Chapter 1
The Alchemy of Memory and Meaning
What happens when a master storyteller turns her gaze inward? Ann Patchett's essay collection "These Precious Days" offers a rare glimpse into the mind of one of America's most beloved literary voices. Oprah Winfrey called it "the book that I've been waiting for from Ann Patchett," while The New York Times praised it as "a heartfelt and deeply personal reflection on life, love, and what matters most." The collection became an instant bestseller upon its 2021 release, cementing Patchett's reputation not just as a novelist but as an essayist of remarkable depth. What makes these essays particularly compelling is how they transform ordinary moments-a childhood Thanksgiving, a Paris vacation, a houseguest during a pandemic-into profound meditations on mortality, creativity, and connection. Through Patchett's crystalline prose, we discover how the seemingly mundane details of our lives can reveal the most essential truths about who we are.
Chapter 2
Three Fathers, Three Lessons
My father, born to English immigrants during the Depression, became a Los Angeles police officer who collected leather-bound classics he rarely read. He wanted me to pursue practical careers-dental hygienist, court reporter-anything but writing. "I'm not saying you can't have a hobby," he would say about my literary aspirations. "Just don't think it's your job." Only after I achieved financial success did he change his tune: "Good thing she never listens to me."
My stepfather Mike, by contrast, believed in my writing from the beginning. "Six kids," he would tell me, "and you're the only one I'll never have to worry about." A brilliant neurosurgeon who lectured worldwide and flew helicopters, Mike filled our homes with hidden guns, broke plates in anger, and buried gold coins under marigolds. Despite his success, what he truly wanted was to be a writer himself, dreaming that centuries later people would see credits reading "By Michael Glasscock."
Then came Darrell, my mother's third husband, who offered something entirely different-acceptance without expectation. He didn't see me as my work or as an extension of my mother. He simply found wonder in each of us equally, asking nothing in return.
These three men shaped me through their contradictions. My father taught me independence by withholding approval. Mike convinced me I was exceptional while showing me what not to do as a writer through his own terrible novels. Darrell demonstrated unconditional acceptance. All three died in the order my mother had married them, and in the inverse order of their health. After emptying Darrell's room at the assisted-living center, distributing his unused supplies and donating his belongings, I was done with all of it-years spent seeing these men through and then seeing them out.
What I see now is how we shaped each other into stories-my father gave me strength, Mike gave me adoration, Darrell gave me acceptance. But beyond these narratives were countless moments of genuine connection: dancing with my father in the kitchen, Mike bringing home a piglet for my birthday after I'd read Charlotte's Web, sitting around Darrell's crowded table feeling, for once, no desire to slip away.
Chapter 3
The Joy of Cooking (and Reading)
At seventeen, during my freshman year at Sarah Lawrence, I faced my first Thanksgiving alone. Though homesick enough that my cousins had bought me a plane ticket home for Halloween, I couldn't justify returning again so soon before Christmas break.
With no invitation to anyone else's home, I made a bold decision-I would cook Thanksgiving dinner myself. I invited five other stranded students, checked out The Joy of Cooking from the library, and walked to the A&P with my savings from babysitting and my campus job.
In that freezing dorm with the heat turned down for the holiday, I attempted everything from scratch-pie crust with frozen butter, yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, and a turkey I had never handled before. I even pocketed silverware from the cafeteria to serve my guests.
Looking back, I'm struck by my youthful audacity-not just staying alone in an empty dorm, but insisting on making every dish from scratch despite my inexperience. I had paid so little attention to my mother's cooking all those years, and now with just enough quarters for one call home, I saved it for after dinner to tell her how well it had all turned out.
What I learned that day was self-reliance through books. Following The Joy of Cooking step by step, I discovered that reading carefully was the key to cooking well. No shortcuts or improvisations-I measured precisely, beat egg whites for exactly seven minutes, added exactly two teaspoons of chopped sage. Books became my partners, showing me what I was capable of.
The dinner itself was imperfect-burned rolls, cold mashed potatoes, undercooked green beans-but we thought it brilliant. We left the oven door open for warmth, drank wine, and played at being grown-ups. A bunch of strays mimicking traditions from home, too cool to acknowledge our gratitude but surely aware of our good fortune. The next year, my friend Erica invited me home for Thanksgiving, and for years after graduation her family kept inviting me back because I made excellent gravy-a skill I never fully taught them because I wanted to be invited back.
Chapter 4
Lessons in Letting Go
The idea began over lunch with my friend Elissa, who arrived wearing a striking fitted black coat. When I complimented it, she confessed she'd bought it at the end of her "no-shopping year"-a full year without buying shoes, clothes, purses, or jewelry. Though she shrugged off my admiration, saying "It wasn't hard," her experiment inspired me to try smaller versions, giving up shopping for Lent over several years.
It wasn't until New Year's Day 2017 that I committed to a full year. The end of 2016 had left me anxious about our country's celebration of "unfeeling billionairedom," and I found myself mindlessly scrolling through shopping websites at night, looking at shoes and purses I didn't need. Like a late night of cigarettes and gin, this habit left me feeling worse afterward.
I created my own arbitrary rules: no clothing or whimsical electronics, but groceries (including flowers) were allowed. I could buy shampoo and printer cartridges, but only after running out. Travel, restaurant meals, and books (since I'm a writer and bookstore co-owner) were permitted. I could have used the library instead of buying books, but I didn't.
Not shopping saved tremendous time and mental space. I packed for important events without the customary panic shopping. When a friend bought me tennis shoes, I felt genuinely grateful rather than dismissive. Most profound was seeing my startling abundance once I stopped acquiring more-a humbling, almost sickening revelation.
After my year ended, I found I'd lost interest in shopping entirely, just as I'd once lost interest in cigarettes after quitting. Without the constant craving for new things, I could see life's details more clearly. The experiment helped me distinguish between wants and needs, making it easier to be generous. I still have plenty-I know the difference between choosing not to shop and being unable to afford necessities-but the experience put me on a path toward figuring out how I can truly help others.
This journey toward simplification continued when my childhood friend Tavia's father Kent died. Despite his chronic lack of space, Kent remained devoted to bulk purchasing-after his death, his daughters found more than thirty power strips among his possessions. Throughout that summer, I kept returning to Kent's condo as his daughters excavated decades of accumulated possessions. Holding hands in the parking lot, Tavia and I swore we would not leave such a burden for others to sort through.
Night after night, I opened closets and drawers, sorting through the accumulation of a lifetime. The laundry room yielded ancient insect repellent, petrified glue, and the collar of a beloved dog long passed-a graveyard of forgotten items. As I created space, others rushed to fill it-my mother and sister delivered boxes of my childhood writings. When Charlotte, my sister's friend's eight-year-old daughter, visited and became enchanted with my typewriter, I faced my greatest test. My beloved Hermes 3000, on which I wrote every college paper and story, represented both who I wanted to be and who I am. But Karl reminded me of the Olivetti I gave him years ago-still new-which became my sacrifice instead. When I gave Charlotte the typewriter, she looked as if I'd given her the moon.
Chapter 5
The Choice Not Made
At an Important Book Festival, I arrived late to share the stage with a successful author I'll call "Q." When discussing what makes "a real writer," Q insisted writing must be treated as a formal job with an office, regular hours, and even specific tools like a "visual dictionary." Our friendly disagreement escalated when he declared, "You can't be a real writer if you don't have children" because "until you have children, you don't know what it means to love." Though I could have eviscerated his argument by listing childless literary giants like Emily Dickinson and James Baldwin, our exchange ended in an uncomfortable stalemate.
Growing up "raised by nuns"-spending extra hours at my convent school-I observed women who had chosen not to have children yet seemed perfectly content. Watching their comfortable camaraderie after students left, I found "certain nonreligious aspects of religious life inspiring"-though I always wanted to be a writer, not a nun.
When my friend Debra shared her struggle deciding whether to have a child, I explained my absolute certainty about not wanting children through a metaphor: people keep insisting I look for car keys in an empty drawer, telling me to "try harder" when I report finding nothing. "There's never anything in the drawer, and there's never going to be anything in the drawer." Debra responded, "That must be really nice to know," and I confirmed it is indeed "wonderful."
Having a dog is not the same thing as having a child. Writing a book is not the same thing as having a child. Owning a bookstore is not the same thing as having a child. Having wonderful stepchildren does not make me a mother. I know these things to be true, no matter how many times people tell me otherwise. I am not using any of these things to fill a hole left by not having children, because there is no hole. I can love those people, that dog, those books, for exactly who and what they are.
Contemplating Andre Previn's enormous accomplishments alongside his ten children, I recognized my own energy limitations. I always knew I had to choose between children and writing. "To have a child and neglect her in favor of a novel would be cruel, but to simply skip the child in favor of a novel was to avoid harm altogether." My friend Elizabeth McCracken once said she'd consider children if she found someone willing to take half the responsibility. I couldn't imagine such a man existed, though Elizabeth eventually found hers and had "two spectacular children."
After eleven years of dating, Karl and I married when I was forty-one. People immediately said, "How wonderful! You can still have a child." Karl and I were well-matched: I didn't want children and he already had them. Throughout my life, my family enthusiastically supported my decision not to have children. Whether this was because they thought I'd be a bad parent, wanted my resources for themselves, genuinely supported my decision, or simply didn't like children's "messiness, noise, trouble," I was never certain, though the last option seemed most likely.
Chapter 6
The Writer's Apprenticeship
I first discovered Snoopy in Paradise, California, during childhood summers with my grandparents-a town later erased by fire. As an introverted child who wasn't a strong reader, I devoured "Peanuts" books from my grandmother's collection, memorizing them completely. Snoopy became my role model-the cool dog who elevated awkward Charlie Brown's social status.
Snoopy was more than a cartoon character to me-he was a writer, and I intended to follow his path. I wonder: did I become a novelist because I wanted to be like this confident dog I associated with my happiest childhood days? Or did I gravitate toward Snoopy because I already sensed I would be a writer? Through Snoopy, Charles Schulz elevated imagination for everyone.
Snoopy fully inhabited multiple realities-a World War I flying ace, Joe Cool on campus, a figure skater, astronaut, and suburban pet whose doghouse contained oriental rugs and a van Gogh. Most importantly, he was a writer who sat straight-backed at his typewriter, beginning his stories with "It was a dark and stormy night."
Snoopy taught me the entire writing life - critical reading (pondering Anna Karenina), imagination, rewriting, solitude, rejection letters, and the pure joy of crafting a perfect sentence. He showed me that writers don't need fancy studios by oceans or mountains, that failure is survivable, and that the work itself matters most. My love of writing and dogs became intertwined through him. I've lived with many dogs I considered equals or betters, naming my current rescue "Sparky" after Charles Schulz himself. I shaped myself following a dog in the funny papers-Snoopy was my aspiration, my role model. I heard the dog whistle, silent to everyone around me, and followed.
My introduction to Eudora Welty came through "A Visit of Charity" in a seventh-grade textbook. Reading it at twelve, I sympathized with young Marian, terrified of the desperate old women in the nursing home. Rereading it now, closer to the age of those "crones," my sympathies have shifted-this is why we must reread great works as we change while the text remains constant.
When Welty was seventeen, my mother gave me her collected stories. I attended her reading at Vanderbilt, naively approaching the stage beforehand for an autograph. "No, no, dear," she gently corrected me, "You always want to sign on the title page." That night she read "Why I Live at the P.O.," thrilling us all, though I now realize her most anthologized stories don't fully represent the darkness and depth of her complete work.
Reading her collected stories from beginning to end reveals Welty's extraordinary range-comedy to horror, family drama to mythology-all united by compassionate truth. What I once thought was fabulism I now recognize as verisimilitude. After twenty-five years of visiting Mississippi regularly, I understand she captured her state as accurately as Didion did California or Bellow did Chicago. Her descriptions of the landscape-the heat, mosquitoes, the layered natural world-are precisely true.
Chapter 7
The Art of Friendship
While hiking alone in Utah, I encountered a chicken on the trail. Unable to take a photo with my old flip phone, I called my lifelong friend Tavia for identification. She determined it was likely a grouse, not a prairie chicken. Tavia is my lifeline to the natural world-a polymath who runs a nature preserve, writes plant guides, and hosts an Emmy-nominated gardening show. Our friendship began in second grade after remarkable coincidences: both born in Los Angeles in December 1963, both with one older sister, both experiencing parental divorce that brought us to the same Catholic school in Nashville.
We were an unlikely match. Tavia was extraordinarily beautiful-"the captain of the cheerleading team," "sweetheart queen," "sorority president"-trailed by besotted boys and beloved by girls for her outsize sense of fun and laughter that would make her "bend at the waist, her auburn curls sweeping the floor." I was her serious counterpart, without her buoyancy or male attention. Yet this wasn't a simple case of "the pretty one" and "the smart one"-Tavia is "scorching smart." She defied the cultural expectation that beautiful women must be punished with unhappiness or lack depth. Instead, she "worked hard" and approached life "with what I can only describe as glee."
After high school, we both married young and divorced, neither having children. Tavia found success as an actress and in early tech in San Francisco before abandoning both careers to move to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. There, she immersed herself in studying the natural world, learning Latin names and habits of plants and animals, reconnecting with her childhood memories of "following her grandmother in the garden." She had "managed to peel off other people's expectations" to discover what a truly authentic life looked like for her-a life deeply connected to nature. Despite our different paths and sometimes only exchanging birthday cards, our fifty-year friendship has endured with remarkable elasticity and trust.
My grandmother was my knitting role model, with her impressive collection of tools: a flat fake-leather folder of colored aluminum needles, a yarn bowl made by my grandfather, pattern books, plastic stitch markers, a hand-cranked ball winder, a metal needle gauge, and a stitch counter. She spent evenings knitting sweaters, doll dresses, and slippers. To my young eyes, her ability to transform yarn into clothing was pure magic-like spinning straw into gold.
When I needed to quit smoking years later, I turned to knitting as my salvation. The memory of a Scottish woman smoking while knitting had created such an unattractive picture that I knew the two activities could never coexist. When cravings struck, I'd reach for needles instead of cigarettes, promising myself just five more rows. Simple patterns weren't distracting enough, so I graduated to complicated cables that required total concentration. I'd finish a sweater, attend a party, start smoking again, then return to knitting. The two became inextricably linked in my mind. Eventually, I quit both smoking and knitting-neither served my writing.
When my beloved friend Lucy died at thirty-nine, I returned to both cigarettes and knitting. My friend Erica sent chunky pink wool and thick wooden needles with simple instructions: knit two, purl two. Forever. The yarn was perfect for grieving-substantial enough to feel accomplishment even on empty days. Like Penelope, I ripped it back and started again, not wanting to finish. Erica, the finest knitter I've known, had "thrown down a length of yarn and told me to knit myself back up." Years later, I still wear that enormous scarf on cold days, thinking about how it holds all the people it represents-my grandmother, Marti, Lucy, Erica-and "all of our collective love and hope and disappointment."
Chapter 8
These Precious Days
Sooki exuded such self-sufficiency that I rarely worried about her. Perhaps it came from her job-working for Tom Hanks for nearly twenty years, arranging accommodations in Morocco, finding drivers, organizing meals, listing local attractions. Navigating Nashville was simple for someone who had prepared Thanksgiving dinner for a film crew in Berlin.
After flying to New York for more events, I found myself in Connecticut at what would become "the last book event on earth"-four hundred people packed side by side despite growing coronavirus concerns. By dinner's end, my next event was canceled. Back in Nashville that night, Sooki's phone kept dinging with messages-Tom and Rita had contracted coronavirus in Australia, where he was about to film a movie playing Elvis's manager.
Chemotherapy hit Sooki hardest on Fridays. Her voice would quiet, her gaze would drop. "I need to go home," she'd say, as if home were somewhere she could walk to. "You've been so nice, but you didn't sign on for this." I insisted we wanted her to stay. Direct flights to Los Angeles were suspended, her compromised immune system made commercial travel dangerous, and UCLA had postponed her clinical trial as hospitals redirected resources to COVID patients. "You can't kill yourself because you're afraid of being an inconvenience," I told her. We'd agree to revisit the conversation Sunday, by which time the urgency would pass.
Though we spent our days together, I still knew little about Sooki. Our interactions stayed present-focused: walks, painting progress, dinner preparations. She rarely discussed family beyond mentioning her ninety-four-year-old mother in New York and reading to grandchildren in San Diego over Zoom. Tom Hanks remained completely absent from our conversations-when I asked if he knew where she was, she looked startled and said, "I mentioned it to him." She maintained a pleasant warmth while keeping her distance, setting up life on our bottom floor where we rarely went. After dinner she would disappear so quietly it seemed like a magic trick.
Walking Sparky one evening, I asked whether she was private by nature or because of her job. She revealed her varied career-working at the Bronx Zoo, being "Batgirl" for NYC's Bureau of Animal Affairs, making a documentary about her father who taught disabled children to ride bikes, appearing as a zombie in "Dawn of the Dead," location scouting, baking wedding cakes, running a children's clothing company, teaching ceramics. Despite this impressive list, she felt she "should have done more" with her life.
What Sooki truly wanted was to paint. Though naturally talented, she had studied animal behavior in college instead because it was more challenging. "I studied what did not come naturally," she explained. Painting became something she would "get back to in time," but life intervened with work, marriage, children-and then pancreatic cancer.
Ann reflects on her psychedelic experience with Sooki, who was battling pancreatic cancer. After taking mushroom powder with intentions to help Sooki face her mortality, Ann ironically has a terrifying encounter with death while Sooki has a beautiful spiritual experience. Ann describes her journey as "eight hours of hard labor" where she felt she was "dying" and experienced herself as "a horse's skull, dry and white and empty," while Sooki gained clarity about her loved ones and found meaning in her cancer journey.
As Sooki prepares to leave Nashville, Ann realizes she'd been afraid to ask personal questions to protect herself from the pain of their inevitable separation. On Sooki's final day, she wears her beautiful black velvet coat with peonies that Ann had admired months earlier. Their goodbye at the airport is tearful but hopeful, with Sooki's cancer markers dramatically improved from 2100 to 170.
After Sooki returns to California, they exchange emails where Sooki describes a profound dream about Ann's soul being "complete" with "no empty spiritual space." Ann reflects on their extraordinary friendship: "Astonishing to come across such a friendship at this point in life. At any point in life." The essay ends with Sooki's improving health markers and the poignant exchange: "Tell me how the story ends. It doesn't. It will. It hasn't yet."
Ann and friends Patty and Georgienne repeatedly plan to take their sick friend Sooki to the beach, but complications from her pancreatic cancer treatment make it difficult. They wait for the right moment between IV fluids, nausea, and pain. When Sooki suddenly says "Okay, let's go," they quickly gather medications, blankets, and supplies.
At the beach, they wrap Sooki in blankets on a lounge chair "like a tiny movie star making her transatlantic crossing incognito." Friends gather around her, talking and laughing-which Sooki enjoys even when not participating. Patty's husband John sings "All My Loving" on his guitar, a moment that pierces Ann with sorrow while they all join the chorus.
Two days later, despite everyone's doubts, Sooki finds one last reserve of strength to attend her own art show at ROSEGALLERY. She applies makeup and wears her velvet coat embroidered with peonies-the same coat she painted herself wearing in a self-portrait displayed in the gallery. Her mother and sisters join her as she receives embraces from admirers. Ann quiets the crowded room so Rose and she can speak, followed by Sooki herself thanking everyone. The gallery erupts in sustained applause "for her alone," as Sooki, "who has spent so much of her life weathering applause for other people," puts her hand to her heart and accepts it "with radiance."
After the show, Ann says goodbye to Sooki, as planned-a handoff to her mother and sisters. But unexpectedly, Ann's travel plans change, giving them "precious days that no one expected." When Ann returns, Sooki has grown measurably weaker. They make one final trip to the beach with friends, wrapping Sooki up again, singing "Harper Valley P.T.A.," writing important letters, and savoring "the joy of being together." In the driveway, they say goodbye one last time. "We keep doing this," Ann says, trying not to cry. "Let's keep doing this," Sooki replies. "Let's do this forever." Sooki Raphael died April 25, 2021.
