One of my close friends in childhood was named JG. His mom recently entered hospice care. (Is it “in hospice?” “On hospice?” I’m having a lapse of memory as I write this, I feel unsure, I guess there is grammar we learn better as we age.) JG lived around the corner. I don’t know how many hours I spent at his house after school, on the weekends, skateboarding in the driveway, ping pong in the basement. John’s father wasn’t in the picture, but his mother was often there if she was home from work, I remember her paying bills at the little kitchen table, or tending to her tomato garden. Her name was Lola. She played bridge. She worked in a bank, I think, but I don’t know quite what she did there. She wore a short bouffant hairdo that was more brown than red, and smoked cigarettes. She was tough, she was indulgent. She drove a car lined in red fabric that felt like velvet, and I remember her driving us countless times to the mall, the movies, asking after my folks and sister.
In a chance overlap, my parents visited Los Angeles this past week, and one evening my dad mentioned he wanted me to join him to a tailor the next time I’m on the East Coast—he’s anticipating a lot of friends’ funerals in the next year or two and he needs a new suit. “We’ve gotten to that age,” he said, “where everybody starts dying.”
About Lola’s history, her personal life, I don’t know much. Her family was Italian. She served lasagna at Christmas. For a while, I think, she dated the track coach at the high school, Jorge, who drove a nice car. I remember JG being embarrassed about it, but I thought it was cool, seeing adults being adults, dating people, driving convertibles. Lola was sweet, tough, sarcastic, analytical. I don’t really know what her life was like, but I know the impression she left on me, I remember the care she showed. She deeply loved JG and her grandson, JG’s son. After college, during holidays, we’d walk the short block and visit to see each other’s parents – JG to my parents’ house, me to his – and his mother’s voice was just as husky as I remembered, always laughing.
Book update: We had two great in-person events in Los Angeles recently for my new book. Somebody who couldn’t get a ticket emailed to ask, do I ever sell copies directly and inscribe them from afar?
Great idea! For $30/book (shipping included), I’ll sign a copy and send it anywhere in the United States. If you’re interested:
Reply to this newsletter explaining where you’d like it sent and who you’d like it dedicated to or how you’d like it inscribed. (If someone shared this newsletter with you, you can also contact me through my website.)
I’ll send you payment info (Venmo, Paypal, whatever works), and then I’ll send you tracking info once the book is shipped.
I’ll do this through early December. Also happy to ship internationally, we’ll just need to figure out the postage.
From tomorrow’s “Sunday Supplement” for paying subscribers, with recommendations for three things I like (and you might, too):
It’s fun. It’s silly. Ken Jennings is a member, so is Anna Quindlen, so is a former White House Chief of Staff.
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What the what? “Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly email published Saturdays by novelist Rosecrans Baldwin about things he finds beautiful. “The Sunday Supplement” is a recommendation bulletin for paying subscribers.
Rosecrans’s new book, Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles, is available from Bookshop, Amazon, or your local store. Any other books mentioned in this newsletter are featured on a Bookshop list.