humbled, and grateful.

For reasons too complex, too personal to render fully here, yesterday was a day of deep emotion.

There were, however, friends all along the way.  Elizabeth Mosier, the beauty in the dark gray dress, will always stand, in my mind, on either side of the day—at its beginnings, at its very late-night end.  For your mid-day phone kindness, for your breathtaking introduction of me at last night's book launch, for the night on the town, for the talk in the car, for the bounty of your family—Libby, I will always be so grateful. 

To Patti Mallet and her friend, Anne, who drove all the way from Ohio to be part of last night's celebration, I will never forget your gesture of great kindness, your love for green things at Chanticleer, and a certain prayer beside my mother's stone.  Patti and I are there, above, at the pond which inspired two of my books.

To Pam Sedor, the lovely blonde in violet, a world-class Dragon Boat rower recently returned from an international competition in Hong Kong, the librarian who makes books happen and dreams come true, and to Molly, who puts up with my techno anxieties (and who, recently married, has a new last name), and to Radnor Memorial Library, for being my true home—thank you, always.  (And to Children's Book World, for finding us books in time.)

To my friends who came (from church, from books, from architecture, from corporate life, from the early years through now)—thank you.  Among you were Avery Rome, the beautiful red-head who edits Libby, me, and others at the Philadelphia Inquirer, and Kathy Barham, my brilliant and wholly whole son's high school English teacher, who is also a poet (shown here in green).  To the town of Wayne, which received our open-air tears and laughter late into the night (and to Cyndi, Kelly, Libby, Avery, and Kathye who cried and laughed with me)—thank you.

And also, finally, to Heather Mussari—my muse (along with Tamra Tuller) for the Berlin novel, a young lady so wise beyond her years, and a cool, cool chick who (along with Sandy) does my hair—I arrived at 11:15 at your shop inconsolable.  You listened.  You said all the right things by telling the truth and telling it kindly.  I adore you, Heather.  I hope you know that.

After I posted this, my dear friend Kate Walton (who was there with our friend Elisa Ludwig), sent me this link to last night's party.  Kate—whose kindness is so clear in her post—preserved the night for me in photographs.  I will always be grateful.

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Finishing Berlin, with gratitude to three women

Tamra Tuller isn't just an incredibly kind and interesting and intelligent (and very pretty) person.  She's a sympathetic reader and an outstanding editor.  A few days ago Tamra shared with me her final comments on the Berlin book.  I've just now finished picking those edits up.  In every single instance Tamra was right.  Any objective third party would have seen it.  I trust Tamra to see what I don't. 

Among Tamra's suggestions was the request that I consider (Tamra never insists) removing the book's opening lines.  I would not have seen the power of doing that on my own, but the second Tamra said it, I knew she was right.  Whoosh. A quick delete.  A better book.

I want also today to thank my dear friends Annika Duesberg and Heather Mussari for reading this manuscript in its early iteration.  Annika is German, born and bred.  She brought her big heart and impeccable English to our country more than eleven years ago.  Annika and I know each other through dance and gardens; she agreed to read this book before she headed back across the sea to live.  Sometimes Annika called her mother to check on details.  Always she was honest with me.  I feel incredibly lucky to have such an authoritative German reader—and extremely dear and jewel-eyed person—behind me.

Just as I feel lucky to have had the support and inspiration of one Heather Mussari, a knock-out through and through.  Heather is an artist and a muse.  She taught me things about pink hair, graffiti, and night prowling—things that became part of the story I told.  She was interested in this novel.  She cared that it came to be.  She's a very big part of the tale; she is, in some ways, my Ada.  And when I was looking lousy, Heather fixed up my hair and sent me out into the world with her brand of beauty.  I stood taller on those days.  I felt her loveliness touched down on me.

So. Three women.  Gratitude.  And some lines (below) that will never appear in this book.  They served their purpose, months ago, by getting this story moving.  Sometimes that's all some lines are meant to do.

My mother knows, she’s watching—her breath icing the window and a smudge of old blue beneath her eyes.   In the morning, the single whitened pane of glass will suffer like a cloud.

            “I’m back, Mutti.”

            “Danke, Ada.”

She will sleep, then, until the day comes for her, while Omi stirs her coffee with the smallest brick of bread.

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