Radiant Shimmering Light

Warhol

January 2016

My dearest Lilian,

Hello, gorgeous. I’m writing you from Venice, California.

I love the weird, brave, you-can-do-anything energy of Los Angeles.

This morning, I found white feathers and rhinestones scattered on the sidewalk as I walked to the beach.

I met a wise seagull at the shore. We danced in the surf together as a silver balloon, untethered, floated away in the sky above me.

Gratitude and respect to the incredible women who attended the spectacular Express Your Enlightenment (EYELos Angeles) last night. It was an honor to meet them, and to witness their transformation begin.

The EYE tour is a gathering of souls. Like-minded women who are quenching their thirst for life and love. Women just like you, who know deep in their hearts that they’re meant to live a life they love, doing something beautiful and real. Women who understand that they are meant to help the world transform as they evolve into their highest, most inspired selves.

I’m sending you this special note because I know you live in the Ontario area. It’s not too late for you to get tickets to Express Your Enlightenment Toronto, Lilian! I’m only coming to your city for one night: Saturday, January 9th.

As you know, early enrollment for the Ascendency Program is open. But you don’t need to be an Ascendant to come to any of my EYE events! These are open to all women. And we have a few spots left. But just a few. You still have time to decide, but don’t take too long. Lilian, are we holding your seat? I want to see you there.

This Saturday night could be the turning point you’ve been waiting for.

Express Your Enlightenment events happen every year in different cities around the world. I don’t know the next time I’ll be in Toronto. This is your chance. You don’t want to miss it.

Click here to register now.

Love,

Eleven

I am tempted to check Instagram, but it’s still early morning. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet. Morning is sacred creative time. As an artist, I must fight the urge to look at what other people are making before I make something myself. Create before you consume. How will I use my creativity this morning?

I put the kettle on for tea. My phone makes a tinkling sound.

Define yourself. Declare your intention. #depthcharge

I open a coconut, apricot, and chia granola bar. It’s small and sticky, and I eat it in two bites. It’s delicious. Why did I eat that sugary thing for breakfast? Organic cane sugar is the second ingredient. I should have made myself a slice of gluten-free toast with tahini. Now I have chia seeds stuck in my teeth.

My newsletter is scheduled for 11:45, just in time for people’s lunch breaks. I let my client list know that I have new blank cards ready in my Etsy shop. It’s a dachshund set, four watercolor portraits of Millie, a dog with a blue aura and a goofy smile. I usually get a couple of orders when I send out a newsletter.

This apartment is a sublet. I have it until the summer, when the tenant returns from Thailand. Then I have to find a new place. Even as a sublet, the rent here is steep, and every little bit from my Etsy shop helps. I’m not sure where I’ll live this summer, but I’m trying not to worry. Things have a way of coming exactly when we need them. It just takes faith and trust.

My kettle whistles. I open a brand-new box of ginger green tea and select one of the individually wrapped tea packets. I tear the top, but the paper of the tea bag is caught in the seal of the packet. I manage to rip the tea bag itself, and scatter tea leaves all over the floor. What’s the matter with me?

I stop and breathe. I have a problem with negative self-talk.

Joy does not exist without gratitude.

The wind blows outside, but the plastic sheeting on the living room window stays tight. The ice has formed feathery patterns on the window. I am grateful for the pretty ice, but I haven’t been able to see outside since December. It’s been a cold winter. My fingers are cracking, and I have red, sore, chapped lips from the dehydration.

I pick another packet from the box. When I open this one, the string is long and knotted, with three tags stapled to it. The bag itself is empty. I pause to text Juliette.

Me

Going to meet Nana Boondahl and Sophia now!

Juliette

Ooh good have fun

Me

Thank you SO MUCH!!

What will I say when I meet Nana Boondahl in person? I open a third packet of tea. This one looks normal, so I put it in my white-and-silver Live What You Love mug. I douse the bag with cold water first, to protect the flavonoids of the green tea leaves, and then pour over the hot water.

Juliette

You’re welcome

Me

Things have a way of coming exactly when we need them!

Out of curiosity, I carefully open another packet from the box. This one contains a completely unsealed tea bag, with no string or staple. Half the loose tea is out of the bag, and this spills onto the counter when I open the packet. Why is this happening? What does it mean? There’s a new moon tonight. Maybe it’s in a weird planet? I look it up on my Astrofy app. Capricorn? That makes no sense at all. I check www.ismercuryinretrograde.com and the answer is yes. It doesn’t go direct until January 25. Oh, great.

I place the latest staple-free, string-free tea bag on the counter on top of the spilled leaves. I arrange the knotted stringy one next to it, looping the strings and tags into an S-shape. I raise my phone over the arrangement and take a pic.

@LilianQuick> What the?! Help me, @EssenceTea! #teafail #mercuryinretrograde

I pull on leggings and a long gray sweater that covers my butt and thighs. It’s comfy and warm. I hope it doesn’t look sloppy. I stop myself. Live the way you love to feel. I want to feel comfortable in my own skin. I feel warm. I feel warm and comfortable as myself today. One of the best things about turning forty? I don’t care what other people think. Finally, I can just be myself.

Juliette

xo

Me

I need new clothes!

Me

can you go shopping with me next week?!

Nana Boondahl is Canada’s second most famous writer, after Margaret Atwood. Her poems are on every high school and college curriculum in the country. She’s also the creator of Luze. This is why I love her so much: she’s a successful artist, and she’s a successful businesswoman. She’s actually one of the only women billionaires in the world who earned her fortune without a husband or an inheritance.

Luze is a skin-correcting balm that blends with every skin tone, reduces pore size, and smooths uneven coloration. It’s still an iconic beauty item after twenty years on the market. Every woman keeps a tube of Luze in her cosmetic case, guaranteed.

But truly, Nana Boondahl is a poet. I keep her most recent collection, Trees, Where the Rain Left Off, on my bedside table. Her work is so poignant and lyrical. Your Nature is the poem I’m always quoting, though. It’s an old one, a classic. Everyone reads it in high school English class. I’ve almost memorized it.

Taste the V-shape of your life, it starts.

I love it. I mean, I don’t know what she means by the V-shape, but I also know it, deep down inside myself. There’s something in my gut that just responds when I read that. I know it intensely, in a way that can’t be put into language. She uses such simple words to make that feeling happen—I mean, V-shape? What is that? Nana Boondahl has a rare and brilliant mind. She’s a national treasure. She must be in her seventies by now, but you can’t really tell how old she is by looking at her. Her skin is flawless and unwrinkled.

Nana Boondahl has commissioned me to paint a portrait of her grayhound.

Juliette made the connection for me. Juliette knows everyone. Her site, purejuliette.com, is one of the top lifestyle design blogs in the world. She just designed an exclusive line of dishware for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Juliette showed Nana Boondahl my website and some of my pet aura portraits, and apparently, she was impressed by what she saw. I’ll never forget the day my phone rang and the voice on the other line said, Hello, this is Nana Boondahl. That’s all she said, at first. Like she wanted to wait a beat to give her name time to land and settle in my ears. Who makes phone calls anymore without texting first?

Me

Thank you *again* so much for connecting us! I am full of great fight!

Me

great fight

Me

I mean great fight

Me

omg autocorrect

Me

GRATITUDE

Me

ok wish me luck I’m almost out the door!

Live the way you love to feel. I switch my phone camera to selfie mode and snap a picture. My forehead looks extra big. I delete the pic right away. I just wanted to see.

Me

Hi Yumi. Just confirming that I’ll be at the studio at 9. Thanks!

Yumi

I forgot to charge my phone last night, and now it only has 30 percent juice left. I plug it in to get some last-minute charge before I go. I pack a sixteen-by-twenty sketchbook and my tin of drawing pencils. I open the tin to see if my pencil sharpener is in there. It is not.

I usually work from home, but my sublet is far too small to have Nana Boondahl meet me here—it would look unprofessional. Yumi lets me use their studio when I have appointments, for a small rental fee. I can’t afford to rent a studio of my own, obviously. I can hardly afford my sublet. So I have gratitude for this arrangement. Yumi’s a night owl and usually sews past midnight, but the studio is empty in the morning.

I find my pencil sharpener in my desk drawer, along with a soft eraser I know I’ll need. My phone blurts.

@EssenceTea> Oh no @LilianQuick! Our apologies. We’re sending you a complimentary tea sampler. DM us for details.

This is why I love Twitter!

I pull on my Sorels, my heavy parka, and my red plaid earflap hat. I wrap an oversized buffalo plaid scarf around my neck three times. I am hoping for a Twin Peaks look: retro and lumberjane at the same time. I’m overheating. I feel dizzy, choked by my scarf. My stomach turns. I need fresh air. But as soon as I go outside, the cold air is going to hurt my face. I slather cocoa butter on my lips and hands to protect them, slip on fleece mittens, and brace myself. I hate winter. No! Replace that thought with something positive: I’m going to meet Nana Boondahl and her dog. On my way out, I take off a mitten and try a selfie again. My clothes look cute and hygge, but my face looks lopsided and I have bags under my eyes. I delete the pic.

The street outside is frozen and still, the light lemony white. It’s so cold, it feels as though the air has had the wind knocked out of it. It’s hard to breathe. My phone buzzes in my mitten.

Fleurje

Agh! Crap. Crazy day Lilian. So sorry I 4got our phone date yesterday. Can u try me tonight or tomorrow early aft?

Fleurje

It’s been crazy busy. Weekdays are still flex - or there’s next Monday. Would love 2 see u

Fleurje

ps sorry my messages r so long! I’m on my iPad and the screen is bigger

Me

It’s ok! Yes try me tonight!

Me

no wait I forgot it’s Eleven tonight! Can you come?

Fleurje

Maybe! What’s at 11?

Me

Eleven Novak

Fleurje

is she self-help?

Me

no! feminine leadership

Me

www.elevennovak.com

Fleurje

(…)

Me

lmk if you can come

Fleurje

(…)

Yumi stands at the door to the studio, their face red and cold. A delicate light-brown stubble sparkles over their cheeks in the morning light. How do they have such perfect, poreless skin, when they stay up so late every night, drinking nothing but alcohol and caffeine? It must be good genes. Or maybe Luze. Though I doubt it, because they are such a natural beauty they don’t have to wear any makeup. Today they wear a black motorcycle jacket zipped all the way to the neck, with a gray cashmere scarf stuffed in. They clutch a paper cup of coffee from Rupert’s Roastery. I don’t drink coffee—it raises the body’s pH, and I try to keep mine neutral. The steam swirls up and out of the cup in a gorgeous twist. There’s nothing like the look of a hot cup of coffee on a cold day.

Nana Boondahl is coming today with her grayhound, I say. Wish me luck. I’m a nervous wreck.

You don’t need luck, they say. You’re a genius.

I let out an awkward laugh. Yumi says these things to me, and I never know how to respond. Where are you coming from?

Long night, they say. There was a thing in the Distillery, and then I worked here all night. I’m going home to sleep now.

What’s the dog’s name? Yumi asks.

Sophia, I say.

I love grayhounds, they say. So calm.

Yumi isn’t wearing any gloves, and their fingers look white. It’s so cold, it hurts my eyes to see the exposed skin. Yumi is a study in contrasts: that soft cashmere scarf wrapped around their neck, those tough bare hands gripping the paper cup.

Your poor hands! I say. I take the key. Why don’t you make yourself a pair of mittens?

It was a sake tasting event last night, Yumi says. Their breath is a white puff. They have such a nice mouth shape, with a defined cupid’s bow on their top lip. Even with lip liner, I couldn’t make that happen to my mouth. I think I love sake. Does that make me a cliché?

Sake is objectively delicious, I say. I think you’re safe.

They hand me a brown paper shopping bag. This is for you.

I open the handles with my mittened hands and peer in. Pale-blue cashmere.

I found it in the pile, and it’s perfect as is. It would be a shame to cut it. I thought the blue would look nice with your eyes.

I met Yumi at one of Fleurje’s real estate client-appreciation events. It took me some time to get used to the pronoun—the stubborn habit of language. But Yumi was patient with me whenever I messed up. I am grateful to them for showing me that reality is not what I think. Everything is not black and white. Yumi simply being Yumi is a gift, and it doesn’t have to be gender-specific. I’m always inspired when I see them. They’re truly living Eleven Novak’s Sacred Ascendency Prayer: Let yourself want what you want. I wish I was more like them.

We’re so different from each other. For instance, they work best at night, I work best in the morning. They drink coffee and alcohol, and I avoid all acidifying food and drink. I hate the cold, and they complain about the heat in summer. There I go, trying to make my reality binary again! I always want things to be one way or the other. I have to keep working on this.

What would Yumi think about the Ascendency Prayer? Should I invite them to come with me to see Eleven tonight? Probably not, because it’s about feminine empowerment. This makes me sad: Yumi is excluded from men’s groups and women’s groups. I almost ask them how they feel about this, but when I look into their eyes, my words waver, and I have to look away. Why do I feel so flustered around them? I thank them for the gift, push the key into the lock, and open the door.

You’ll need the space heater today, they say before they leave. Last night was freezing, and it isn’t much better this morning. Stay warm. Yumi is so nice to me!

It’s cold inside the studio. Piles of merino and cashmere slouch around the floor, organized roughly by color. Yumi is a talented picker—they go to warehouses every week to buy used sweaters by the pound, and Yumi has a knack for finding gems. Then they come back to their studio and sort these used sweaters into piles according to usability. They cut and discard any stained, pilled, or moth-eaten parts. Then they re-sort according to color. Yumi designs new sweaters with these old materials, and measures, cuts, and serges together the old knits into new pieces. Since they were featured on the Arts and Makers Network, Yumi and their designs are famous now. Every sweater is one of a kind, and runs from three hundred to nine hundred dollars, depending on the design and the quality of the used wool. I could never afford to buy one of Yumi’s pieces. One sweater basically equals a month of my rent.

I pull my mittens off, check my phone battery (22 percent), and hang my parka on the coat rack by the door. I move Yumi’s serger, a block of plastic and chrome threaded with four tall spools of black thread, to make space on the wooden table for my sketchbook. The piles of wool will just have to stay where they are for now. Maybe they’ll insulate the place against the draft.

My upholstered dog-model cushion is right where I left it on the floor, with three throw pillows. I plump up the pillows and arrange them in an inviting triangle on top of the cushion, and set a heart-shaped peanut butter cookie in the center, freshly baked by the Caninery.

There’s a note tucked in the bag, written in sepia ink in Yumi’s beautiful block lettering: FOR LILIAN, FROM YUMI. They drew a handful of six-pointed asterisks all around the letters.

The sweater Yumi gave me is a V-neck, and it’s a pretty blue shade. It’s a generous medium, so it looks like it will fit me. I arrange it nicely on top of the brown paper shopping bag to show off the V-neck and I place one sleeve carefully askew. I snap a pic. The folds create curvy shadows. I use the Clarendon filter to amp up the blue.

@LilianQuick> @ReKnits thank you Yumi! Love my new cashmere!

A small black cube—the space heater—squats under the table. I move it next to the chaise lounge and plug it into a bare, scary-looking outlet that’s missing a cover, and I turn it on. It whirrs with a fierce sound. I rest my hand on the radiator just to see. It’s warm. The radiator looks old and is probably original to the building. It’s covered in thick coats of white paint, chipped and uneven in places. I snap a pic, and try to focus and go macro to get the texture. There are years in those layers. If paint could talk!

I check my Instagram feed quickly. Seven people liked the pic of my tea bag fiasco from earlier this morning (I double-posted it on both Twitter and Instagram), and one person just liked the sweater pic. I don’t recognize the handles of the likers. I take a studio selfie, angling the camera so the warehouse windows show behind me. My cheeks are red from the cold. I look bohemian and cute. I take a minute to update my profile pic. I don’t want to seem narcissistic, but it’s important to stay current.

I slide my phone into the drawer of the table, to keep myself away from distraction once Nana Boondahl and Sophia arrive.

It costs fifty dollars to go to Eleven’s EYEToronto event. But when Nana Boondahl gives me her deposit today, I’ll have enough to pay for a ticket. I hope they haven’t sold out already!

◊ ◊ ◊

Eleven Novak is my cousin. Her given name is Florence, and I haven’t seen her in twenty years. When I was a kid, I spent every July and August visiting her—and her parents, Aunt Rosie and Uncle Jimmy—in Evansville, Indiana. Our mothers are sisters. When I was a baby, my family lived in Indiana too. My memories of Fort Wayne are filmy, but I can remember a few things: yellow-green light coming through tree branches, a brown rug with long tufts that I liked to comb with my fingers. When I was three years old, my father became a PhD candidate in philosophy at the University of Toronto, and my parents moved us to Ontario.

We spent our summers in Evansville. Aunt Rosie and Uncle Jimmy lived in a three-story blue-and-white house with balconies on every floor. A large pot of red geraniums stood next to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, and two flags hung from angled poles on either side of the front porch. I loved the way the bright white stars popped against the navy blue. I grew up thinking that because I was half American, I had an advantage over everyone at home.

Sometimes Aunt Rosie would drive Florence and me to the store for candy, barrettes, and Vanilla Coke. We practiced our made-up dance routines on the shiny floors, leaping up and down the aisles to Cyndi Lauper. The store would be full of fourth of July paraphernalia, and I wanted to buy it all: the window banners and swags, starred toothpicks, and red-white-and-blue flip-flops. I liked to think that America was mine too, even though I was only there a couple of months out of the year. I bought stars-and-stripes stickers and brought them home. I stuck them on my school notebooks to keep the summer alive as long as I could. The flags said, You are fun, exciting, and powerful!

This was back in the eighties, obviously. Canada has Drake and Bieber now, but back then, we only had Céline Dion and Corey Hart.

Dear FIRST NAME,

Happy New Year! I know, it’s been a long time since I’ve written. I’m sorry! Life has been VERY busy here at Quick+Friday. I’ve been working on several special commissions for the holidays, including this portrait of Maya, an Aussie shepherd from Colorado. And look at these two calico cats (they’re twin sisters)! I also had a great time making this note card package—a set of four different designs, each featuring this very cute dachshund named Millie!

Please click here to see my full gallery, finally updated with my recent work! Whew!

The holiday rush has calmed down, so I have two or three sittings available this month for your fur baby.

Make your appointment now! Don’t miss out!

Best wishes,

Lilian

Nana Boondahl has amazing wavy white hair that’s dyed a deep turquoise at the ends and fades up gradually to mint green, and eventually natural white at the roots. She wears the waves swept up and pinned to the top of her head, where they sit like swirls of cake frosting. She also wears a long, baggy, camel-colored coat with many pockets. It’s belted, which makes it look bathrobish. If you’re Nana Boondahl, you can wear whatever you want.

Welcome to my studio, I say. I share it with the designer Yumi Senza, who is mid-process right now. Please excuse the woolens you see.

Nana Boondahl steps into the studio and makes it her own, just by standing in it. Her energy courses around her in waves. I step back to give her more space. She has a very strong presence. Her eyes go to the wooden table where I’ve set up my sketch pad and pencils.

I am curious to see what color you will use to capture the light around her, she tells me. What do you think?

The elegant grayhound stands patiently in the doorway. One-quarter of Sophia’s tan body is neck. She wears a white fleece coat—more of a cape, really—with a wooly, knitted, tube-like extension that covers her throat and most of her head. Her ears are tucked neatly away under this hood. She is wide-eyed and humble, but looks at me with dignity. I take her in, and feel the hot pink-purple light around her.

Magenta, I say. It’s so pretty. Can you see it, too? I’ve never met anyone else who can see animal auras.

Nana Boondahl shakes her head. I once knew a woman who could see auras. It was when I lived in Greece. She saw them everywhere. It made her dizzy, and sometimes sick. She would faint if she was with more than six people at once.

I can only see animal auras, I say.

What a shame, she says. Apparently, human auras can be very interesting. Unstable, but dynamic.

Juliette told me that Nana Boondahl was eccentric. Thank you for coming in person, I say.

We are very interested in your work, Nana Boondahl says. Say hello, Sophia. She nods to the dog. Polite.

Sophia sits on her narrow hindquarters and balances there.

This must be so cold for her, I say.

She was rescued from Florida. Nana bends down and pushes down the fleece tube, releasing the dog’s ears and face, and leaves the fabric ruched around her neck. She was a racer. Quite successful, actually. Oh, look at her face! She makes her voice go small. "This is so unfair, she’s saying. I wasn’t built for winter."

I know how she feels, I say.

I make Nana Boondahl a cup of coconut-almond tea and let her get settled on the chaise lounge under the window, by the space heater. I unclip Sophia’s leash and invite her to my drawing area.

Listen to the messages from your body. My body tells me about color. When I see color, I feel it. It’s a sensation, like hot or cold. Every color feels a bit different to me. It’s hard to explain. It’s kind of like synesthesia. But then, of course, I’m seeing and feeling color around animals that other people can’t see. I know, it sounds complicated. It’s not, really.

I first learned that I could see and feel colored light around Kitty—a gray tabby cat, my first pet. In the second grade, I earnestly described her emerald glow in a mortifying show-and-tell presentation. Immediately I realized my mistake. Children can be cruel. But things got better as I grew up and learned to be more careful about what I share with others. I never stopped seeing the auras—colored light radiates around dogs, goldfish, hamsters, even pigeons—but I kept it to myself for years.

Now, as an adult, I don’t feel the need to hide it anymore. I include auras in my pet portraits because they’re part of the animal’s being. I feel them together, the color and the animal. They’re inseparable.

Sophia sniffs around the upholstered floor cushion, finds the cookie, and eats it: two small crunches and an inhale. She licks her chops delicately. When she does finally lie down, her thin body looks like a bundle of branches. The angles of her limbs collect in triangles. She exhales and shows me the grate of her ribs. Grayhounds are so thin! I begin to sketch.

Nana Boondahl sets her cup of tea down on top of the space heater, which is probably an electrical hazard. She opens a silver case that came out of one of her deep coat pockets. It’s the size of a pack of gum, and engraved with a filigree design. She opens it and looks inside—there must be a mirror set into it—staring intensely into the silver lid. Her turquoise-and-cream hair frames her face and brings out the blue of her deep-set eyes.

You’ve got quite a draft in here, she says to the mirror.

I move from penciling Sophia’s ribcage to her front legs. When I’m drawing the lines of a dog’s body, like the sweep of spine from neck to tail, it helps if I forget that I’m drawing and become the line itself. This requires deep concentration. The first few lines can be rough and sketchy, but generally I can lose myself in the drawing fairly quickly, and get to the right place. But it’s hard to focus with Nana Boondahl in the room, watching me.

My phone buzzes in the drawer.

I prefer it when owners leave the dog with me for the sitting. When they have errands to do, or at least, emails to answer. They can be in the room, but when they’re on their phone, it’s as if they aren’t even here. Nana Boondahl doesn’t appear to have a phone.

There’s a café right around the corner, I tell her. I focus on Sophia’s delicate, bumpy spine, trace it with my eyes as I move my pencil across the page. There: a few inches of line that feel accurate and honest. Then I lose it again, because I’ve started to think too much about what I’m drawing. The line turns false and self-conscious as I try to draw her tail. My phone buzzes again. I back up to the last detail that still feels alive on the page.

Feel free to wait down there. I can call you when we’re finished.

An e-cigarette materializes between Nana Boondahl’s fingers, and she inserts it into her mouth and works it with her lips.

Oh, no, she says. I enjoy watching you work.

I feel a little thrill when she says this, but I want her to leave so I can focus. Having her energy in the room is intimidating. Can I use the energy? How can I work with it? I take a deep breath, look back at the page, exhale. Remind yourself, I’m here.

I find the line of Sophia’s tail again. I stare at the dog, soften my focus, and let her in. My peripheral vision opens up. There it is—the real line of tail. What I see with my eyes and what my pencil traces on the page become one. For a little while, I almost forget that Nana Boondahl is in the room with me.

I finish when I have five solid sketches, most of them with true lines. I remember Sophia’s magenta light with my mind and body. Auras never leave me—I remember the way they feel the way I remember places I’ve visited. I slide the sketches into a portfolio case to take home with me, where I’ll start work on the painting. Sophia is a beautifully still dog, I say. She made the session so easy! I wish all my clients would pose so quietly.

I open the drawer of the table, take out my phone, and activate my MoneyJack credit card reader.

@ElevenNovak> @LilianQuick So nice to hear from you. I’ve comped two tickets for you. Come see me tonight! Bring a girlfriend. Xx

It’s a private message on Instagram. I read it again, because my brain can’t make sense of it. Years before Grandma Bertolucci died, my mom and Aunt Rosie had a big fight and stopped talking to each other. The fight was about Uncle Jimmy. When we were in Evansville for summer vacation, my mom told Aunt Rosie she should get a divorce. Aunt Rosie got angry, said that my mom was jealous, and then kicked us all out of the house. Our families grew apart after that.

The Novaks are famous Evansville lawyers, and they have a lot of money. Uncle Jimmy’s father and brothers were lawyers too. Literally, the firm is called Novak, Novak & Novak. My dad couldn’t work, because he had to write his never-to-be-completed philosophy dissertation. He received many extensions for his PhD, and at some point the department told him to finish it whenever he could. My mom supported us by working at Red Lobster. When I was a kid, we ate a lot of cheese buns from the restaurant, with cucumber, mustard, and slices of mortadella. My dad died before he finished his thesis.

Aunt Rosie and my mom have very different personalities. My mother’s bohemian lifestyle never appealed to Aunt Rosie, who was the more traditional