Dig through your couch cushions, your purse, or the floor of your car and look at the year printed on the first coin you find. What were you doing that year?
1994 is the year that connects who I am now with what came before. It’s the year we bought our house, moving from a one bedroom apartment with no yard, no improvement projects, to a place that’s never, ever finished. Sometimes I long for the simplicity of those times, even though there was the lady upstairs who worked out on a treadmill, the manager downstairs so we had to be mindful of our noise, and the American Heart Association across the street, with bored employees making phone calls all day, looking out their windows into ours.
I was writing my first novel that year, neither starting nor finishing it, and I worked a temp job activating cell phone orders that came into a room by fax. What a quaint idea. I was also on an adult crew team, training for a big Masters Nationals regatta, which seemed very important at the time, though I haven’t rowed since then. Our cat was young and our kids were still just a vague maybe someday idea. All a long time ago.