Than he wanted to come home.

He begs each day to come home -- not home, not to us, but to transfer to the college where his lovely and loving girlfriend goes, which offers him not one single opportunity in anything he had ever hoped to do before he met her.

All the parents I know say, give it a month, give it two. But he's already filling out applications -- and even his girlfriend is a little alarmed. Only she can make him happy, he says. And nothing he ever cared about before can make him happy without her.

It's a story old as time, a tale as old as rhyme, as the song says. But hearing your beloved son tell it, with panic and pain in his voice, makes it new. Other parents complain that their sons don't write, don't call, seem to have vanished into thin air. But he was always a "home boy," a kid who loved his life as it was.

Days before he left, I begged him to take a year off and reconsider. Did he really want to go through the rigors of acting school? Did he really want to go so far (six hours) away from home? He was sure he'd be just fine.

He wasn't fine. Not even for a day. He has made great friends. He's attracted the attention of great girls. But none of them makes him as happy as his high-school girlfriend did. I could explain. I'm a widow. I never imagined anyone could make me even a tenth as happy as his father -- whom he scarcely remembers -- did. Now, I can't imagine life without my husband, who adopted this son and all my children nine years ago. And neither can they.

The short view is so short.

Parting hurts like surgery the first day. The next day, it's 100 percent better. The next day, it's 100 percent better yet. But I fear he will never get emotionally beyond that first day, when every part of him hurts.

If he leaves, and goes to the place where nothing awaits him except the girl he loves, and regrets it, she's wise enough to know he'll blame her forever.

And so we have resolved not to abandon him, not to enable him. We try to stand firm, not to call too often, not to write too much. We miss him with a wicked twist. And we dare not let him know; or the whole house of cards would collapse.

How will he feel nine weeks from now? A semester from now? Friends tell us, easily, "We told our son, our daughters, that they couldn't change their minds until after a year." And that sounds so easy to say; but it is so rough to endure. It has driven even thoughts of my novel, newly born, from my mind.

Perhaps as parents, we simply are wimps.

We were probably better off in a generation gone away -- running a family farm, where the boys brought their brides home and built a house. This is not that world, though. And he has to walk like a man.

So do we.

yours,

Jackie M.

Where I live, there simply is a great deal of weather. If you're the kind of person who isn't willing to risk her life to visit a friend or make an appointment, well... you just wouldn't be the kind of person who went anywhere at all. The parallel result of the weather is the damage to the roads. Heat damages them, as does cold, as does rain, snow or extreme dryness. I'm happy to say that full employment among road construction workers where I live is an established fact.

Headed to a nearby city for a book event and a few radio chats, I noticed that the attempt to enlarge the road to about twelve lanes was underway. Since I don't live in Los Angeles, I wondered why it would be necessary to eliminate whole counties in order to give commuters greater access.

The huge new superhighway presumably also will have lights, which the old and not-so-superhighway does not -- or only at random and sporadic intervals.

The way people express their frustration with road construction is universal: It's to honk and swear at everyone in the vicinity, or settle for shaking an angry fist if it's cold outside. Much of this went on during the day. The police AND the road crews were swigging Mountain Dew as they attempted to keep up with the construction and the myriad fender benders caused by it.

But the ride home at night was the true test of evolution. While I'm a careful driver, switching the drive-able side of the road from left to right at the flip of an orange cone was like something kids would be discouraged from trying at home.

In fact, at one point, on a long stretch of road, I was confronted with a truly sci-fi scenario. The road ahead either was completely black, and I confined to navigating the only open lane, the narrow shoulder, or out of the dark night came the blaze of great insectile machines, the size of small vacation cabins.

I understood what it must be like to be a raccoon -- faced with the prospect of aggressive traffic on the left and a twenty-foot drop off on the right.

I made it home unscathed. I always do. Except mentally. Mentally, I come home from a driving trip a tyrant, ready to tilt at windmills or backhoes, become a tax dodger or sell my house to hire a driver.

The only light at the end of the dark highway is a reader. Seeing a reader soothes the weary road warrior to a state of grace.

Jackie M.

I couldn't be happier that Lifetime has just offered to make an original film of 'Still Summer.'

The producer involved is a woman of great ingenuity and integrity and is passionate about the projects she acquires, so, although it's entirely possible that this film may never be made, its much more likely that it will.

Although many writers dread the prospect of a film -- especially a TV film -- being made from their novels, I think that much of the most creative and edgy work in movies is taking place right now on the small screen. Many top actors also are doing some amazing work in TV films today.

And so, lash yourself to the mast and close your eyes and cross your fingers.

If we have a 'Still Summer' premiere party, you're all invited!

yours,

Jackie M.