“Yes’m, old friends is always best, ‘less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of.”

-Sarah Orne Jewett

In the early spring of this year (2010) I accompanied my 5 year old on a kindergarten fieldtrip to the county library.  After an invigorating morning of hearding short people culminated in loading them all onto the big, yellow school bus back to from whence they came, I decided to enjoy a few minutes to myself browsing the section of the library that one must be this tall to enjoy.

My life was hectic.  I was adjusting to single-parenthood, grappling with a strange, new illness and packing to move myself and my children back to the place we called home, 300 miles away from the place we’d begun to refer to as The Holding Pattern.  Who had time to read a book?  Besides, I had volumes sitting at home on topics like grief, divorce, co-parenting, stupid ways stupid people mess up stupid things, keeping or getting the love you’ve found or want, and curiously, the complete works of Hemingway and O’Connor, all of which I was quite busy enough not reading without adding one more hardback to the stack, thank you very much.  Besides, wasn’t I supposed to be writing the next great American novel in my copious amounts of spare time?

It didn’t take me long to realize I had no business perusing the library.  However, I did still have moments to sacrifice to the altar of my own personal down time so I engaged in a little game I hadn’t played in years.  I went looking for myself.  Well, not me, but my name.

I was not surprised to not find me in the non-fiction section.  The thought of me, or even someone who has as much as a name in common with me doing enough research to produce anything capable of being called non-fiction without fear of legal reprisal is just inane.

I did have a moment in the fiction section where I thought I’d hit jackpot when I stumbled across Jewett.  And I recall being shocked that I’d never realized how similar my last name was to Sarah Orne Jewett, who has been one of my favorite authors since about the time I discovered people actually wrote things other than Army Field Manuals.  I was first surprised that such a tiny library had any of her work at all, but then equally surprised that they did not have her most well-known work, The White Heron.  Instead, they had A Native of Winby.

I pulled out of the parking lot trying to remember if I’d ever read A Native of Winby and if I had, what it might have been about.  I convinced myself that returning to check-out the book was still just as bad an idea as when I first entered the library, and decided that Jewett’s works were the ones that I must next add to my complete-collection-of collection.

And that’s when it hit me:  I looked for Jewell.

Just like the moment I knew it was time to take off the wedding ring, I knew it was time to re-don my maiden name.  This was one tiny piece of rebuilding and reclaiming that I’d apparently let my subconscious do while I was occupied figuring out other things.

So here I am, ladies and gentlemen.  If you’re following me over from my old blog, you maybe now understand part of the reason for the move.  If you’ve just stumbled upon me because you like to search the same bizarre tags I like to attach to each new post, then I hope you’ll find something entertaining enough to invite you back for more.  Welcome.