freighter snails its way along the horizon line, containers catching the view from the highest stack. “Bon voyage, mes amis!” je dis, “Et merci pour votre service!” I’ve been practicing my French again. Montreal’s this week et je suis un peu rouillée, j’ai peur.

I write at the window, sipping Earl Grey without caffeine, feeling the lack of coffee today, but that’s ok. We cut our demons for a reason, right? We feel the lack of them sometimes, but we must carry on. The golden glow of the table lamps helps to fill the void left behind by coffee’s lack. I savor over-steeped bergamot instead, robust and resonant in flavor. I warm my cheeks, my hands in swirls of steam.

I’m feeling the doubt of sharing a long-form fiction project with a handful of friends a couple of weeks ago now, doubt being my greatest talent, or at least sometimes that’s how it feels. I bolster myself. Have courage; it’s there somewhere inside your head, in your heart, in your gut. Be proud of your words, that collage of letters, chapters, characters built in your mind. You love them and they deserve the chance to be read.

It’s Monday and I’m getting excited for the new adventures this week will bring, the sights and smells and tastes and sounds of a place I’ve never set foot in before. This week, I also anticipate finishing reading a series that I’ve been reading for over a year now.

I went to forty-sixth and second in New York. They sell roses at the market on the corner across from Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza. There is no turtle in the fountain, but the fountain is there and I wondered if anyone has reached the tower sitting there in that little urban oasis, tucked away from the fray, somehow in another world. In. Mid. End. Keystone. There’s just one thing left to do. Read. And then I’ll know what it was all for, this journey, this year. And when I’m done, I’ll buy a rose from the market and I’ll leave it on a bench for another adventurer to wonder at. For what is life without wonder? What is life without intrigue and imagination?

Mental Health · Poetry · Social Media · Travel

On Crickets and Fireflies

Beth DeFries3 Comments

I was reminded last week, by some truly lovely friends, that a handful of people actually read this. They brought up that I’ve been “pretty quiet over there” for a while. I was surprised that anybody noticed, to tell you the truth. I’ve been a little blocked with the personal stuff lately, see, or maybe just a little more reluctant to share for worry that people aren’t interested because that’s how it seems when you send personal writing out into the world and get crickets back. It’s pretty quiet from where I sit too sometimes. That’s just part of the process though, I tell myself. If people want to engage, they will. If they don’t, they won’t and that’s just fine. I need the outlet either way sometimes, the one way radio, so to speak.

The inspiration for the stuff that seems to do well with my readers on here, whom I don’t actually know- poetry (which still surprises me) dried up soon after I nixed coffee over two months back, which I don’t really understand, other than to know that I’ve never felt more emotionally stable than I do these days. Wouldn’t it be nice if the urge to write some rhymes or freeform comes back and I get to keep this nice, calm brain? Is life that good? I sure hope so.

It’s been hot here in NJ for the past few days after feeling like March for weeks beforehand. I was tired of the rain and the cold, but I wouldn’t mind if the cool, stormy weather came calling again, looking for a place to crash after a flight delay.

We took a trip to Miramar Beach, FL this month. I didn’t write about it and I probably won’t beyond this. It was restful and fun with a lot of family time that made me smile and a few dips in the turquoise Gulf that’ll have me missing that beautiful, warm water with each icy plunge into the Atlantic this summer.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was lucky enough to see some really wonderful friends last week, then some more later in the week, one of whom I hadn’t caught up with in many years. I’m pretty terrible at keeping in touch, it turns out, other than writing here and even that’s not been so good lately. I don’t even use social media anymore. It felt too inauthentic, the line between “friends” and strangers too blurred.

When I’m with my people face to face, I try to make up for lost time. It’s always so refreshing to see a familiar face, to hear their laugh or tone of voice, or to catch the unique little mannerisms or humor that make my loved ones who they are. It’s like watching fireflies in the indigo night, little blips of brilliance that transform the dark to magic.

I hope you are all happy and staying cool and thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Jean, for calling me out. I needed it. 💖

Cozy Posts

December Postcard

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Dear friends,

It’s a chilly, damp evening here in New Jersey. Outside, the night is black taffeta, embroidered with the glowing orbs of street lamps in the fog. I’m sitting on the big, blue couch enjoying the tree which is up and twinkling while Joni sings through the speakers, “Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.”

I forgot about my tea- as I often do- so it’s lukewarm beside me, but still steeped with warm spices that combat the weather. There is laundry to be folded and dishes to be done, but for right now, chores come second to a quiet moment. I’d just rather write to you than put the house in order.

My head is full of sparkly thoughts and familiar faces as I was lucky to see a lot of friends and some family over the course of the past few days- with more on the horizon. Everyone is the same, I find- beautiful, mismatched combinations of happy, confused, successful, busy, lost, and right-on-track souls. We all vary and that’s the part I find most beautiful. No person I know is perfect and I prefer it that way.

This night has me craving some serious “hygge” (hoo-gah), a word that encompasses the Danish spirit and habit of curating coziness in everyday spaces and moments. In pursuit of hygge, I’m all cozied up in warm socks, a big chunky cardigan, and a reindeer sweater. The table lamps are on and the ornaments on the tree project little film reels of memories in my head, mementos and tokens of past trips, handmade creations, and lasting friendships. We went with a fake tree this year, but it looks pretty real, so I don’t mind, though I do miss the smell of fresh cut pine permeating the room.

I find myself reflecting tonight. It’s been a good year, overall- imperfect, but interesting, as any year worth its salt ought to be. I learned a little and grew a lot, taking refuge in books and music like my life depended on it. My reading list has twenty books checked off, which reminds me, I need to choose a new selection, or perhaps I’ll reopen one I’ve already read. I think I could use a little handmade love from Molly Weasley or the homely hospitality of Elrond this time of year.

Or maybe it’s Maeve Binchy again. “This Year it Will Be Different”– an apt title to end a year that’s sparked some changes for me, that’s made me feel whole at times and absolutely drained in others, a year that’s led me to physical health, mental clarity, and self-acceptance more so than others have. This year was well-lived. I’ll take that and be grateful for it and wish you one just as thought provoking and inspiring in the year to come.

It’s time now, though, to reheat the kettle and hunt down some words. A world is waiting in a book on the shelf, after all, and I believe I’m overdue for a visit.

Books · Reviews & Reflections

“It’s the latest, it’s the greatest…”

Beth DeFries1 Comment

I’m on a reading kick lately. Reading helps me to tune the buzzing static of my insecurities to the right station until I can sit back and analyze them with more clarity. I enjoy being a spectator to other people’s or characters’ stories for a while, particularly on rare days when I feel like a background character in my own. I overthink. I underthink. I misinterpret. I acquiesce to the harsh judgement that accompanies creative drain some days, goals crowning a mountain peak that seems to grow out of reach despite my efforts.

I pitch my hammock into the rockface and will it to hold so I can keep climbing once I’m rested. When I need a break from decision making, from world-building, from feelings of inadequacy, I pick up a book or my Kindle. When I read, the print on crisp pages takes the reins as my supply of curiosity and potential refill.

Until recently, I would buy books or borrow them from friends or family willing to lend them. I am a serial re-reader when it comes to books that I own and am careful in selecting books to purchase. I wait; I visit; I ask for advice. I will continue to buy books that mean something to me.

My shelves and Kindle are stocked with different genres: fantasy, historical fiction, murder mysteries, and a smattering of minimalism, wellness, and nostalgic childhood one-offs here and there. Books are my time machine. They transport me to different memories, different people, and I feel connected to those experiences and people again, even if they are not alive anymore or if we have simply lost touch.

To supplement my book buying practice, in the continual pursuit of living with less clutter, I finally visited my local public library branch. When I applied for my library card, the three staff members behind the circulation desk welcomed me to the area. I have lived in the area for four years. Let’s just say I didn’t admit that since there’s no excuse for it taking me as long as it did.

If you are a book lover without a library card, don’t hesitate like I did. It’s time, really.

Aside from being welcomed to the neighborhood when picking up my library card (I can only imagine the books will silently shame me forever for my transgression in waiting four years!), I was also serenaded by one of the librarians with this bad boy from 1967, perhaps more appropriately known as The Library Song written by, Fred Hertz and Joel Herron.

“There’s a place for you and a place for me,
it’s the local public library.
They have books and things that they lend for free
It’s the latest, it’s the greatest, it’s the library.“

If I knew there’d be fanfare, I’d have gone sooner. 🙂

Wielding my new magic access card to hundreds of thousands of books across my county, I went “shopping” in the library, or at least, that’s what it felt like – and bonus, no buyer’s remorse! I keep a list of books that I want to read and suggestions from friends and family in my notes on my phone and it was so easy to peruse the library app to find the reference numbers and sections for the books on my list. I know! I’m late to the party and Hermione Granger is screaming at me right now somewhere in the fictional universe, but I don’t care, because I’ve finally made it. I was excited to walk out of the building with two adventures in my hands and the promise of many more ahead of me, all for the nice round price of zero dollars. In the words of Will Hunting, “How you like them apples?”

With this lifeline nearby, its shelves of plastic-sheathed, coded offerings waiting to be read and re-read, I feel calm and excited, only overwhelmed by wanting to read more stories than I have time to read. I am determined to rekindle my relationship with the Dewey Decimal System, remembering now what a great pair we made throughout my school days all the way up through college. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, and I’ve fallen again. What else would you expect from a word nerd like me? Afterall, “It’s the latest, it’s the greatest, it’s the library.“

Books · Nostalgic Posts · Reviews & Reflections

We Keep Meeting

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I met someone new today. Her name is Ella Brady. She lives in Dublin and frequents a restaurant called Quentins. We were unknowingly introduced by my Nana, back when I was fourteen and spending the summer with her and my Aunt Arlene down the shore, via her suggestion that I might enjoy the works of Maeve Binchy, an Irish author with a great descriptive talent for storytelling. Having tried a couple of pages of one of Ms. Binchy’s books back at fourteen, the title of which evades me now, I decided to occupy my reading time with other titles and authors instead. I slid the works of Maeve Binchy onto a bookshelf in the library in my head to be revisited another time.

Maeve Binchy and I met again in the ladies room at The Bank on College Green in Dublin when I was twenty-three and she was three years passed, a portrait of her hanging on the wall along with portraits of other female, Irish artists. Seeing the portrait tugged the ball chain pull to the light bulb over the bookshelf in my head and to my Nana’s suggestion from nine years earlier. On vacation and out to dinner celebrating the special occasion of Mike and my sixth anniversary of dating, the light bulb extinguished and I continued on with the evening, Maeve Binchy, an all but forgotten apparition haunting the library in my head.

We met again most recently on Friday morning when Mike and I spent an evening visiting with my parents at our extended family’s shore house a bit further down the New Jersey coast from where Mike and I now live. Having helped to manage the house’s fully-stacked, weekly rental schedule during this other-worldy summer, it was rewarding to get to enjoy the house for a night and to relax in the familiar space rather than feel stressed and pressed for time as we often do during five-hour rental “turnovers”.

We stayed in the room that was my Nana’s when she lived in the house, the room that she’d chosen to make her own space for years before she moved to an apartment in Pennsylvania. I’d not slept in the room since before she moved to New Jersey back in 2000, back when it was the original “Cousins’ Room” with two twin beds topped with crocheted, white coverlets – the floor blanketed in dusty rose carpeting.

Even after Nana moved from the house and slept in the “cozy room” downstairs during her visits, her room upstairs was designated for the parents and the West Coast family when they visited, and then for my cousins expecting children. On Thursday, after a summer of muscle, decision making, cleaning schedule communications, logging expenses, ordering and purchasing supplies, and initiating process improvements, I felt we deserved to sleep in Nana’s old room, the nicest room in the house. When Mike asked me on the second floor landing on Thursday night, “Cousins’ room?” I just replied, “Nana’s room.”

It is a strange thing to feel like you’ve grown up so significantly to the point of noticing it over the course of a summer, but I feel that is what has happened during this very strange summer. This is how I came to be comfortable and to feel deserving of sleeping in the best room in the house on Thursday. This is how I came to be reacquainted with Maeve Binchy when I woke up Friday and saw the dusty spine of Quentins resting on the bookshelf table under the center window in Nana’s room that morning.

I spoke with my Nana on Friday and let her know that I had found one of her Maeve Binchy books and let her know that I was going to read it. I told her it was called Quentins. She said, “You read it first and then I’ll read it.” Eager to have something to share with her, I took the book home and began to read it this morning. I met someone new today. Her name is Ella Brady. She lives in Dublin and frequents a restaurant called Quentins. Once I am acquainted with Ella’s story completely, I will send the book to my Nana, and she will meet her again too, and Ella will soon be a mutual friend or foe of ours; and to find out which, I’ll go back to reading the story.