If you’ve ever heard Johnny Mercer/Henry Mancini’s Moon River sung just right, you know that the spoken M wraps itself around you with strong arms. It holds you to the moment — floating down the river of the song or settling into the comfort of a recipe from your mother’s cookbook. It captures you in an embrace with its wide arms. Lyricists know that any singer sounds so so smooth on M.

But watch for the sharp-point as well. Then  you get migraine. Madness. Mayhem. Maelstrom.

As a bona fide moon fan, I tend to go the other route. Magic. And mindful. Mirth and mist.

How did M&M get their name? Wiki tells us that one M was for Forrest E. Mars Sr., and one for Bruce Murrie, the son of Hershey’s Chocolate president William F. R. Murrie.  But I like to think it’s the lip-smacking sound of anticipation of candies that are as bright and optimistic as childhood.

Back when my daughters were little and watching Sesame Street, and I with them, I loved when the show was “brought to you by the letter ___.” Jim Henson and the brilliant minds of Sesame appreciated that letters are important. Give them their due, dammit. Give them a show of their own. Or a candy.

Today is brought to you by the letter M. You pick the next letter!

It’s spring and  I’m realizing that I forget from year to year how exuberant it can be. We’re programmed so that our bodies can’t remember pain–otherwise there would only be one-child families. Are we also programmed to forget the delicious velvet touch of spring breezes; the scent of chlorophyll rushing through trees;  the way people smile at each other when the cold is not freezing them to the core?

Makers of artificial scents that are pumped into household cleaners try to capture the essence with names like “spring breeze” but there is nothing of spring, or breeze, in the chemical formulas. It cannot be recreated; cannot be remembered.

I’ve been working with a video crew on a project that asks “what’s one thing you never want to forget?” We’ve been testing the question on focus groups. The answers have ranged from the profound “who I am” to the sweet “my wedding day” and comical “my password.” And everything in between. What would you answer?

What’s one thing I never want to forget? This moment. If I cannot remember from year to year this bliss of sun-warm-growth-life that is spring, then I want to be in the moment. This moment right now and every moment I have. When I’m sitting on our screened porch in the evening, listening to the owls in the woods — that’s exactly the moment. When I’m walking through Park Slope in Brooklyn with my daughter, I do not want to forget her New York City stride, the shop doors flung open and the joy of being her mother. When I’m snuggled up to my husband on the couch after a long day, I want to remember that he is there every night. When a friend calls, I want to remember my gasp of pleasure when I hear her voice.

I can remember this moment, now.

The timing couldn’t have been better. Here we are at Easter, Passover, Spring ritual time and up to our shoulders in some fantastical beliefs. I was raised in the Roman Catholic church, spent a couple decades in the Episcopal and now pursue my own individualistic belief system. Religion gives many of us a place to anchor ourselves in an uncertain world. It requires that we accept some fairly sketchy stories. One of my favorite Episcopal priests, the late  Rev. Alfred Starratt, PHD, a rector for many years at Emmanuel Episcopal in Baltimore, used to refer to the “folklore” of religion.

Many of my friends are attending Seders this weekend. Many are baking hams and filling baskets with chocolate. The Pagans among us recognized the Spring Equinox a few weeks back. Celebrations in Sweden and Finland go back centuries to witches, Paskkarringar, which translates as Easter hags. These witches flew on brooms, rakes and sometimes astride bewitched cows and hogs. When pigs fly?

Not religious in the least? What about that mega-lottery ticket you bought last week? Do you buy your tickets based on your girlfriend’s birthday? The numeric translation of your pet’s name? Or how about Sox fans who wear the same cap for every game–to keep the team on a winning streak? If you’re a student, do you have a good-luck ritual before taking a test?

I have a ring, passed down through my family from my great-grandmother, that I wear when I need power from beyond. I also still talk to my mother, who passed away 16 years ago, when life gets burdensome. After an extended one-sided conversation while driving to work, I pulled into the parking garage, wondering if she had been listening. As I switched off the ignition, a feather drifted down and landed on the windshield in front of me. I admit, I watch for signs.

Writers need magical thinking. We need the connections that stitch a story together. From the imagined universe of JRR Tolkien to the seductive realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and everything over, under and around the world of pretend, storytelling thrives on magical thinking.

Writers get a free pass on the magical thinking — as should we all.

Cemeteries are a grand place to start. Recently, I toured historic Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, final home to the famous and less-so. My daughter included it on a must-do list for my visit with her. She wanted to tour the Civil War section. I fell in love with the statuary and the stories they seemed to broadcast with outcast arms. Green-Wood was at one time the country’s second most visited tourist location. With rolling landscape and curving paths, it invites you to stay and wander.  Guards at the entrances can provide a map, an oddity for a cemetery. Tours are available, odder still.

I imagined that if I returned after dark, to sit quietly, I would hear the murmurs. Horror stories–from Edgar Allan Poe to Stephen King–are no more than reality taken to another plane. And no less than our imaginations set free. Walking through Green-Wood, or any cemetery, brings me closer to the possibilities of stories I’d not previously contemplated.

As we were leaving Green-Wood, a young woman, about the age of my daughters, hailed us. She was standing by her car. She told us she had been visiting the grave of her mother who had died the week before. She said that when she prepared to leave, her car wouldn’t start. I maneuvered my Honda nose-to-nose with her stalled car; my husband attached the jumper cables. Her car roared to life.

In those split seconds, I had imagined a story of loss. A story that would turn dark as the sun set. A story of grieving and hope. A story of the dead walking with the living. The mother had died too young….why? The answer would come to me if I stayed into the night, locked in with the quieted souls and their stories. Friday the 13th is an excuse to think about ghosts; a stroll through a cemetery is a way to meet them.

The first time I heard a bodhran (pronounced bow, like cow, run), I was a young teenager.  My Aunt Mary had brought me to a Chieftans’ concert. I didn’t know what to expect–maybe Danny Boy and Tour a Lour a Loura. With tin whistle and flute and these fabulous drums, the Chieftans filled the hall with a sound I’d never experienced. I’ve been a fan of the Chieftans and bodhrans ever since.

The Chieftans brought a whole new understanding of being Irish. Ancient. Pre-British rule. Pagan. The Chieftans paved the way for other bands. My favorites are two bands who earned their following in the Irish bars of NYC: the raucous, rebellious Black47 and the Prodigals with their intricate rhythms and impressive musical pedigrees. Of course, you can’t live in Massachusetts without giving the Dropkick Murphys their due as well.

When it came time to plan my wedding four years ago, I called up one of the most respected drummers, Mance Grady, master bodhran player and builder.  He devised drumming sequences for both the groom and bride’s entry, without any more direction than: “Art’s entry should stand up to the bagpipe; mine should stand alone.”  My man strode across the field to the thrumming of the bodhran, exactly as I had pictured. Mance’s drum tattoo for me matched the steady, proud beat of my heart.

“Bread and roses” was the call of the women factory workers — many of them Irish — in the early 1900s. Being Irish, for me, means brown bread and bodhrans. I bake scones and soda bread–but those were the fancier tea breads in the Irish countryside. The staple was, still is, brown bread (recipe below). It’s not the New England style steamed bread, but an unpretentious loaf of quick bread. When you slather it with great butter and lay on a wafer of smoked salmon, it is pure bliss. You can find mixes for it but there’s really no reason to do that. The recipe is as deceptively simple as the beat of the bodhran.

Cead Mile Failte …. from me to you

My Honda CRV brought me from Connecticut to my new home in Massachusetts. It was my post-divorce car that became part of my new relationship. It settled, somewhat self-consciously, next to its flashier step-sibling, a BMW 318 ti. It endured the check-ups and surgeries of the aging–new brakes, exhaust system, alternator. It is now approaching 180,000, not failing but chugging along with doggedness.

I took a Mini out for a spin yesterday at Mini of Bedford, NH. Not a lot of dealers for them, yet. Salesmen Bill Lepene at Mini Bedford gave the breed a good name though.

The upstart imports have caught my eye, day after day on my morning commute. Sassy, fresh, young, dressed in bold colors. The one I drove sprinted down the road with hip swivelling turns. Its dashboard grinned at me with an oversized speedometer and rally guards over toggle switches.  The sunroof opened to reveal a filmy net to protect against….what I’m not sure… but it provided a semblance of personal responsibility to the Minis-just-wanna-have-fun attitude.

This was a test drive only, I told myself. Yet when I got home, I went to the internet to search for more. At Mini USA you can build a Mini like ordering up a mate by e-mail. I started with the new model, the Countryman (ignoring the Euro sexism of the name). It’s the one that will hold a chocolate lab, lhasa apso and my husband. It will accommodate trips to Costco or the annual pilgrimage to our beach house in Maine. It runs on all-wheel drive, a necessity should snow ever return to our region. And of course, there is the fun stuff like racing stripes or checkered flag painted on the roof.

I remember every car growing up, from the ones with broad seats, sans seatbelts, that carried our family on trips and around town. Sunday afternoon entertainment consisted of loading us all in the car and cruising at a sedate speed for hours through the countryside. My parents had a woodie with a canvas roof that had to be tarred, and a bullet-shaped Henry J (briefly). There were the station wagons with the third seat, which we called the “wayback.” My first car was a hand-me-down from an aunt. It was a giant ugly gold Chevy BelAir. Then came marriage and kids and Subarus. And eventually, my faithful Honda. Now, I’m looking at changing it up.

Minis appeal to my literary taste. They have an Agatha Christie model and a Strangelove. I gave my character, Phred Rivers, a Mini long before I considered one for myself. For her page on Facebook, her profile photo is the famous Mini dashboard.

Is a Mini me? Maybe.

I realized that I didn’t want to pin things on a virtual bulletin board and look at a billion other images of what intrigues my friends and the greater world. I do want to know what my friends–here I mean the people who are actually engaged in my life and not simply a thumbnail on a webpage–are excited about, dreading, plotting, mourning or celebrating.

What if we spent more low-tech time connecting with our friends, neighbors and coworkers? I promise it won’t convert you into a Luddite–that’s nearly impossible if we want to be part of the world. Here’s 10 ideas for low-tech connection, starting with Valentine’s Day. How low can you go?

1.  Make a simple valentine. Print a photo–you and your love on a favorite vacation. Or snap a quick photo–this is an art square titled “Hearts Afire” that was a special present and is perfect for a card!
2. Call a friend, from home, when you have time to talk. How many of us do this only from the car when we’re stuck in traffic?
3. Buy gorgeous stationery, try Papyrus or Kate Spade, and write a note, a letter, or just “thinking of you.” How wonderful would it be to get a lovely piece of mail tucked between all the catalogs and bills?
4. Forget e-recipe trades and bake something to share. Surprise a neighbor with cookies or muffins, try out a new one from All Recipes where they include nutrition info (for you, not your neighbor!).
5. Put down your kindle and go to your local library to hang out with other people reading real books.
6. Send real birthday cards, not e-cards or Facebook posts. You can order personalized stamps that make them even more special.
7. If you work in an office, step away from your e-mail and walk down the hall to talk with your coworker in her office.
8.  Set aside one morning a week to share early morning coffee with a friend — rather than rushing through your local coffee shop or queueing up at Starbucks or Dunkin’, you could spend an extra half hour and connect.
9. Why wait for Christmas to send out a family news letter? Try a spring update instead–or plus.
10. Consider switching off the computer(s) and pulling out a game like Scrabble (yes you can play it off-line too) or Clue (a truly silly, retro game) or cards for Hearts or Crazy 8s.

When we aren’t multi-tasking and e-crazy, the world is brighter. We breathe rather than gasp. We linger longer with people we love. How low can you go?

Take this past week, for example. As the sun set, the entire sky blazed red. Not pink, but a pomegranate hue, without a cloud in sight. The light had left the day except for the red scrim, so that everything else appeared as silhouette art snipped by a talented hand with sharp shears. I rounded a bend on Route 2 east by Nagog Pond in Acton. It reminded me that Acton was the inspiration for the Robert Frost poem “The Vanishing Red,”  though that was about Native Americans, not sunsets. The pond caught the red sheen.

I reached for my cell phone which I’d already clicked over to camera. I managed to shoot the dashboard, steering wheel and car window frame, but couldn’t slow enough to capture the scene. For the rest of my drive home, I watched for the right combination of open vista, red sky, and a place to pull off. On the last leg of my drive, about a half mile from home, I paused on the narrow side road, rolled down my window and grabbed a shot. By then, the sun had dropped low enough that the red had faded. It was a nice image, but not the one I wanted to capture.

What did I do before my smart phone? Occasionally, I kept my Nikon in the car. When the weather dips below freezing, that’s not a good idea. My back-up was always that complex device called my mind. I focus on the scene as it swirls by and tell myself “remember this.” There is no way to share it though, unless I happen to have a passenger and then I’m apt to say “LOOK!”

A short list of some of the many images, recorded only in my mind:

Daisy growing out of the concrete and tarmac tunnel that is Storrow Drive

Tree, bare branches coated in ice reaching to the sky

Mist rolling through the cattails along the bank of the Concord River

Newborn calves in the meadow outside the State Penitentiary working farm

Some of my favorite images are signs. A church in Belmont has great messages about redemption and bingo … not combined. Farmer markets post messages that make me smile. Incorrectly spelled signs amuse the editor in me.

Captured or not, the images that make my heart thrum loader and my breath quicken do stay with me. Often they reappear in my writing. A writer can never make up something as good as what nature already offers.

It might be best if I resolved to stick with my memory and leave the phone alone. But there is this one image that I see over and over … it’s a weathered brown barn at the edge of a field. Early in the morning, the sun bathes one side of it in a way that would make an artist reach for a palette … or a driver reach for her phone.

When I’m not writing, I work as VP of Communications for the Alzheimer’s Association, MA/NH. I spend a good deal of time asking people who have experienced Alzheimer’s if they are willing to be interviewed by media. I tell them that public awareness only happens when people are willing to tell their stories. As a communications professional, I know that to be a fact.

Yet, I’ve been reluctant to tell my story. As a result, I’ve been feeling like a fraud. I ask people to talk about their fatal brain disease yet I didn’t want to talk about my own brain attack. Nearly 800,00 people in the U.S. have strokes each year–a percentage of those are fatal. Some can prevented; some can be stopped in their tracks when treatment occurs within three hours of the stroke.

I have talked about my stroke with a small circle of friends. I’ve learned how common it is. Like Alzheimer’s, there’s a misconception that stroke happens to “old people.” Well, I’m not old and neither were a number of people whose stories I’ve heard. One friend had a stroke at 43; another friend’s husband had one in his 30s. It’s the 4th leading cause of death.

Consider this my public service announcement: Did you know that anyone can suffer a stroke? Learn the warning signs. It’s as easy as FAST — Face, Arms, Speech, Time.

• Check for drooping on one side of the Face or when you stick out your tongue, it hangs to one side.
• Are your Arms equal in strength?
•  Is your Speech slow, confused or incoherent?
• Time is of the essence. If you or someone you know is experiencing any of these symptoms, call 9-1-1. Tell the paramedics the signs.

My stroke began with headache, dizziness and vomiting–all signs of migraine, which I sometimes have. Then my speech became confused. I did go to a local ER.  Unfortunately, the MD there did not recognize the symptoms and sent me home. I ended up at Boston Medical Center, whose tagline is “Exceptional Care Without Exception.” In no time, I was in the stroke unit. But that was three days late.

So, I would add to FAST — go to a major medical center!

I was lucky. My symptoms were minor. I recovered completely and quickly. It was truly a wake-up call to tackle those annoying lifestyle things. I considered myself healthy before, but I’m at it with a vengeance now.

Please take care! For more information visit the American Stroke Association.

I first met her on an Easter Sunday at my grandparents’ farm. Our house, like the homes of most of my father’s siblings, was in a sort of rural farm version of a Kennedy compound. The houses were built on pockets of land carved from my grandparents’ land. On that Easter, Bobby arrived with this beautiful young woman in tow. He introduced her all around. I thought we were the luckiest family in the world to have Linda as part of us. She was movie star pretty. And an artist–a calling that seemed exotic in a town where people were farmers or ran local businesses.

Theirs was the first wedding I ever attended. Added to Linda’s specialness was the fact that she was “protestant,” marrying into a family of immigrant Catholic Poles. On her wedding day at the Congregational Church on Main Street, she glowed. The fact that my cousin married outside the Catholic church only strengthened my conviction that she was something special. Worth it. The fact that she did not convert just added to my awe of her.

I moved on from my hometown when I went to college; Linda and Bobby by then had built their own house in the compound and begun a family. She became a leading light for the artistic spirit of town; he became First Selectman.  Bobby died tragically young in his fifties. I didn’t see Linda until years later, in a most unexpected way.

On a whim, I’d entered a short story contest: The Laurinda Collins Whitney Short Story Competition. It caught my eye because it was based in Somers, Connecticut–the hometown I’d left behind. The story, “Neelie James,” was inspired by my own life. My submission was a winner and I was invited to attend a ceremony at the Somers Public Library. To my surprise, Linda was there, running the program. The submissions had been “blind.”  It wasn’t until the winners were picked that she realized I was a winner.

We visited over punch and cookies and it would be years again before I saw her. Once at a family reunion, but mostly we’ve met at family funerals.

Today is hers. I’m missing her. An artist in a small town, she shone like the precious gem that she was. She aged with beauty as a mother, grandmother. I’m grateful to Bobby for bringing her to us.

Lovely Linda …. rest in peace.

Betsy (Percoski) Fitzgerald-Campbell