SUSAN COLE

When my late husband John and I first got together in our twenties, he talked me into buying XL, an old, leaky, charming, wooden 1903 Fire Island  ferryboat for us to live on. We lived in Mamaroneck Harbor on Long Island Sound, rowing in every morning to our cars where we changed into business clothes we stored in garbage bags, and then drove off to work. From the coffee we brewed in a French press in the mornings to the cocktails on deck each night as the sun set over the horizon, I thought it was the most romantic life in the world, despite the inconveniences.

When winter came, we moved to a dock in Stamford, Connecticut, where we would have the luxuries of electricity and hot showers. In spring, my mother paid us a visit. Though suspicious and somewhat afraid of John, my WASP boyfriend who was frosty towards her, she expected that because he grew up in wealthy Greenwich, Connecticut, we'd have a grand yacht with a staff of servants. During the night as John and I tried to sleep in our cabin, she paced the upper deck, clomping heavily back and forth in her heels. 

In the morning, she read me the riot act about my lifestyle, and how I couldn't live like this. Newly in love and emboldened, I had begun to realize how good it felt to be myself, a feeling I had not experienced since my dad died when I was ten. I'd spent years trying to please my mother, but something had changed. After a night of no sleep because of her overhead clomping, and with John's prompting, I told her how much I loved my life, and asked her to leave. She didn't take it well.

It took many years to free myself of my mother, but each small act of asserting myself built up my strength. John was a great example of daring to be himself, no matter the consequences.

If you want to learn more about my sailing adventures with John and my young daughter Kate when we left everything behind to follow John's lifelong dream to sail away, go here.

My daughter Kate was born in January, which meant my late husband John and I missed our annual Christmas vacation to a Mexican beach, where for two or three weeks we would laze in the sun and forget about icy New England winters. Undeterred, we took off a few months later to introduce Kate to the warmth and beauty of Zihuatenejo, Mexico, and continued going for several Christmases to follow.

We often stayed at a rambling, spotless alabaster-white hotel in the surrounding hills. Our sun-lit room had a spacious blue-and-white tiled terrace lush with greenery overlooking Playa La Ropa, a gorgeous crescent-shaped beach. Over the hill on the opposite side of the harbor, the deep blue Pacific Ocean stretched out to the horizon. Frangipani, jasmine and bougainvillea scented the soft sea air, and the cries of vendors selling their wares on the beach wafted up to our terrace. When Kate took her afternoon nap in the room, John and I sprawled on comfortable wooden chairs in the shade sipping fresh lemonade, and admiring the boats sailing into the harbor.

We met an expat real estate broker, who regaled us with town gossip, and left brochures of inexpensive houses for sale. I imagined us spending the winter months in our vacation home in Zihuatenejo, gorging on fresh wahoo and luscious ripe mangoes. John, though, kept his eye on the harbor, dreaming of sailing there one day.

To sail to Zihuatenejo, we would have had to traverse the Panama Canal, which would have been thrilling, and scary. We never made it that far, but his sailing dream did take us to the Caribbean coast of Mexico, and as far south as Guatemala.

If you'd like to learn more about our three-year sailing adventure where we left everything behind to follow John's lifelong dream, go here.

My parents, Lou and Meriam Cole, got married in 1932 in Cleveland during the Great Depression, a small Jewish wedding, with family and close friends. My mother was twenty-three, and my dad, thirty-one. I found the wedding announcement in the Cleveland Plain Dealer when I was doing research for my new book in the historical archives in Cleveland. Dated December 4, 1932, it read: 

Mr. and Mrs. Simon Mandel of E. 91st Street announce the marriage of their daughter, Meriam Allen (sic), to Mr. Louis Gerald Cole, which took place Wednesday evening at 7:30 o'clock in the Sisterhood Parlor of the Euclid Avenue Temple. Rabbi Barrett R. Brickner performed the ceremony. The bride wore a Chanel gown of white crepe trimmed with milk (sic). She carried a muff of gardenias. Mr. Cole was graduated from Western Reserve University and Ohio State University Law School. The couple left for a wedding trip to Bermuda and on their return, will reside at 2822 E. 132nd Street.

Compared to the announcement that preceded it of a wedding at the Cleveland Hotel with 700 guests and a long list of bridesmaids, also officiated by Rabbi Brickner, my parents' wedding sounded modest. I loved the lines of my mother's simple gown, though was surprised that they could afford Chanel trimmed with, I believe, mink. I'm guessing it was used, or maybe they splurged on the gown along with the honeymoon trip to Bermuda. I laughed, thinking how important it would have been to my pretentious mother for the Chanel name to be in the announcement.

They got married on November 30th, and must have traveled the next day to New York to board the ship, perhaps leaving on December 2nd. I imagine their excitement, staying over in a hotel in New York and then embarking on a week's cruise to tropical Bermuda from bustling New York harbor. The ship, the Monarch of Bermuda, was brand new, a high-end luxury liner built in 1931.

I picture them on deck, aglow with their good fortune, gazing at the New York skyscrapers as they sailed out of the harbor. I imagine their heady dreams for the future, many of which they attained. They didn't yet know the tragic end when Dad would die so young, in his fifties, leaving my mother a widow in her forties, which, though she tried valiantly, she couldn't handle, and her worst impulses took over.

I loved learning about the time before Dad died, before his health gave out and he had tax troubles, before my mother became a darker version of herself. I loved imagining them with their heads held high, and the future golden.

If you'd like to learn about my sailing adventures with my late husband and young daughter when we followed his lifelong dream and sailed away, leaving everything behind, go here.

As the year rushes to a close, like all good Pacific Northwesterners, I rush outdoors whenever there's a break in the chilly, gray winter drizzle. Walking is a big thing here. When the sun appears, big smiles on our faces, we hightail it to the nearest trail to inhale the fresh smells of a lake, the sharp fragrance of tall evergreens, the earthy scent of mossy trees and fallen leaves. For a few moments, day-to-day worries vanish. Until moving to the PNW three years ago, my happy place was a lush, crescent-shaped tropical beach. That's still my dream, but the lake and mountain trails here, dappled sun slanting through tall, tall trees, expand my insides in a way that feels fresh and invigorating.

I hope you'll take a few moments for yourself during the holidays. Whether it's the endless to-do lists, the sadness of missing those who are no longer here, girding oneself for dealing with difficult relatives, or whatever can weigh you down when you're supposed to be happy, you're worth taking time for.

Have a lovely holiday and a joyful, inspiring new year!

If you need a last-minute gift for a sailor in your life, go here to learn about my sailing adventures with my late husband and young daughter when we followed his lifelong dream and left everything behind to sail away.

My dad died when I was ten. I adored him. He made me feel like the smartest, sassiest kid in the world. In the photo above, I believe we're heading home from a summer drive to the country, perhaps stopping for hot dogs or ice cream. Dad is spiffy in a shirt and tie, jacketless casual, and the three children, scruffier. My sister, nine years older than me, peeks out from the backseat, while my brother, eleven years older, is on the ground with Dad and me. My mother is behind the camera insisting on a picture that none of us want. We look hot, irritated, ready to get this over with. I imagine my sister yelling, "Let's go already!"

In the Cleveland suburbs of the 1950s, the country was just around the corner. We'd roll down the windows and drive until the houses petered out, and we came to country roads with few street signs, other than occasional billboards for Camels or Black Label beer. It was quiet on Sundays, except for cows mooing, horses neighing, and now and then, a tractor rumbling. Every so often, Dad would stop the car, wait for an expressive moo, and yell "Moooo!" back, chuckling. Heavy, sweet scents of mown grass and hay tinged with manure wafted in through the windows and made us children drowsy in the back seat. Sometimes, a wayward bee buzzed into the car, and my mother would scream and swiftly shoo it out. Dad loved finding new roads to explore, and family restaurants to try, especially if they offered homemade peach pie. 

After Dad died, everything changed. My life went from technicolor to gray. It took me a lifetime to understand what happened. Two years ago, I returned to Cleveland after fifty years away, to try to find out more about Dad and his family. All my life, I yearned for the nurturing that my mother wasn't able to give, and the vanished, unwavering love and support of my father. I hoped Cleveland might hold some answers.

I'm nearly finished with a first draft of my new book about that journey, and I'm thrilled. I still have revision and editing ahead, and I very much hope that when I'm done, you'll be interested in reading it!

If you'd like to learn more about my sailing adventures with my late husband and young daughter when we left everything behind and followed his lifelong dream to sail away, go here.

I recently visited a good friend in New York. Her apartment overlooks the East River, and soon after I arrived, I strolled down to the promenade where joggers, bikers, and dog-walkers share the sidewalk. I leaned against the rail staring at the blue water sparkling in the sun and imagined my late husband John, my nephew Marc, and Phil, a delivery captain we hired, sailing towards the fierce currents of Hell's Gate. They were bringing Laughing Goat down to Annapolis, Maryland, where our young daughter Kate and I would join the boat. I was home frantically packing up and selling our furniture.

John and I had never sailed further south than City Island in the Bronx, nor out in the open ocean. We were terrified to sail in the dark. Our sailing grounds were in Long Island Sound, where on weekends, we anchored in charming town harbors and enjoyed coastal New England delights like clam chowder and steamers. 

Yet, we were setting out on a long voyage south, the destination yet to be determined, following John's long-held dream of leaving everything behind and sailing away. I think back to all the work it took to get the boat, and ourselves, ready. I was so busy ordering books for Kate's home schooling, deciding which furniture to store or to sell, taking CPR courses, fitting out our medical supplies, and provisioning the boat that I had little time to address my feelings about leaving a home that I loved in Connecticut, where we had deep roots, good friends and family. 

I remember the exhilaration of sailing Laughing Goat out of Annapolis into Chesapeake Bay. We did it! The years of preparation were over and we were on our way. At nights, though, I cried myself to sleep, missing our cozy red house on the Mill River, my garden, Kate's sweet elementary school, and our family and friends. Each day brought new adventure and as time went on, I adapted to the cruising life but there was always the tension, the pull of what I left behind.

Hope y'all are settling in for fall and winter. After a few glorious, sunny months, the rains have begun here in Washington, and I've gotten out my flannels and am warming up by my fireplace. If you'd like to learn more about our sailing adventure, go here.

I returned recently from the trip of a lifetime to Kenya and Tanzania. I rode in bumpy jeeps across the Serengeti, Amboseli, Ngorogoro Crater, and the Maasai Mara, dust flying as we careened over vast, acacia-dotted landscapes that held lions, elephants, giraffes, zebras, wildebeests, rhinos, baboons, hippos, ostriches, cheetahs, leopards, Cape buffalos, and so many more. They were only yards away from us, yet acted as if we weren't there. It was like traveling through a dream.

I saw a dozen lions sunbathing on boulders, elephant families in slow, dignified processions, a mama and baby cheetah sleeping under a tree, baboons scampering alongside our jeep with mamas carrying babies on their backs, ostriches protecting a giant egg, hippos soaking in a crowded lagoon while snorting, belching, and shoving each other out of the way. In Nanyuki, Kenya, our group visited a school where kindergartners sang an adorable welcome song, middle-schoolers showed off awesome moves from a dance competition, and when we left, bombarded us with hugs and kisses, which melted our hearts. 

In Amboseli, we visited a Maasai village, where warriors greeted us with a spirited welcome song involving high jumps and spears, and shared their way of life, even showing us into their homes, huts that the women built out of cow dung, which amazingly didn't smell and were water-tight. For hundreds of years, this land has been their home.

My late husband John grew up in Northern Rhodesia, now Zambia, and his stories inspired my trip. Stories of playing on giant anthills, and roaming through the bush with his spear. Tales of freedom, of endless plains and deserts. Though there's a much darker side to Africa, where people were betrayed, stolen and enslaved, and wars and famine are currently taking place, I'm grateful to have experienced such beauty and magic.

When he lived in Africa, John sailed in Lake Victoria, which fed his love of sailing. If you'd like to learn about about my sailing adventure with my late husband and young daughter when we followed his lifelong dream and left everything behind to sail away, go here.

I discovered Peninsula Park in Portland a couple of weeks ago. A dear friend had just passed away and I brought a book in with me, thinking I'd visit a park after an Alanon meeting. I had the wrong address for the meeting and missed it, but I googled parks near the water. The first one Google sent me to was in a gritty industrial area, water barely visible over cranes and forklifts. I dispensed with the water requirement and found Peninsula Park, the first rose garden in Portland, an exquisite, compact version of Portland's famous International Rose Garden.

On a quiet bench, I opened my book as trees rustled in the breeze and a sweet, delicate scent washed over me. Taking in the wide vista of roses, I glanced beside me on the bench, where I nearly expected my friend to nod back. She was gone now, but she was with me. It was the kind of place where we would have chatted for hours.

In a few weeks, I'm embarking on a great adventure to Kenya and Tanzania. A safari, a dream trip. It's daunting traveling so far away—22 hours to Nairobi, then overnight, and another short flight to Mount Kilamanjaro Airport in Tanzania. Just saying "I'm going to Africa" sounds like I'm dropping off the edge of the earth. I'll meet the tour in Tanzania but up to that point, I'm on my own. When I experience doubt, I remember the lions, giraffes, and elephants I'm going to see. I remember my reluctance to set out on the voyage with John and Kate and leave everything behind. I remember how nervous I was before my book launch party. 

I think it will be amazing.

After several months of being longlisted, shortlisted, and making the finals, Holding Fast took first place in the Hearten Awards for Uplifting and Inspiring Non-Fiction! I'm thrilled that three years after publication, readers are still excited about the story of my sailing adventures with my late husband, John. Holding Fast shares first place with several other memoirs, and I'm thrilled for them, too!

I've been working away on my new book about my life growing up in Cleveland, which changed drastically after my dad died when I was ten. What had been a relatively normal and calm household changed into a chaotic, drama-filled mess, headed by my mentally unstable mother and much-older, violent brother. When I fled at eighteen, I vowed never to return.

Yet, two years ago, I went back. While there, I researched Dad's childhood in an orphanage, and the early years of my parents' marriage when they honeymooned in Bermuda, and hosted intellectual events at our house. I visited the house in which I was born, and the one where I grew up. I met cousins whom I hadn't known existed who shared juicy tidbits about my dad's and mother's families. I found Dad's grave, and spent time with him there. I discovered both of my grandmothers' graves. All touched me deeply.

Cleveland surprised me. I'd forgotten the fresh Lake Erie breezes that probably led me to my late sailor husband who wanted to sail around the world. Despite working in New York for many years, I'm still a polite Midwesterner and like a slow pace. Having railed against the horrors of Cleveland for many years now, I've become open to the notion that my childhood trauma might not have been caused by Cleveland.

If  you'd like to learn about how my late husband and I took our seven-year-old daughter, left everything behind and sailed away, go here to find Holding Fast: A Memoir of Sailing, Love, and Loss.

A year ago, I bought a cute yellow birdfeeder for my porch at a local garden store. Knowing little about birds, I ordered bird seed on Amazon and waited for the birds to show up. A couple of birds scouted it out from a nearby tree, but I had no takers. After a few weeks, I tried bird food for finches, which apparently this feeder was designed for, a fact I gleaned from Google. Still, neither finches nor any other birds were interested. Every time I went out to the porch, I was irritated with the feeder, the birds, and myself, for not knowing how to attract birds.

Last weekend, I went to Backyard Bird Shop where someone who actually knew about birds pointed me to the right food for my finch feeder, to a new feeder that would attract a wider variety of birds, and the food for that. I rushed home with my new purchases, and set it all up on Sunday night. The photo above was what greeted me on Monday morning. They came, they ate, they told their friends about it. I was no longer the proprietor of the worst bird restaurant in the area.

I've had birds chattering away at both feeders all week, which has really lifted me up in the waning gray days of winter. Amazing what asking for help from the right person can do.

I remember when I was writing Holding Fast, the story of following my late husband's dream, and with our young daughter, leaving everything behind to sail away. At  different points when I was struggling, help arrived to nudge me onward, whether from an instructor, encouragement from a friend, or a line from a book or article I was reading. As I move further along on my new book, the same process is unfolding. 

It's rainy and cold where I live in Vancouver, Washington, but the cherry trees, daffodils and crocuses are starting to bloom, and the birds are twittering away at my feeders.

Hope you all are enjoying the coming of spring!