Y2OK December 25 – 31, 1998
Most days, the sun rises, the sun sets, and nothing much happens. Then comes New Year's Eve. At my house, the psychological impact of a blank calendar results in frenzied drawer cleaning, desk clearing and diet-book reading. Even in ordinary middle-of-the-decade years I pause to reflect on what's been, who's come and who's gone in that fleeting space between January and December.

Bless us, everyone December 18 – 24, 1998
I take down grandmother's cut-glass cranberry bowl from the tall shelf where it sits, undisturbed, 364 days a year. I wash the oval platter my father carried home in his little red wagon from a hotel liquidation sale in 1927. I set the table with the mended lace cloth, polish the silver candlesticks, put on my mother's pearl earrings.

Holiday Countdown December 11 – 17, 1998
My intention is always the same: 60 Christmas cards, no more. Absolutely not another one. I buy three boxes, 20 to a box, and 60 stamps. Then I start through addresses I've got scattered in all manner of files, notebooks and two outdated Rolodexes.

Make a List, Check It TwiceDeccember 4 – 10, 1998
The wind is blowing a gale, I've got a quilt over my knees and a hundred dead trees are piled up around my chair. Welcome to catalog season.

Tell Me a Story November 27 – December 3, 1998
I realized I'd stopped making the sandwich when the cat yowled for the chicken I was absentmindedly suspending above his nose. Id lost track of myself as I listened, enthralled, to the self-possessed teenager tell her dramatic story.

Prejudice and Pumpkin Pie November 20 – 27, 1998
Like the Pilgrims, I am a minority immigrant washed up on alien shores. My very presence here, far from where I was born, causes friction and discord. As the Pilgrims were to the Wampanoag Indians, I am an outsider with different skin, barely tolerated, hardly ever included.

The Unforeseen November 13 – 19, 1998
I was impatient, had lingered too late over coffee with a friend. My errand list was long, my time short, but what else is new? Hurry, hurry, hurry. Just 15 miles over the speed limit; no problem. Clear day, light traffic, dry pavement.

Family reunion at Verdun November 6 – 12, 1998
We stand together, my friend and I, savoring the sweetness of life in a place where grass grows out of bones. We have just discovered, after a quarter of a century of friendship, that our grandfathers fought in the trenches of Verdun -- against one another.

Politics in rehab October 30 – November 5, 1998
As I prepare to vote, I want to believe them both.

A house of one's own October 23 – 29, 1998
I am craving a permanent home not subject to a landlord's whim or a stranger's rules. I want to be able to drive nails in the wall, paint the bathroom chartreuse, bury the ashes of a beloved dog under a lilac bush.

The Parade October 16 – 22, 1998
When my town puts on its two-block fall harvest parade it's a genuine dog-and-pony show. The Grand Marshalette rides in a cart pulled by a pony, the firemen let their dog ride in the truck. It's the best parade ever, all twenty minutes of it.

Role models? Look in the mirror October 9 – 15, 1998
"Where are our female role models?" the speaker lamented. "Who can we look up to today?" She threw up her hands and shrugged, as if to say, "I give up."

Scent posts October 2 – 8, 1998
Life is change, the experts tell us. We know we have to move on, keep going, but even as we rush headlong toward tomorrow we clutch totems of our past: a ticket stub from a Bonnie Raitt concert, the plastic cup we were drinking from when Sammy Sosa hit his 62nd homer, a paper napkin from the Waldorf.

Two men, simple choices September 25 – 31, 1998
The President and his spin doctors communicate in double speak. The Hero talks in straightforward verbs. The President ducks hard questions with "No comment." The Hero looks us in the eye and says, "Okay, what do you want to know?"

Bulls, Bears and Comfort Zones September 18 – 24, 1998
My grandmother kept her extra money in her garter belt. Once in a while she’d take it out, count it, maybe spend a little or give us some to buy candy, then put it back. The bills were always crisp and green; at age six that was impressive.

All in Good Time September 11 – 17, 1998
A wild profusion of weeds grows over the tumbledown rock walls and barbed wire fences along the road I travel every day. Mostly I don't pay any attention to this undistinguished riot of green so prolific it has to be pruned by a county tractor.

Welcome Back September 4 – 10, 1998
The printed card was the only official mail in the teachers' boxes the day they returned to school. Bearing a state seal, the card's first question asked: "When is the bomb going to explode?"

Princess Diana August 28 – September 3, 1998
Contrary to all rationality, millions of us around the world are still achingly sad over the loss of Diana, Princess of Wales. A cynical friend wonders why: "She was just a spoiled, rich woman of bad habits with too much time on her hands," says he. To which I reply: "You don't get it."

Go, Girls, Go! August 21 – 27, 1998
"What have you done to yourself?" I burst out, causing my friend to grin.

Spielberg's rule August 14 – 20, 1998
If you believe in a God you have to consider that Steven Spielberg was put on this earth to be the collective witness. How else to explain the filmmaker's incalculable impact on the worldwide human psyche?

Faith enough August 7 – 13, 1998
It came first through the grapevine. "Have you heard? The pain finally drove him to the emergency room. The next thing anybody knew they were on a plane. Left food in the refrigerator, dirty clothes in the hamper. Didn't even have time to pack a suitcase. It's bad, real bad."

Are we having fun yet? July 31 – August 6, 1998
Through the melancholy of autumn, through winter's dreary light, through those flirty days of early spring when the sun returns but the warmth doesn't, we all dream of summer.

Food for thought July 24 – 30, 1998
My husband looked up from the book he was reading at breakfast and announced that the food he'd been eating for 25 years was killing him. Frying pan in hand, I instinctively replied, "It's my fault."

The Prodigal July 17 – 23, 1998
Bill has left his wife. Came home one day and said, "I don't love you any more. I want a new lifestyle. I want my freedom. There is no other woman. See 'ya."

The trouble with money July 10 – 16, 1998
Pay the faces first. Mom muttered those words every time she paid bills, dealing them onto the kitchen table like unwanted cards in a bad hand: this one, now; that one, next time. He can wait; she's overdue.

Down time July 3 – 9, 1998
Nobody looks out the window anymore. Not at home, at the office, in the car, on the airplane. Too busy. Too much to do. Too behind.

First lipstick June 26 – July 2, 1998
The little girl stared at the 500 lipsticks, awestruck. A blonde woman in a summer dress stood beside her, watching. It was a transfiguring moment, an irreversible step into womanhood neither would probably remember. I, the unnoticed stranger, couldn't turn away.

Big Jim June 19 – 25, 1998 (Father's Day)
He was always the skinny kid in the neighborhood who tagged along and never said much. Thirty years later, he talked.

Secrets June 12 – 18, 1998
A friend and I were sitting together at a party talking about the good food and interesting people. The conversation was light and polite, the sort of chitchat universal to a neighborhood gathering. Then, without warning, my companion turned to me:

Monica June 5 – 11, 1998
Poor Monica Lewinski. All this complaining about being a prisoner in the Watergate. Can't go anywhere except by stretch limo. Can't talk to anybody except her lawyer and her mother. Can't eat anything except gourmet takeout and $100 dinners at the Red Sage. Tsk. Tsk.

The Graduate May 29 – June 4, 1998
Well, Graduate, your day has come. All those hall passes, late papers, all-nighters, SATs, cafeteria tuna noodle casseroles, field trips, track meets: it all comes down to one piece of paper and a funny hat.

"Remember Me" May 22 – 28, 1998
The tombstone is sinking. I worry about this as I put Memorial Day flowers on the grave of a man I never met.

Crisis Meter May 15 – 21, 1998
It isn't 8 a.m., yet and already the crisis meter is red-lining.

The Clothesline May 8 – 14, 1998 (Mother's Day)
I hung wash out to dry this morning. As I stood there beside the clothesline, methodically lifting sheets out of the wicker basket and wrestling them over the too-high-for-short-people cord, I had a flashback.

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