Category Archives: Books

Snapshots from a Tangier Love Story

Images from Author Carol Ardman and excerpts from her book Tangier Love Story.

New York 1972 Carol

Carol in New York, 1972

An unexpected meeting. . .

Sitting across from me, in the quiet shade of a leafy café on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, Paul Bowles ordered two mint teas. He asked me how I liked Tangier. Honeybees hummed around the rims of our glasses and I felt shy as I told him how I wandered for hours, enjoyed getting lost, how much I liked the street life here, the architecture, the food and the music. This obviously pleased him. He seemed to want to know all about me, and he was so easy to talk to, so receptive, so casual and sympathetic I found myself telling him. I had been married and divorced, I said, trying not to let on how depressed I still felt, though the relationship had ended the winter before. Incredibly, he had heard of my ex-husband, the composer Steve Reich, though he had only recently become well known. “A CW—composer’s wife; that’s what Janie has always called herself,” Paul said, making the designation sound oppressed, ironic, and comic all at once. Then he explained he wrote music as well as words.

Traveling like a native. . .

Carol on Camel

Carol on a camel holding Jane Bowles’ typewriter

We drove south, staying a couple of days in the intense, medieval city of Fez, on to Rabat, the capital of Morocco, Casablanca with its wide tree-lined boulevards, staying in nice hotels for a song. We drove to Marrakech, where we saw scribes, note-carrying doves, and a cigarette- smoking donkey in the Jemaa el Fnaa, and down, across moon mountains, where for a whole day we saw no animal or human, except for a man on a camel far away on the top of a cliff. When we had a flat tire we knew Abdulouhaid had to fix it quickly, because we had no food or water and could die before help came.

The writer’s muse. . . 

Carol and Paul in Atlanta, 1994

Carol and Paul in Atlanta, 1994

Paul set up his typewriter and wrote in the morning on the patio of a little hotel near the desert village of Taroudant. I remember being elated by the sights of the Sahara and the mere thought of Paul there tapping out words. Feeling I was taking Jane’s spirit with me, I strolled down the hill to the country market, noisy with camels and people selling silver jewelry and cloth. A few days later in an oasis out of the Arabian Nights, white-robed men reputed to be Sharifs—descendants of Mohammed —welcomed us to their village, its green fields bordered by babbling brooks and shaded by date palms.

Paul was changing my life, but I could trust him to carefully see to my well-being. I felt so undeserving of attention and praise, it was a long time before I considered the possibility that I made Paul as happy as he made me.

Tangier Love Story is available for download at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

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The Soundtrack to Your Life: Lesley Gore’s Birthday Wishes, by Marianne Lonsdale


Lesley Gore with the author’s brother, Jim

The word dork may have been invented to describe my older brother Jim.  He often hated himself for being weird but at the same could not contain his quirky interests.  Like being the Northern California Vice President of the Lesley Gore Fan Club.  He drove our father nuts. “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows moved up five spaces on the Billboard charts this week,” my fourteen-year-old brother gushed. I didn’t raise my head but let my eyes sneak a look at my father.  Didn’t he care that Dad would start yelling any minute?  Jim’s inability to keep his mouth shut fascinated and horrified me. Jim reached for the mashed potatoes.  Dad didn’t look up from his newspaper.   He was clueless about to what to do with a son who preferred Lesley Gore to playing baseball. “Stop chattering about that stupid singer,” my father yelled.  “Nobody cares about her.”  He slammed his fork on the table.  “Could you at least read the first page of the sports section?  Then you’d have something to talk to guys about!” Dad stormed into the living room carrying his wineglass and jug of Red Mountain Wine.   He flopped down in his easy chair and turned on the TV.  Dad ridiculed anybody and anything he didn’t understand.  The relationship between my father and Jim remained cantankerous as we journeyed through adulthood.


I could hear the stereo blasting “It’s My Party” from the street, before I stepped into my brother’s front yard.   I had to hand it to my brother – he was one loyal fan.  Who would have guessed that when he was forty-four he’d still be hot for Lesley Gore? The door to Jim’s cottage stood open.  He sat on the couch, hunched over a notebook, pencil in hand.  Cigarette smoke clouded the living room. “Hey, Sis,” he said.  “Glad you could make it.  Long time since we celebrated Lesley’s birthday together.” He raised a tumbler from the coffee table.  White cream floated above a dark liquid.  His favorite drink, a White Russian – kahlua with vodka and a splash of cream.  A slight slur to his words told me Jim had already toasted Lesley more than once today. “How about I make you a drink?”  Jim winked. “Sure.” I steered clear of Jim most of the time.  His drinking depressed me.  The only time he’d admit he needed anybody’s help was on the telephone at three in the morning.  After a fight with his boyfriend.  I’d stopped answering those middle of the night calls. “What song do you want to hear?” Jim asked, handing me my drink. “How about ‘You Don’t Own Me’?” “Great choice,” Jim said. “Just let me write the title on today’s list, and I’ll play it.” “Do you still keep your music charts?” I asked. Jim used to list in a notebook the songs that he played each day.  He calculated his weekly, monthly and annual top ten.  I had no idea he was still at it. “Yeah,” he said.  He rolled his blue green eyes upwards and smiled.  “Silly, but I enjoy it.” That’s Jim, honest about so much.  He didn’t try to hide who he was.  He’d be embarrassed but he wasn’t hiding.  I loved that about him.


I don’t know the details of my brother getting clean and sober.  Odd, because I’d propped my brother up for so many years, but I’d backed away during his last years of speed and alcohol.  When he finally reached out for help, he was still pissed at me for abandoning him. Even odder is that he did reach out to our dad.  Dad, sober for twenty years when Jim called him, jumped right in with support. Going to AA meetings together became routine for Jim and Dad.  The change in their relationship was miraculous.


My brother celebrated his second year of sobriety with a trip to Las Vegas to see Lesley Gore perform.  I spoke with Dad on the phone a few days after Jim’s return. “Have you talked to your brother since he got back from Vegas?” Dad asked. “No, did he have a good time?” “You gotta talk to him,” Dad said.  “He’s so wound up. He talked to Lesley Gore after the show.  She remembered him from the fan club days.  Jim is flying like a kite.” A happy Jim is irrepressible.  His enthusiasm used to drive Dad nuts. “I’m tickled for him,” Dad finished.  “But you gotta hear the story from Jim.” I hung up the phone, stunned to hear Dad excited about a Lesley Gore sighting.  I sure had underestimated his capacity for change.


Jim’s fiftieth birthday was his first that he looked forward to sharing with our father.  My parents planned a birthday dinner at their home. They hit on an idea to write to Lesley Gore, to tell her of the upcoming birthday.  Lesley replied with a lovely handwritten letter to Jim, care of my parents. Her note arrived four days before Jim’s birthday.  Dad could not wait that long.  He called Jim and asked to meet at the Starbucks in downtown Oakland.  Mom and Dad rode BART for the several miles from Daly City to San Francisco, then through the underwater tube that goes under the bay, and emerged in Oakland. The three of them had just sat down at an outdoor table when my father took the letter from his coat pocket.  He handed it to Jim.  Dad’s lower lip quivered. “Oh, my god,” my brother said, spotting the return address label that read L. Gore. Jim slid the letter from the envelope, read Lesley’s birthday wishes and her thank-you for all his years of support. “I don’t believe it,” Jim shouted.  He rose to his feet.  “I got a letter from Lesley Gore.” Jim called me as soon as he returned home, shouting out every word in the letter. My seventy-two year old father had made the leap from refusing to accept a son who didn’t fit any mold he recognized to being happy that his son was happy.   He’d moved to a place of unconditional love and taken Jim with him. Mission accomplished, letter delivered, my parents finished their coffee and headed back to the BART station.   Who would have guessed that my father would end up using Lesley Gore to celebrate the life of his son?  Jim and my father hugged good-bye.  They both cried, having traveled much further than a round trip from Daly City to Oakland.   Marianne Lonsdale writes personal essays and short stories, and is developing a novel. Her work has been published in the San Francisco ChronicleLiterary MamaFiction365The Sun, and Pulse. She is a founding member of Write On Mamas, a San Francisco Bay Area writers group.

How I Lost My Best Friend, by Lynn Lauber

get-attachment copy 2My best friend P and I are standing on the corner of Rice Avenue and Allentown Road on this day in 1967, discussing despair and possible suicide—two of our common topics.  A car careens around the corner, filled with the blonde heads of high-school boys who are the cause of our malaise in the first place – thick necked, feckless, their pink and white mouths always open with jeers, catcalls, and absolute power.  We ignore their taunts and deftly sidestep their car’s path as we continue our conversation.  For all our talk, dying isn’t really in our plans. It’s part of our song and dance routine; it’s a feature of our being best friends.

If I’d signaled otherwise, P might have followed me out into the road and to our doom.  I’m the dominant one, not that we speak of such things.  But I definitely run the show, this dance between us–so unlike the real ones we’d never be caught dead attending—the proms and homecomings and other sanctioned events.

Instead, that night we’re at the Rodeway Motor Lodge off Route 61, in bed with young men who my grandmother would call “dusky” after she got  up from her faint on the floor.

I’ve talked P into coming here because my current boyfriend, the tyrannical Miles, said his friend was in town and needed a girl.

So P is with a long lanky youth named Langdon who she’s never met before and will surely never see again.  We both have worn our maxi skirts, knee high boots and vinyl coats for this outing – we could be walk-ons in a budget version of Superfly if someone nearby were filming, if 1972 still weren’t still in the future.  We think we look grand.

As I lie there staring at the ceiling, I hear a faint thump on the other side of the plywood wall, which must be P’s head against the bedframe –a kind of desperate communication.

What is she trying to convey with this rhythmic pounding?  I close my eyes at the thought and slip back into the shallow center of myself.   

I use P; we both know this–especially for her Pontiac Tempest, commodious as a sofa, which I need for illicit visits with Miles.  I need her for fake slumber party locations, counterfeit mother’s signatures, to make calls for me in the middle of the night.

In turn, she is my apprentice in deception, pancake makeup, crash diets.

She is pink and petite with owl -like glasses that frequently fog.   Each winter we drive to Florida long enough to burn our skins a deep maroon, then speed back in order to glean attention for our remarkable, temporary bronzeness. (This is my idea, as are all others.)

We are 16, 17, then 18; finally we can escape our hometown.  P follows me to Columbus where I attend college, though she can’t afford classes herself.

We live together in a brick turn-of –the- century apartment, where roaches dance around the gas ring and fall from the ceiling into our hair.

I read Sartre, while P works in a Fotomat—a bathroomless booth in the middle of a parking lot.  She brings home photos of other people’s vacations that we laugh over at night.

We visit Planned Parenthood and carry pink disks of birth control pills in our macramé bags.  We can officially sleep with anyone now.  After so many years, we are free.

A student who lives in an apartment above us finally snags my heart; he’s unlike any type we’ve known before. He skis and drives a sports car; there are country clubs in his background.  He likes P, too, and we all go out together for fried pork tenderloin sandwiches and Marx Brothers’ double features.  We are a threesome, though they each are separately mine

The wind shifts; we are 19.  I learn about continental plates and how to spell Moliere; P works at Budget Meats and brings home half-priced liver.

One holiday weekend, I have to go home alone; leaving P and the boyfriend to their own devices.

When I walk into the apartment after my return, I know what happened; P runs water in the sink and won’t meet my eye.

I expect the boyfriend to deny it, but that P does is the clincher.

“You can’t lie to me,” I scream at her.  “I’m the one who taught you how!”

This is how I lose my best friend.

I could say it was because of a man, but I can’t make myself believe it.

It was me, it was me. It was me, all along.


Lynn Lauber’s most recent book is Listen to Me, Writing Life into Meaning (WW Norton); her essay, “When One of Me Became Three,” was published in the NYT’s Modern Love.




BFF–Then and Now, by Deborah Carroll

Debby head shot

Ellen was everything 16-year-old me wanted in a best friend. She was fun, smart, skinny, and never without a string of guys lusting after her. Occasionally, she’d push one in my direction. I trusted her: she was perfect.

So I ignored the warning signs of her imperfections and mine, I guess.

When Gail who sat in front of me in English class turned around one day and whispered that Ellen had been speaking ill of me behind my back, I dismissed her message. I liked Gail and knew her to be pretty down to earth but I chalked her warning off to jealousy.

When I saw Ellen had scrawled “SKINNY 8s” in lipstick on her bedroom mirror, motivating her to get her weight to 88 pounds, I looked the other way and pretended that wasn’t weird or scary.

When I broke up with my boyfriend because I just wasn’t feeling it with him and told him we’d make better friends than lovers and she started dating him a week later without checking with me, I told myself it wasn’t a betrayal.

We chose to room together at college. That’s when alarm bells blared too loudly to be ignored. Our common boyfriend, still her actual boyfriend at the time, was also at our school. Back in those stone-age days otherwise known as the time before cell phones, we shared a hall phone for four rooms. From about Day One, the time it took for Ellen to meet a new guy, she’d give me instructions on what to say when the phone rang. “If Harry calls, tell him I’m at the library,” she’d say when she was actually in the boys’ dorm across the courtyard with Dave. “If Dave calls,” she’d say when she was with Jim, “tell him I’m shopping on College Ave.”

The problem was not just that I was lying to these guys, all of whom were my friends. The problem was Ellen was instructing me to lie to my friends. It made me wonder: Would my friend Ellen lie to me?

I watched her lie to other girls as she fabricated stories about her life. I watched her tell lies about how much she ate, sometimes lying to herself, as she would talk about how little she ate even after I saw her eat the cookie she swore she never touched.

But I never caught her in a lie to me. And I wasn’t forthright or strong enough at the time to talk to her of my concerns about our eroding trust. But at one point I did tell her I would no longer make excuses for her when the phone rang. I saw the look on Dave’s face when he stopped by one day looking for her and I had to lie about where she was. He was crestfallen as it dawned on him he wasn’t her first (or only) priority. It dawned on me about that same time. If Ellen would put me in this position, causing me to hurt people I cared about, how could I trust her? Why was she my best friend?

So, I gently broke the news to her about my inability to keep up with the lies. She didn’t take it well and started yelling at me.

“That’s what friends do for each other! They lie! They put each other first.”

Do they?

I thought about it. I wasn’t witty or articulate enough to debate the point at the time. I backed down and we continued to live together until ultimately I manufactured an argument about $2 she owed me for the curtains in our room and got angry enough about it to request another room assignment. I moved across the hall. We never discussed our break up. We didn’t see much of each other as we both had boyfriends who took up most of our time. The next year I transferred to another college and we just lost touch.

Many years later I was in a department store dressing room with my friend Judy. As a grown up I don’t often describe anyone as my “best” friend anymore but if I were to do so, it would most likely be Judy. We were in there trying on scarves. Yes, scarves, an accessory not usually tried on in the privacy of the fitting room. But Judy had lost her hair after having chemo and she didn’t want to expose her bald dome in public. No one but her husband had seen it. Plus, neither of us was the kind of woman who had the “tying scarves beautifully” gene so we figured we’d experiment in private. We laughed until our eyes filled with tears, mostly from how bad we were at designing anything lovely with scarves, but also, I’m sure, because her bald head silently spoke volumes about our fears.

And for reasons I’m not quite sure about, Ellen came to my mind. I realized sitting there basking in the glow of Judy’s head, how deeply Judy and I trusted each other. Trusted each other. Not just how much I trusted her but how much she must have trusted me to allow me the honor of seeing her in her most vulnerable state and knowing how the sight of her that way would only make me love her more. I thought back to my days of eroding trust with Ellen and was only then able to figure out the flaw in our friendship wasn’t that I couldn’t trust her. It was that she couldn’t trust me.

I had never done the work it took to build that trust. I had seen her vulnerabilities – her “Skinny 8s” on the mirror, her constant need to have a string of guys, her penchant for impressing people with stories about how great she was – but I didn’t understand those were vulnerabilities, not strengths. I missed the signals my friend had sent me about the ways in which she needed my support. In my narcissistic view of the world at 16 I thought it was about whether I was getting the trust and support I craved.

I am a better friend now, I hope. These days I strive not so much to have a best friend as to be one.


Deborah Carroll is a former educator, the author of two parenting books, and numerous educational publications for newspapers as well as several young reader serials.



The Devil Made Me Love Prada, by Peggy Northrop

Like Andy in The Devil Wears Prada, I showed up at Vogue in 1990 with all the wrong clothes. Andy’s were cheap and preppie. Mine were cheap and just….weird. I had moved to New York from San Francisco, where my idea of dressing up was to wear a vintage boy’s tuxedo jacket in metallic blue, sleeves rolled up to hide the stains (from what, I never stopped to wonder), over pegged black cotton pants and ankle boots. I owned three beaded evening gowns from the ‘30s, a Norma Kamali grey belted sweatshirt dress, a few ‘50s bowling shirts and one black skirt, knee length. But no jackets. No suits. No heels.
Anna Wintour hired me to be her health editor, so she probably figured she could keep me under wraps somewhere until she got me sorted out. I had a long way to go. It was the winter when all the fashion editors came to work in hip-length fitted jackets over tight black leggings. My first day in the old Conde Nast building at 350 Madison, I remember a sense of confusion bordering on panic: ‘No one is wearing any pants!’ It was the reverse version of my childhood first-day-at-school nightmares, where I’d slip-slide in my white anklets down the hallway at North Franklin Elementary, having forgotten my maryjanes.

My Vogue makeover began in week three, when a longtime fashion editor invited me to lunch at the Royalton. I was touched by what I assumed was a friendly gesture. Over tuna nicoise (which I ate, unlike my date) I was asked if I had a hairstylist in New York, and if perhaps I’d like her to arrange for me to go to the Donna Karan showroom to buy some clothes wholesale?

Now, unlike Andy in the movie, I knew some designers’ names. Plus I actually admired my boss (after all, she’d just doubled my salary). And I had been an anthropology major at Berkeley—I was determined to participate, not merely observe.
First to go was my bad late-80s perm, dyed faintly purplish to cover my premature gray. I was so brave, I even let the stylist wax the back of my neck to even out my hairline. Short choppy brown hair achieved, I schlepped my one black wool skirt to the drycleaner and had it hemmed to the regulation 19 inches. (Minis were the leggings alternative that season. Anna’s were Chanel. Mine would shortly be shiny with wear.) At the Donna Karan showroom I tried on a flesh-colored gathered-front jacket over a skirt (which the showroom muse told me sternly did not go with my coloring) and a fluid chocolate brown pantsuit. I bought both. I remember my hand trembled as I signed the credit card slip for $1,723.

Though my fashion editor friend (okay, not friend—that first lunch was our last) pronounced airily that she “wished the suit had more interesting buttons, perhaps of horn,” Anna could see I was trying. “How do you like your new haircut?” she asked me one day. And, “I’m glad to see we got you into a short skirt!”

I spent five years at Vogue, my tenure marked by fashion missteps large and small. For Christmas one year my husband, obviously coached by an expert, presented me with a tiny, bandage-tight Azzedine Alaia miniskirt. The look on my parents’ faces as they watched me wriggle into it over my pjs was something I hadn’t seen since I was 16. When the weather warmed up I realized I could not risk the subway in the skirt, especially if I wore my skintight white velour top. In the cab on the way to midtown, the driver turned completely around in his seat to leer happily at me through the partition. (We lived in the Meatpacking district, pre-fashionable and full of hookers, so his mistake was understandable.)

Then there were the car-wash pants. No name designer this time, the pants appealed to me because of the cunning strips of fabric that flowed from knee to shoe tops. Standing still, you see, the pants looked completely conventional. In the slight breeze of the fitting room, I glimpsed a few slices of calf. What I didn’t figure on was the flapping sound I made as I walked—or the escalator from the subway at Grand Central, which threatened to masticate and swallow the trousers, not to mention my legs. Anna called me into the Vogue art room later that day to review a layout, and watched, mesmerized, as the pants streamed in behind me and settled back down. In the silence someone said, “That’s an interesting choice.”

I had always wondered why so many of the most famous fashion editors on the planet wore what amounted to an upscale waitress uniform every day: black pants, ballet flats, white shirts, black cashmere sweaters looped over shoulders. Now I got it.

I came to love and appreciate and even covet high fashion while working at Vogue. Granted, my seat at the circus was high in the bleachers. The subjects I covered (health, and later politics and women’s issues) were considered nonessential, not filler exactly, but certainly never center ring. Once, when a story of mine was deemed too lousy to run in the scheduled issue, I asked, “But what are you going to put in its place?” Anna answered brightly, “Another frock gets lucky!”

Still, the negative cult of personality that has grown up around Anna Wintour never rang true for me. I’ve worked for terrifying bosses, and she wasn’t one of them. She had high standards – she would occasionally write the single word “dreadful” on copy (it usually was) but just as often her verdict was “wonderful.” She respected passion, which meant you could argue with her and win. She worked hard, expected people to show up on time and do the same, didn’t gas on about herself in meetings, went home at a decent hour. Most of the people who worked at Vogue when I did still do. She’s loyal.  She once told me she felt she owed it to her staff to be decisive. Whenever I dither, I think of those wise words.

When I left Vogue after five years, a rumor made the rounds that Anna had offered me a Chanel suit if I would change my mind. This is a good story, but it is not strictly true.

When I announced that I was leaving (a bad move, Anna told me, and she was right—the magazine I joined folded after five months), she deputized a staff writer to stroll down to my office and see if there was anything that could be done to convince me to stay. “Well, I have always wanted a Chanel suit,” I mused. His response: “If you stay, I’ll make sure there’s a Chanel suit on your desk on Monday morning.”

I was tempted, I really was. But to be honest, Chanel never did it for me.
I should have asked for Prada.

Peggy Northrop is the Co-founder and President of She is also Editor-in-Chief of Sunset Publishing and a former senior editor at PN web 004.

Reader Submission: The Thick and The Thin by Christine Benvenuto

Christine Benvenuto’s story is the first in a series of reader stories about friendship breakups we will be sharing on our blog in the coming days.


The Thick and The Thin

Christine Benvenuto

Right smack in the middle of one bright winter Saturday afternoon I called my friend’s cellphone. “Hey,” I said when she picked up, my voice friendly, casual. “Where are you? Whatcha doing?”

“You tell me where you want me to be.”

“No, really, I was just wondering – ”

“You tell me where you want me to be and I’m there.”

Despite my certainty that I had conveyed just nothing of the crisis moment I was having, she wasn’t having it. She knew. A few minutes later, true to her word, her car pulled up curbside and I hopped in.

She rescued me – that day and countless others during the tumultuous course of a nasty breakup and divorce. It wasn’t a one-way street. “I have to see you,” she texted the day she suddenly wondered if a harmless office flirtation maybe wasn’t quite so harmless after all. On the road to my home, I veered off to swing onto hers. She told me everything. We told each other.

We weren’t childhood friends, college friends, friends as young singles. We met as mature career women, wives and mothers with virtually nothing in common. Different religions, different cultures, different economic backgrounds. In some respects, different values. We shared a few, though. Like the value we placed on friendship.

If all the ways we weren’t alike didn’t keep us apart, nothing would. During times of man trouble my friend would spin out our shared future: we would buy a house together, or she would just move into mine. We’d be old ladies together, strong women who didn’t require men to keep us from being lonely because we had something better: female friends. Our collective brood of half a dozen children would come and go from our home. Her daughter and one of mine were going to be best friends for life, just like us. Sooner or later, they’d bring our grandchildren along with them.

Oops. This is where we stumbled. Our daughters were friends, good friends if maybe not quite BFFs. Until, one day, they weren’t. My daughter kept making me invite hers. The answer wasn’t no. It was silence. “I’ll ask her and get right back to you,” my friend would say or text. Then: nothing. I got it. It was too hard to keep making excuses. Too painful to keep saying no.

My daughter didn’t know what was wrong and neither did I. tried to ask my friend if anything had happened between the girls. She insisted, convincingly, that there was nothing. “I would make them talk it out if anything had happened!” she told me. And she would. If they’d had a fight, she would have kept them talking until they made it up. But there was no fight. Her daughter had simply stopped being my daughter’s friend and there wasn’t a darn thing either of us could do about it.

My daughter mourned. She suffered. Her heart was broken and I held her while she cried. Then the day came when I dried her tears and told her she had to move on. And, wonder of wonders, she did.

It’s wrenching to see your child through her first rejection, but as mothers we know that’s part of the job we signed on for. What do you do when the cause of that heart break is your friend’s child, the very friend you would have otherwise told all about it?

In the months since our daughters’ friendship ended, we’ve tried to stay in touch. We’ve sent messages. Asked each other to meet. We’ve agreed to meet, only to have one or the other of us cancel at the last minute. It’s awkward. It’s weird. It’s the elephant in the room, or rather it would be if we were ever in a room together.

This story doesn’t have a happy ending. It doesn’t have a sad ending either. It doesn’t end at all. We will find a way back. Sometime. I think so.

In the meanwhile, I have to marvel at our undoing. Who would have guessed that the wedge that would come between us would be one of the very few things we have in common? It’s our wild, passionate, and utterly committed motherhood that has thrown our friendship onto the rocks. The most important trait we share.

Tell us your story about breaking up with your best friend

This week, inspired by Bonnie Friedman’s Shebook Devil Doll about complicated women’s friendships, we’re printing stories about breaking up with women friends on our Facebook page and blog. Please share yours (email us at: –and who knows, maybe we’ll have enough for a new Shebook.
Our editorial director Laura Fraser shares her story about breaking up–and making up–with her best friend:

“The apology” by Laura Fraser

When we were 10, my best friend Kristin Spielman and I wore identical silver rings, thinking we’d be best friends forever. We walked to school together every day, and could hardly wait to see each other again when the last bell rang. We talked endlessly about which boys we liked and which girls were stuck-up, and spent long hours working on craft projects. We were closer to each other than we were to our own sisters.

I trusted Kristin so much that I not only let her cut my hair, I believed her when she told me that extremely short, crooked bangs were the height of fashion. When I was teased at school for being chubby, Kristin reassured me, “Your real friends love you the way you are.”

Then, one afternoon when we were 12, Kristin didn’t walk home with me, and she didn’t call. I suddenly realized, like a punch in the stomach, that she and another girl were off having fun together–without me. With no explanation, Kristin just stopped being my friend. I took off my silver ring and hid it in the back of my jewelry box. I had no idea what I’d done to make Kristin stop liking me, but it made me stop liking myself.

By high school, the sting of losing Kristin as a best friend had faded, and we saw each other sometimes in group gatherings. When I left Colorado for college, I don’t even think I wished her goodbye. We weren’t that close.

And so it was a surprise, five years later, to get an invitation to Kristin’s wedding reception. But I went. Her mother was so delighted to see the two of us together again, now grown up, that she cried.

We immediately warmed up to each other, talking and teasing and full of curiosity about our different lives. She soon had a family and stayed in Colorado. I was single, pursuing a writing career in San Francisco. Whenever I came home, Kristin would pick me up at the airport and our conversation would resume right where it had left off months before. No one makes me laugh as much as she does.

“Breaking up” with Kristin in sixth grade was the only thing in my life that halfway prepared me for the day when, after only a year of marriage, my husband left me. When I could finally muster the strength to call a friend, I called Kristin. She insisted I come home immediately.

It was comforting to be with her, to hear her fierce assurance when she said I didn’t deserve what had happened. At a time when the ground had given way beneath me, her friendship felt solid.

During our visit, we took a hike in the mountains and Kristin started talking about her two girls. Her oldest daughter, Emilee, was already a teenager. “She’s like we were as kids,” Kristin said. “She has one really good friend. Hana has a lot of friends and doesn’t care as much.”

Only recently, Emilee’s best friend had abruptly broken off their relationship. “Kind of like what I did to you,” Kristin said. I looked at her, amazed. I never thought that betrayal had even registered with her.

“I’m seeing what Emilee’s going through, and how awful it is for her,” Kristin went on. “I told her to look at us–that everything turns out OK in the end, that you end up being good friends with the people you deserve.”

I looked down at my hiking boots and we kept on walking.

“Did I ever apologize to you for that?” Kristin asked.

I shook my head, finding it impossible to speak.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said.

I wiped my eyes and gave her a hug. “You’re forgiven,” I told her. “Complete absolution.”

I knew my ex-husband would never apologize to me for breaking my heart. But it was enough, at that moment, that my best friend had.

Copyright Laura Fraser. Originally published in Women’s Day.

Laura Fraser with her best friend Kristin Rankin: 

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Marigolds, skulls, and altars to departed dogs

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Carol Merchasin, author of How It Goes in Mexico, reflects on how she came to celebrate the Day of the Dead.

I remember when my housekeeper suggested that I might want to create an altar to celebrate death.
“Death?” I thought. “What’s to celebrate?” But since I was living in Mexico where Day of the Dead is a national tradition, I went with the flow. After all, what harm could come from participating in what I saw as a “quaint” ritual of my adopted country?
First I created an altar filled with marigolds. There are so many marigolds used for Day of the Dead that I was convinced there must be a Hallmark-like conspiracy of marigold farmers driving this so-called death celebration.
“Now, you must add alcohol and food and things that the spirits of the dead will be happy to see when they return,” my housekeeper advised. So I added photos, alcohol and candles, worried about the likely danger of an explosion and placed food and objects into the tableau. I prepared an altar for the animals now gone: Chloe and the many cats, Max, the dog.
It was colorful and unique, but I cried every time I passed to see so much death right there in front of me. After a week, I packed the mementos and photos away in a small blue cardboard box and placed it on a high closet shelf in the unlikely event I would want to bring such sadness down on myself again.
The next year, I took down the blue box once more. I noticed that the communal marking of death, so wonderfully Mexican, made me less sad, or maybe sad but also joyful. I went about remembering my absent loved ones, not in the privacy of my own sorrow, but in the company of a whole community, an entire nation. Just the physical ritual of making the altar—choosing the photos, thinking about what mementos to use, going to the market for flowers and tiny sugar animals brought me a flood of unexpected pleasure and solace.
That year the blue box got a label: Celebrating Day of the Dead.
Every year now, it seems we add someone new to our altar, a sharp remembrance of the passage of time and our own mortality. This year, we add Robert’s mother, Dorothy. We welcome her presence there—for at 102 years of age, hers was a death worth celebrating. We add Penny and Big Brown, dogs who have passed into the Heaven where only such loyal friends can go.
I still cry. But the humor of the display takes over as I put out spaghetti and whiskey for my father, catnip for the cats, a book on how to train a dog for dogs who were always so poorly trained and I smile. Es la vida, I say. That is life.
Day of the Dead may be “quaint” to our US eyes, but its sophistication is in putting death into its rightful place as part of la vida. The truth is inescapable. As the years march by, we will surely need yet another blue box to hold our celebration.

Shebooks/Latina essay contest: Themselves on the Page, by Jessica Garcia

In this essay by Shebooks/Latina contest runner-up Jessica Garcia, a young woman who never considered herself Latina explores her Mexican roots.

“Spanish changed from ‘foreign language’ to language of my ancestors, one that I sought to learn not only because it sounded nice, but because it was a part of my identity.”

Read more in Latina.