The Quiet Crisis: Our Societal Decline in Listening

When was the last time you truly felt heard ?

Listening has always been more than a passive act. It is compromise, connection, and the quiet acknowledgment that another person’s experience matters. The moments in my life when I felt truly heard shaped me — they taught me to speak up, to advocate, and to believe that dialogue could change outcomes. But over the years, I’ve watched that belief erode, not because I changed, but because the world around me did. What once felt like a shared human skill has become a rare commodity.

This is the story of how I learned to listen, how I learned to speak, and how I watched a society slowly forget how to do both.

Early Lessons: The First Time I Was Heard

I grew up in a traditional household — the kind where “Father Knows Best” wasn’t a slogan but a structure. Children didn’t question decisions. You ate what was put in front of you. You joined the “clean plate club” whether you wanted to or not. Listening flowed one direction: downward.

So when I turned fifteen and my dad asked where I wanted to go for my birthday dinner, I treated the question like a fragile gift. I had heard about Japanese restaurants where you sat on pillows and ate with chopsticks. It sounded exotic, adventurous, and wildly outside our meat‑and‑potatoes comfort zone.

To my surprise, my dad said yes.

I will never forget the sight of my 6’4” father sitting cross‑legged on the floor, suspiciously food he didn’t recognize. In that moment, I felt genuinely heard. It lit something in me — the understanding that asking for what you want isn’t selfish, and being heard isn’t guaranteed, but when it happens, it changes you.

Finding My Voice in Community

A few years later, in college, I learned what collective listening could accomplish. When our state government proposed a significant tuition increase across all public universities, students across Ohio mobilized. Our Student Government officers organized a campaign the likes of which had never been seen on our campus. We wrote letters. We sent postcards. We petitioned the university president. We made ourselves impossible to ignore.

And it worked. Legislators were surprised by the outcry from their youngest constituents. The increase was halted. For the first time, I witnessed the power of many voices speaking with one purpose — and the power of leaders willing to listen.

Later, as a union steward with UFCW 880 in Cleveland, I saw listening in its most structured form. For three weeks, our negotiation team sat across from management, hashing out a labor agreement. We compromised on some things and stood firm on others. But everyone at the table was heard. Even in disagreement, there was respect. Even in conflict, there was dialogue.

Those experiences taught me that listening is the foundation of compromise, and compromise is the foundation of progress.

The Turning Point: When the World Got Louder

Then came parenthood — and the new millennium.

The internet arrived, and with it, a seismic shift in how people communicated. We moved from hearing to reading, from conversation to commentary. Information exploded. Noise multiplied. And somewhere in that transition, listening began to thin out.

In 2001, my daughter was in kindergarten. The world was still trembling from the shock of 9/11, and she was dealing with a bullying issue at school. I tried to communicate my concerns, but the environment felt saturated with fear, distraction, and institutional overwhelm. For the first time, I felt my voice evaporate before it reached anyone who could help.

Worse, the principal began treating my daughter as “the child of the troublemaker.” Instead of dialogue, there was defensiveness. Instead of compromise, there was right versus wrong. It was the first moment I remember thinking: I don’t know how to be heard anymore.

Twenty-Five Years of Volume Increasing while Understanding Decreases

Over the next quarter century, I watched the world grow louder. People shouted into the electronic void, desperate for acknowledgment. Social platforms rewarded outrage over nuance. Communities fractured into camps where disagreement was more than unwelcome, it was treated as completely invalid.

The cultural shift was subtle at first, then unmistakable.

• Listening became optional.

• Understanding became rare.

• Certainty became a weapon.

• And compromise, the very thing that once held families, workplaces, and governments together became a casualty of the noise.

We didn’t just stop listening to one another. We stopped believing the other side deserved to be heard.

Standing with the Rally, Even from the Road

Today across the country is another No Kings Rally — a gathering I support wholeheartedly, even though I’ll be traveling and unable to stand among the crowd. I agree with its principles as fiercely as others oppose them, and that contrast is exactly what brings me back to this reflection. My absence doesn’t dilute my conviction. If anything, it sharpens it. I stand with the rally’s purpose: a call for accountability, for shared power, for a government that listens rather than rules.

But I also understand the deeper truth: rallies can show our numbers, but they cannot force understanding. They can amplify a message, but they cannot guarantee it will be heard. And that is the thread running through every chapter of my life — from a fifteen‑year‑old girl asking for a Japanese dinner, to a college student fighting tuition hikes, to a union steward negotiating in good faith, to a mother trying to protect her child in a noisy, frightened world.

Listening made those moments possible. The absence of listening made them painful. And today, the absence of listening is what keeps us locked in political impasse.

I support the rally because I believe in what it stands for. I also recognize that the work it calls for — the work of rebuilding trust, of restoring dialogue, of remembering how to hear one another — cannot be done in a single afternoon on the courthouse steps. It happens in quieter spaces, in harder conversations, in the willingness to see the humanity in someone who disagrees with you.

So while I won’t be there in person, I offer this reflection as my presence. This is my sign. This is my voice in the crowd. This is my way of saying that I still believe in a country where listening is possible, where disagreement doesn’t require disdain, and where power is shared rather than seized.

Rallies can spark momentum. Listening is what sustains it.

And maybe that’s the real call to action — not just to raise our voices, but to open our ears. Because the path out of our political stalemate won’t be paved by volume. It will be paved by the courage to hear one another again.d

The Iliad of Our Age: A Pageant of Masks and Power

Prologue: The Gods Depart, the Masks Remain

In Homer’s Iliad, the gods meddled in mortal wars not out of justice but vanity. They played favorites, seduced heroes, and stoked conflict for sport. Mortals bled for causes they barely understood. Today, the gods are gone, but their masks remain. What we call politics is not governance but theater: a Greek tragedy repurposed for prime time.

Act I: The Rise of the Warriors and Elders

The stage fills with figures who claim gravitas, each donning a mask from myth:

• Donald Trump enters as the Aging Actor, a faded Agamemnon who refuses to exit, mistaking bluster for command.

• Bernie Sanders speaks as Nestor, weary yet insistent, urging the assembly toward forgotten ideals.

• Alexandria Ocasio‑Cortez stands as Cassandra, warning of looming crises, but condemned to be mocked or ignored.

• Chuck Schumer plays Dolus, the trickster spirit, feigning concern, weaving masks of care but revealing only hollow gestures.

• Tammy Duckworth embodies Achilles wounded yet unbowed, her scars a reminder of sacrifice.

• Mark Kelly appears as Ajax, the warrior‑senator, invoking duty and law against unlawful commands. His defiance is not rebellion but fidelity to the code, yet he is punished for speaking the truth aloud.

Act II: The Pageant of Illusion and Image

The spectacle shifts from warriors to illusionists, image‑makers, and opportunists:

• Marjorie Taylor Greene shrieks like the Harpies, swooping in to unsettle order.

• Pete Hegseth blusters as Thersites, loud but empty, mistaking noise for wisdom.

• Karoline Leavitt echoes like the cursed nymph, repeating borrowed words without conviction.

• Kristi Noem appears as Circe, the enchantress of image, weaving charm into power plays, but her spells reveal farce more than transformation.

• JD Vance wanders as Odysseus without honor, shifting loyalties for optics rather than survival.

• Gavin Newsom shines as Apollo in modern dress, radiant and polished, a master of image and presentation.

• J.B. Pritzker looms as Plutus, god of wealth, shaping the stage through resources and patronage.

Act III: The Chorus of Outsiders

The chorus murmurs as outsiders enter, complicating the script:

• Erika Kirk becomes a modern Helen, glamorous and grieving, suddenly central to the spectacle.

• Usha Vance lingers as Penelope, silent and sidelined, her loyalty threadbare and no longer useful to the plot.

• Robert F. Kennedy Jr. shifts as Proteus, cloaking himself in prophecy and persuasion, but slipping between forms so often that truth itself becomes unstable.

• Rob Reiner exits as the Director, a storyteller whose passing should have inspired reflection. Instead, his death was repurposed by Donald Trump as another line of grievance, not mourning but monologue.

Act IV: The Chorus Awakens

The chorus, the people, watches, half‑entranced, half‑aware. Some begin to see the seams in the costumes, the stage lights, the script rewritten nightly to flatter the leads. They recognize that this is not governance but theater: a tragicomedy of ambition and betrayal, where the masks of gods conceal only mortals desperate for applause.

Curtain Call: From Spectacle to Governance

The play has run too long. The masks are cracked, the stage lights harsh, the script exhausted. We have cheered, jeered, and gasped at the spectacle, mistaking theater for leadership. But we the people were never meant to be passive spectators.

It is time to rise from the seats. It is time to demand governance, not entertainment. It is time to strip away the costumes and insist on substance.

The Harpies may shriek, the Circe may enchant, the Proteus may shift, and the Aging Actor may cling to his role, but we hold the true power. The tragedy ends not when the actors exit, but when the audience refuses to be fooled.

The curtain must fall. The pageant must end. And we must insist: govern us, do not perform for us.

Folklore as a Mirror of the American Psyche

This essay began with holiday traditions. I was curious about how different cultures celebrate the season, expecting quirky contrasts. What I found instead was a window into how societies tell stories and enforce values. European traditions lean dark, full of consequence. American traditions lean whimsical, full of reassurance. That contrast led me to Grimm fairytales, Disney adaptations, and ultimately to a broader critique of the American psyche.

Introduction

Folklore and holiday traditions are not just seasonal amusements; they are cultural artifacts that reveal how societies understand morality, consequence, and identity. A comparison of European and American traditions shows a striking divergence. Europe embraces fear and consequence, while the United States sanitizes stories into charm and nostalgia. This difference illuminates broader patterns in national personality and political rhetoric.

Folklore and Consequence in Europe

European traditions such as Krampus in Austria, Père Fouettard in France, and the Yule Lads in Iceland embody a pedagogy of fear. These figures mete out punishment proportionate to misbehavior, reinforcing the idea that actions have tangible consequences. The original Grimm fairytales followed the same logic: stark moral lessons, often violent, designed to instill discipline and caution. In Europe, folklore acknowledges nuance—good behavior earns reward, bad behavior earns punishment.

Sanitization in the United States

When these tales crossed into American culture, they were transformed. Disney softened Grimm’s brutality into charm, replacing punishment with magic and optimism. Holiday traditions followed suit. Rudolph the Red‑Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman are not warnings at all; they are feel‑good stories, designed to delight rather than discipline. Even the Elf on the Shelf, which gestures toward surveillance, rarely delivers consequence.

This reflects a deeper cultural instinct: Americans resist narratives in which “we” suffer punishment. Our folklore reassures us that we are good, loved, and destined for happy endings. Consequence is erased, replaced by charm and nostalgia.

Cultural Implications

This divergence mirrors national personality. Europe accepts that misbehavior deserves punishment, even for “insiders.” America casts itself as the eternal good guy, deserving of triumph, while punishment is displaced onto outsiders—the villain, the scapegoat, the “illegal.” This tendency aligns with political messaging that thrives on nostalgia and innocence. Reagan’s “feel‑good” era projected warmth even amid Cold War tension. Contemporary slogans such as “Make America Great Again” resonate because they echo this sanitized storytelling—promising a return to greatness without reckoning with consequence.

The American Psyche

Our refusal to accept consequence shapes not only children’s stories but adult politics. When crises arise, the instinct is to externalize blame rather than confront systemic accountability. Folklore thus mirrors the national psyche: optimistic, nostalgic, resistant to punishment, and reliant on the construction of an “other” to bear the burden of failure.

Author’s Note

If our traditions mirror our national personality, then perhaps it is time to rewrite the script. We need to acknowledge when we are wrong, when we fall short, and when consequences are deserved. Looking inward is uncomfortable, but it is the only way to grow.

We must stop being seduced by messages that sound good but lack substance. Nostalgia and slogans may feel comforting, but without a plan, they are just stories—no different than Frosty or Rudolph. Real progress requires responsibility, not just reassurance.

Folklore teaches us that consequences matter. The lesson for America is clear: accountability is not something to fear—it is something to embrace.

Needful Things and the Politics of Manipulation: When Desire Becomes Division

Stephen King’s stories have never been about monsters—not really. They’ve always been about people. About what fear does to us. About what we’re willing to sacrifice for security, for power, for the things we think we need.

In the early ‘90s, I devoured his books, captivated by his ability to strip humanity down to its core—the choices we make when tested, the thin line between good and evil, the battle between fear and reason. The Stand was the ultimate cosmic struggle, a story about the forces that pull people apart or bring them together.

But lately, one of his lesser-known works, Needful Things has been tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me of something unsettling. The fractures in Castle Rock—the way fear turned neighbors into enemies—feel eerily familiar. I look around, and I see my own country splintering. Families divided. Once-clear truths are buried beneath the weight of misinformation.

“There were people who lied for gain, people who lied from pain, people who lied simply because the concept of telling the truth was utterly alien to them . . . and then there were people who lied because they were waiting for it to be time to tell the truth.”

― Stephen King, Needful Things

And I wonder: Have we all made a bargain we don’t understand?

Stephen King’s novel unfolds like a cautionary tale for our time: a charismatic outsider arrives in town, offering exactly what each person has long desired. He promises happiness, belonging, and purpose—if only they will pay his price. But what they don’t realize is that the price isn’t just money; it’s loyalty, it’s division, it’s a slow, corrosive turning against one another. And in the end, the town burns.

The parallels are impossible to ignore.

The Charlatan’s Promise

Leland Gaunt understands human nature too well. He doesn’t force Castle Rock’s citizens into conflict—he simply nudges them, exploiting their personal grievances and turning them into weapons. He convinces them that the trinkets he offers—the things they’ve always wanted—are priceless, though in reality, they’re nothing more than junk.

In American politics today, the same strategy plays out in a larger, more dangerous arena. Political figures craft a narrative where only they hold the key to restoring the country’s lost greatness. Only they can provide safety, strength, prosperity—if their followers remain loyal, if they ignore dissent, if they turn against those deemed outsiders. The promises sound grand, but just like Gaunt’s worthless trinkets, they are hollow.

Turning People Against Each Other

Gaunt doesn’t need to directly destroy Castle Rock—he knows that if he poisons the town’s relationships, people will do it themselves. Friends become enemies. Longstanding resentments are given fresh fuel. The town collapses not because of external destruction, but because the people themselves unravel the fabric of their own community.

We’ve seen the same thing happen in America: manipulated fears turned into battle lines. Immigrants, journalists, educators, entire communities labeled as threats to prosperity, scapegoated until the divide feels irreparable. The strategy is simple: convince people that what they have—whether it’s tradition, power, or identity—is being stolen, and they will fight to protect it. They will fight even if their perceived enemy is their own neighbor.

The Fallout

In Needful Things, the ultimate realization comes too late: the town burns to the ground, and the objects people fought over—their supposed treasures—are revealed to be worthless. They destroyed everything for nothing.

This is the warning we should heed. When manipulation takes root, when division becomes a weapon, when people sacrifice real values for imagined grievances, the result is destruction. The country fractures, communities weaken, and in the end, all that’s left is the wreckage of what was once a shared identity.

The Urgency to Speak

History will remember this time. Whether future generations look back and recognize the warning signs or continue down the same path will depend on whether people speak up, whether they document, whether they refuse to be silent.

I choose to write because silence is complicity. I write because I see the patterns. And like those watching Castle Rock burn, I refuse to stand by and let the flames consume my community without saying something first.

Final Thoughts & Call to Action

History is shaped not just by the leaders who rise, but by the people who allow themselves to be divided. Fear convinces us to fight over illusions—over things we are told we must protect. But the truth is, what we need most isn’t found in fear, in loyalty to a singular figure, or in turning against our neighbors. What we need is each other. What we need is the willingness to listen, to reject manipulation, to find our common ground. If we refuse to be divided, we refuse to let history repeat itself.

Maddy in the Music Store

Nineteen years ago, our family was avid American Idol viewers. We watched weekly, cheered for our favorites and subsequently followed their careers. 

We listened to the weekly broadcasts and mentally aligned ourselves with favorites. We were so invested that at one point, I wrote a story about the contestants for my then 7 year old daughter, who loved music and Idol. 

I based the story on a favorite book I read them, Tommy at the Grocery Store, where the child got lost in the store and everyone who found him confused him with a grocery item. Amazon informs me that I purchased this book in 2000. That's some serious history. 

All that aside, I am compelled to share my own tribute. It involved the 2005 contestants on AI, my daughter and her passions. She loved (s) music. I am sharing this because she just auditioned for a show and it all came back. 

I proudly present: (written by me, inspired by Bill Grossman and the 2005 season of AI competitors). 

Maddy at the Music Store

Mommy left poor Maddy sitting 
At the music store. 
With player pianos and shiny guitars, 
Mommy walked right out the door. 

Constantine walked in the store, 
And picked up the little girl. 
Thinking she was a microphone, 
He sang and gave a twirl. 

His voice didn't get any louder, 
He put his mouth right next to her ear. 
"This isn't a microphone, there is no cord, 
You've got a defective microphone here." 

"Hey Bo, what do you think?
This microphone's broken, I fear." 
Bo looked at Maddy and loudly proclaimed, 
"Silly guy, it's a guitar you have here!" 

Bo picked her up and turned her sideways, 
Strumming at her belly. 
Maddy giggled but didn't make music, 
And Bo made her laugh like a bowl of jelly. 

"Yo, Anwar, this guitar isn't working! 
Tell me what you see." 
Anwar took a look at Maddy and said, 
"Bo, It's a piano, listen when I play a key!" 

Anwar pressed Maddy's nose, 
And much to his surprise, 
No sounds came out, so he pressed her ear, 
Still no sound, pressing the eyes! 

Anthony ran in and looked at him asking, 
"What are you trying to do? 
That's not a piano, it's a tambourine!"
And grabbed her by her shoe. 

Anthony was tapping Maddy 
From her head down to her toe. 
"This tambourine's not working, guys, 
It simply has to go!" 

Nadia walked in the store ,
Looking at Anthony's confusion. 
"Anthony, what are you doing? 
Do you think that is some sort of musician?"

Nadia was with Mario, and asked him, 
"Hey, buddy, what do you think?
This doesn't look like an instrument, 
But rather some sort of drink."

Mario tipped Maddy over, 
Trying to take a sip. 
Nothing came out and he was confused, 
And put his hand to his hip. 

Just about then, Maddy's Mommy walked in, 
Smiling with great delight. 
"Oh Maddy, here you are... 
Let's get home while it's still light!"

She grabbed the little girl's hand
And walked across the floor.
Maddy turned around and waved, 
As she stepped out the door. 

Good luck to Maddy at the Music Store. You've got a lot more music in store for your future. 

With love... 

57 Channels and Nothin's On

(nah, that's not me, that's Bruce Springsteen)

Time for my quasi-annual birthday letter to myself and the other two of you, possibly three who read my rarely updated blog. 

Tomorrow, I turn 57. It's a prime number, as I noted when I turned 53, but that quip seems a bit tired to keep repeating. Optimists (and Amazon) will tell you every day is a prime one, and pessimists will say that means nothing is special. I'm somewhere in between. I hate admitting that my disposition has tempered as I got older. I just am not as optimistic. Maybe I'm finally realistic? Life deals a lot of cards and they aren't always ones you can play. I remember my grandmother played Canasta, and the cards more than filled her hands. Those cards she managed to play. Sometimes my cards feel like jokers. 

I didn't do my annual birthday post last year at 56. We were in the midst of moving again and closing out my mom's estate. We did do a nice getaway to the North Shore of Minnesota, taking advantage of the last weeks we still lived there. This past year brought us a world of change and for the first time in several years, I may not feel "prime" but I do feel settled. 

We moved back to our hometown last September and lived in an apartment until our condo was finished. I was really ungrateful and a bit horrible. I hated living in the apartment (though it was a lovely place - for anyone who wasn't me). I griped about how unsettled I felt, how I hated having things in boxes, and how I missed having a garden and a home. I look back at 56-year-old me and want to smack her. Yet she is still me. At least until tomorrow at 4:22 PM. 

Instead of smacking myself, I relented and admitted I didn't have the best grip on things and found myself a therapist. Many will find this admission a bit of over-sharing or admonish me for putting too much out there. However, I am a communicator and I also (according to my therapist) have a deep penchant for harmonizing. I am compelled to help others. It's in my DNA. If telling people I am in therapy takes some of the stigmas away, I am going to over-share. 

I have always said that birthdays are the only day someone can be "all about themselves". I'm approaching the "all about me" day and probably because of my DNA, I especially relish that because I actively try to spend time in self-reflection. However, I've learned that shouldn't just be once a year. I'm learning a lot this year. 

We are in a new home that we moved into in July. Most of the boxes are unpacked, at least physically. I am unpacking a lot more emotional things and that is going to take a long time. I've let go of a lot of things that I don't need, and I'm trying to do the same mentally. 

Cross-stitch I made several years ago

I still think I may finish my book about the empty nest that I so diligently started in 2016 when I turned 50, lost my father, had both children out of the house, and tried to figure out who the heck I was. Since then, we've moved 3 times, downsized, liquidated one parent's house, and seen jobs come and go. Turns out, I still don't have the answers. And maybe that is okay. 

In that time, I've also been trying to grow my business. That was inspired by my first trip to Europe in 2015. I remember my boss telling me that it would change my life forever. It has and as a result, I opened my own travel business in 2022,  Love Our World Travel. Here's a nod to Lee and his prophetic words. Thank you and yes, you told me so. 

Since moving back, I've rekindled important friendships and learned that distance is completely arbitrary when you truly care about each other. I've met up with friends I hadn't seen in over 30 years. How special! I have spent more time with people I've always loved and just needed to remember than I can imagine. It's been a wonderful year. 

Turns out, the only permanence is change. 

(that's not me either, that's The Alarm.) - who incidentally I met a few years back with my friend Don, when we upgraded our tickets for a meet and greet in 2019. 

Who would have imagined that I could reference two of my favorite bands in one blog post? Another nod to another friend, Amber, who used that tool in most of her blog posts. Gone too soon. We writers loved her. 

Yay me, yay 57. Maybe instead of "nothin's on" I prefer to say,  everything is on. 

Promises Kept

While I no longer blog on a regular basis, or even sporadically, I took the advice of a friend long ago who said, never give up control of your words or your spaces. I fill my time in a multitude of ways. I own a business, travel planning, Love Our World Travel, and I substitute teach.  Those two activities fill my time adequately. 

BUT, today, while teaching a group of precocious fourth graders, and discussing writing, I mentioned that I am a writer. The questions came at me rapid fire. The answers? 

*No, I've never written a book.
*No, you won't find me in a library.
*Yes, I am a writer, mostly non-fiction, without by-lines.
*Yes, you need to start every sentence with a capital letter. 
*First person is I, second person is you, third person is he/she/they. 

I explained that writers do lots of things with words, not always with a byline and not always fiction. I write content. I help websites. I do local news. They seemed to understand because they quickly shifted gears and asked if I ever wrote about my students. I do. Often. I hadn't anticipated that they would hold me to task. They are better than the best assignment editor. 

I started this over a month ago and am revisiting it today, because I must fulfill my promise before the school year is over. 

What can I possibly say about a group of young people who love to learn? I will say that they stand out in a way that excites and disappoints me. By that I mean, I don't always substitute teach for their particular class, and there are other classrooms in their building that astonish me. Not in good ways. 

I continue to be surprised when young people are uninterested in learning. It shocks me that they don't care. I don't know why they aren't interested in knowing more than they do at this young point of their lives. There are days I walk out of a school dejected and sad. There are days I cry. I know that my impact is pretty insignificant, I know that I spend a slice of a slice of their days with them, but I still wish I had a chance to light a fire. I wish I could tell them what a special time of their lives they are living. I wish I had a magic wand so that they knew that the world really is their oyster. The world is filled with possibility and it is theirs for the taking. 

I want them to see the world and hunger for it. I want them to know that it's a good place and they have a way to participate and maybe even make it a better place. I take a few hours a week and go and look into their world. I see the future. I want them to see themselves through my eyes. 

When I see an eager and excited young group of students, kids who want to know more and know that the world has the answers, I smile. They make me want to return. Again. And again. 

This is my love letter to Mrs. M's 4th grade class at BIS. 

You fill my heart. You are the reason I know the future is in good hands. Please keep learning and stay excited. There is so much to know and I believe in all of you. When I see an opportunity to spend time together with each other, I smile, because you're all so special. 

You're going to change our world. 

I love all of you. Now I kept my promise. The next promise is yours to keep. Go. 

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Sitting at my computer, trying to find the inspiration to wrap gifts and get in the holiday spirit, my mind is racing with thoughts. 

I cannot quite let go of the years when Christmas was purely about the kids, not the adults. The adults orchestrated the magic, but what happens when the magician no longer has an audience?

Instead of magic, how about a little time travel with a stroll down memory lane? I listen to a podcast called Pop Culture Preservation Society and they keep those Generation X memories alive. (highly recommend if you prefer to have an auditory stroll). But for today's blog post? It's all literary. 

Who remembers the Sears Gift Catalogues? Oh the page upon page of anything you could ever scroll past and all you had to do was fold the page to find it again. The toys, the clothes, the games, all my childhood dreams in one tidy book. 

In 1973, I decided the only thing I wanted was the Barbie 747. I have no idea why. I wasn't allowed to have Barbies. I never had been on a plane. But I was obsessed. All I needed was the 747 and a good dose of imagination. My cousin Krissy had Barbies and they would probably come visit if I had a 747, right? 

That's a piece of holiday memories. Spending time running around the house with the cousins who were close enough to our age to bond. She lived in Texas and I lived in Ohio, but she was only a few months older than me, so we were practically sisters. 

Another memory is the giant annual Christmas party my parents had while they were still married. Please know that this memory in no way indicates that I wish they had stayed together. They were better apart. But in the mid 70s, their parties rocked. Mom would create a theme and Dad would invite the guests. They got a babysitter to keep my brothers and I entertained upstairs while the party guests took over the main floor of our old farmhouse. As the preparations for the party ensued, we got to sample foods and treats that were rarely allowed in our house. Call it crazy, but I cannot think of Christmas without thinking about Sprite and ginger ale. We were never allowed soda/pop in our house. Crack open a can of Sprite or ginger ale and it feels like a party! 

I would be remiss if I didn't mention my two aunts. They bookended my dad's side of the family. Aunt Marlene was the eldest, Aunt Denise the youngest. We were blessed with nurturing and cool in one stroke. Aunt Marlene inspired how I would treat my future nieces and nephews because she just doted on all of us. Aunt Denise taught me to be a strong woman. She inspired me to get educated and to pursue life on my terms. If Aunt Marlene never knew how she inspired me, Aunt Denise will. 

Absent from this stroll down memory lane are my parents until now. This is the first year I am without either of them. Yet that tie to the past is unbroken. My father and mother gave me such a foundation. I separately and together love them. They are my roots. Plus, they bought me the Barbie 747. Something I never ever thought would happen. 

As we go forward, let's promise to honor the past, cherish the present, and look forward to the future. 

Who says you can't go home?

Nah, that's not me. That's Bon Jovi. 

I'm borrowing a technique from a writer friend of mine who was gone too soon. She always began and ended her blog posts with borrowed quotes. I always thought it a cool tie into pop culture, and so on. (Amber, you rocked). 

The past seven days have been a deep dive into my childhood. When Mama Green passed away in March, we began the exorcism of her years of hoarding. 

Mama was a lot of things, but nobody will ever accuse her of minimalism. If 1 was good, 20 were better. And in the piles were buried treasure. 

But I must digress to the home of my childhood. I grew up on an idyllic farm, about an hour away from Cleveland, OH. We had produce, livestock and open spaces. We had come from the city to the country, but our home remained a retreat. Friends and family would visit the farm. It remained idyllic, until it didn't. 

Today, following the absolute auction that we held to close out mom's estate, I went back to my childhood home to inventory the things left behind. 

There was a lot. In the piles of hoards that mom accumulated, the liquidators found themselves in a place of stopping. They sold and sold and sold, and still things were missed. 

Home I went. I walked again the property, thinking, "is this the last time?" as I have for the past 8 months. I really didn't shed many tears, though my heart was heavy. I cursed that "stuff" took over. 

I was there to inventory what was left. We have a few weeks to shed those things. Multiple articles tell us that "nobody wants this stuff" and yet, I think, it has a soul. It has history. 

I want to tell that story. 

Instead, I am left with shells of rooms and echoing memories. I walked the farm. I started to carry rubbish out of the basement to the dumpster, while quietly vowing, I just want to remember this place in a way that isn't gross. I want to look and see memories not piles of stuff. I'm a little raw today. But once I comforted the raw, I saw the yard where family laughed, where kids ran, and the house where love lived, however temporarily. 

I was home. I walked around the empty rooms and talked to mom. I talked to dad. I talked to my brothers and my grandparents. I talked to everyone who had a lovely memory there. I apologized to all the folks who didn't and I realized that a lot of things land a little tenderly. The inclination is to tell only good stories, but like anywhere, the stories aren't just good. 

In the end, I didn't go home. I only visited. Because in the end, "home is just another word for you."

Nah, that's not me, that's Billy Joel. 

Thank you everyone for being you. 

Embracing the Unknown and Imperfect

As 2021 comes to a close, I received news that two peers of mine, one from high school and one from college, had passed away. It hit me and my sense of invincibility like a gut punch. While it's been over 30 years, in my mind, we are all still those young people ready to take on the world. I have very specific memories of both of the people. 

I ran to my photo album, filled with touchstones from the past, back in the day when we metered out photos, as a roll of film only had 24 opportunities to capture the moment. That film was not to be squandered. I'd slowly fill a roll of film, patiently drop it at the Fotomat and pick it up a few days later, or when I was really impatient, I paid a premium to have my prints following day. Often, I would optimistically get double prints on the chance that a photo came out so good that I could share a copy with the others in the picture.

More often than not, they were pictures with eyes closed, stray hairs, or unflattering looks that today would be either airbrushed or deleted into oblivion. But for me, it was still a reminder of the time and place, and I diligently added those unflattering photos to my scrapbook, with captions, articles and other ways to preserve the memory. 

Those images are magical talismans with the ability to time travel. Unlike today, most of the moments were not chronicled with photos, but with stories, told from person to person until they became quasi-legends. Like a game of telephone, the word spread through the social circle. There were no hashtags or clever captions. There was no airbrushing or deleting. There simply was the ability to live in the moment and enjoy whatever it brought. 

In our stories and conversations, we relived those moments until they became perfectly imperfect and knowingly known. 

I resolve for the coming year and onward to embrace the moments of unknown and imperfection. We owe it to ourselves to live in the moment. I'm not going to share the unflattering photos I found, at least not on this public blog, but instead encourage anyone reading this to smile at the mental pictures you have of our peers. 

Gone too soon, MK and LL, who made our collective stories better by being part of them. 

Studio 54 closed

Since the day I announced myself  a writer, I have tried to gather my thoughts on paper, especially on my birthday. Birthdays are a big deal, not just my own, but also for anyone in my world. A birthday is the only day of the year that it is perfectly acceptable to be all about you. 

Today is my day. I'm going to practice what I preach and be all about me. If you're still reading, thank you for indulging me and following along. 

I am 55 today. I am just as close to 60 as I am to 50. Those mid-point birthdays always hit me mentally as I try to assess where I'm going, and where I thought I would be. My default (as a Virgo, just barely) is perfection and planning. I live to think ahead. I am punctual and I always have a plan along with two or three back ups. Rarely has life worked out the way I imagined or planned, yet I still find having a plan comforting. 

When I turned 15, we had just moved away from my childhood town to Florida. Turned out that my very first day of school at a new high school was also my birthday. I remember thinking that day how much I couldn't wait to get out of high school and be on with my life. I didn't know a soul and just wanted to be anywhere but trying to find my way around a building I didn't know. Yet, today, through the wonder of social media, I have gotten back in touch with the few friends I made during my two years there and I wonder why I was so scared. 

When I was 25, I was not quite a year into our marriage. I assessed my life with mixed emotions. I thought I would be well on my way to becoming a lawyer, yet I wasn't even close. However, I had a job I loved and was starting my life with a man I loved. Becoming a lawyer never happened, though at 27 I started to pursue my Master's Degree in Labor Law to move in that direction. Yesterday, my youngest child started her first day of classes at Law School. I am so proud and happy that I have a birds' eye view to her achievements. If I'm being honest, I suppose a piece of that pride is vicarious-- don't parents always want their kids to achieve what they never did? 

When I was 35, I was a stay-at-home mom, who couldn't see far enough past the world of toddlers and play dates to imagine a future where I'd be navigating my days without children. I had a solid group of neighborhood mom friends. Our children's social circles became ours. Today, I marvel at the adults those young people have become. Next month, we are attending a wedding of one of those kids and I cannot wait to hug everyone (COVID protocol permitting), and bask in what a good job we did.

Card from my cousin

When I was 45, I was really starting to struggle with the impending empty nest. As the parent of two teenagers, we had moved away from the safe haven of our toddler neighborhood. I was trying to be involved yet wanted also to have an identity that was mine, not as "so and so's mom". Though I knew I was coming to the end of an era, I still hadn't figured out what was next. I felt and still do that going back to school is not really what I want to do. I've discovered through years of volunteering a passion for non-profit work and a love of children. I continued to write and process my world in words. I blogged and found a modicum of success as a green living blogger. That experience helped launch my next 10 years. 

Today I am 55. I have found remarkable success in my ability to write. I have run PR campaigns for neighborhoods, I have spoken to city councils, I have traveled the globe, putting those experiences into words. But my life isn't just about what I achieve professionally. I have two children in their mid 20s taking the world by storm. I like to think I'm their #1 fan. 

If you read some of my earlier posts from this year, we recently relocated again. We are over 800 miles away from our hometown. If I toast with friends, it will be on video, not in person. The COVID pandemic prepared us somewhat. In fact, it set me up in such a way that the relocation didn't change my work. I still am writing for a company back in Ohio. 

As I reflect today on this mid-decade birthday, I see that 10 years can bring so many changes. Today, I'm going to create a word time capsule- what do I think will be true in 10 more years? 

When I am 65, I pray that we begin to take our planet seriously. Mother Nature is angry. We do not care for our earth and it's gross. We use, throw away, and use more. We spew chemicals and toxins into the water, the air, the soil, and our bodies. I hope we as a society become more thoughtful about the world we inhabit. I hope we work with instead of against Mother Nature. 

In the next 10 years, I hope that I have seen another continent. Maybe all of them. That's a 20 year goal. The world is huge. There is so much to see and I want to see it all. 

In the next 10 years, I hope to finally publish that book, Actually, I think that is more like a 1 year plan. I have been circling around my book for 5 years. Perhaps this is my accountability announcement. 

In the next 10 years, I hope we are are back in Ohio and retired. Retired from the rat race, but not from thinking and doing. I want to be that adventurous couple that enjoys everyone and everything that is around us. I want to spend more time with our children and whoever they bring into their lives, I want to spend more time with my bi-coastal best friends, "The Jackies". (I apparently only pick friends with the same name). I want to enjoy whatever elderly members of our family are left in 10 years. I hope many, but I am realistic. The elder generation has so much to share with us. I want to absorb as much as I can to pass along. 

But mostly, in 10 years, I want to just be a better version of me. I'm not as stressed at this midpoint decade as previously. I look forward to the future because just like a birthday, it's all mine. 

Take a chance on me

If you're of a certain age or a fan of musical theater, you may even have an automatic soundtrack that starts up by hearing the title of this blog. But this is about something slightly different. 

If you had followed along with my last few blog posts, we just made a huge relocation. We liquidated nearly half our possessions and moved 800 plus miles away from all that was familiar. This all transpired in late May. 

The past month has been spent unpacking boxes, putting things into place, and finding ways to replace the things we shouldn't have sold as well as get rid of more things we should have. Note to the peanut gallery: it's really difficult to know what you will or won't use until you are living in the space. 

While most of our move was efficient, we have quickly noticed those areas of inefficiency. We have significantly fewer linens to wash and fold - fewer sheets, towels, and tablecloths. We have fewer dining service ware - fewer plates, fewer glasses, and fewer serving platters. Yet, in accordance with the laws of physics, we have an equal and opposite reaction. We have added area rugs, a footstool, and cabinet hardware. 

All that mass that has either reduced or increased our space is insignificant to the hole left in our social lives. We went from "knowing everyone" to "not knowing a soul" in a 12 hour drive. 

That reality hit me like a ton of bricks and with a similarly frantic action. My brain went into overdrive. Must. Meet. People. Find. People. etc. 

I found a Facebook group dedicated to meeting new friends in our state. I made what I hoped was a friendly and welcoming post, introducing ourselves with a little background. 

Sure enough, someone from our hometown area commented and we were quickly exchanging private messages. We actually met the following evening, when we both were attending the baseball game to see our hometown team. Unfortunately, the team lost, but in the bigger picture, socializing won. 

We clicked well enough with these newly-found hometown friends and invited them to celebrate with us over the holiday weekend. 

Wow, am I glad we took a chance, and I am so glad they did, too. We met a couple that I think we have enough in common with to do things together over the next several months. We laughed about hometown things and lamented the absence of those things in our new location. We shared stories and common points of reference. 

All in all, it was a really good "first date". 

It's not easy to make friends as adults. It is even more difficult as the world emerges from the social distancing protocol of the COVID-19 pandemic. It's a complicated place and the rules can be a little confusing. 

For all that and more, I just want to say, today I am basking. I think we made some friends and it was as simple as taking a chance. Thank you B & R. 

Sold to the Highest Bidder

I grew up in the country and auctions were not only a way to liquidate, but a good auction also was a social event. Locals gathered from near and far to participate in the selling of their neighbor's goods. Sort of like a garage sale on speed. 

Things came and went as quickly as it took to raise a hand. The instant gratification was the impetus behind the decision to hold an auction to liquidate most of our belongings as we navigate an out of state relocation. Alas, in this time of COVID-19 precautions, our auctioneer assured us that an online auction would still accomplish the goal. 

Skeptical, but committed, we signed on to use a virtual auction to liquidate. We were not necessarily comforted when the first few days netted little interest, despite our auctioneer's assurances that most of the bidding comes at the end. 

Selling your personal belongings is a strange beast. We place an inordinate value on those things, yet not enough value to keep them. In other words, we don't want them, but are seemingly astounded when nobody else does either. 

I was married in 1990. The first thing we did on our wedding registry was include fancy things like porcelain and crystal-- because if we didn't get it for a gift, we may never have it. (I appreciate a generation that is much more practical-- if we never have it? We didn't need it, right?)

However, we proceeded to fill and furnish entire rooms dedicated to this stuff known as fine dinnerware -- buying tables, chairs, and cabinets to store and occasionally use those valued belongings. Then one year the top shelf on our cabinet collapsed, breaking most of our porcelain and crystal, but still leaving us with a room of appropriate use storage and furniture. A cabinet for our fine dishes, sans the fine dishes. 

We moved, and found ourselves with another room dedicated to the same pursuit of dinnerware. We owned the furniture, but not the accoutrements that went along with the furniture. Alas, without the appropriate numbers of porcelain and crystal, we wound up renting the necessary place settings and still gathered around, sharing meals and never noticing the plates. 

Today, we sold our cabinet and I repeatedly bemoaned the fact that it sold for pennies on the dollar. Yet in that moment, I realized, the reason I was selling it was that I no longer had anything to display in it, that I borrowed things for that once a year event I needed them. How could I possibly presume that others had the need we had over 30 years ago? Times change. 

However,  I observed the online auction closing and friends were messaging me. I am going to share a few messages, with context to lead up to my point. 

One friend is a local business person that I bought a wall clock from in the past. She would have no way of knowing (until now) that when I bought the clock, it was because we couldn't afford to fix one that was a family heirloom. My plan was to hang a clock in that space until we could fix the other one. But shortly after buying her clock, we saw that my beloved aunt had the SAME EXACT CLOCK on her wall. It felt like we needed to keep that clock. And now that same friend has a handful of things that we once owned. I look forward to hearing the accompanying stories. 

Another friend is a bit further away, but we have bonded over the years through shared life experiences and similar politics. We originally met online and felt an instant kindredship. Life made it difficult to be in the same space at the same time (or perhaps the universe really needed to prepare?). We met once in the most unexpected way possible, and were so thrilled to meet that folks still mention it. 

That same friend had the winning bid on two of the things we're selling and is traveling to pick them up. I believe (she can confirm yay or nay) that the pick up is as much about our friendship perhaps more so, than it is about the "stuff". 

What I've learned in my 50+ years is that stuff is just that. It is stuff. It is the memories, not the ability to touch it, that matters. I'm saying goodbye to several dear possessions, fully realizing that there just is no place to put them in our next abode. 

I'm saying goodbye to my daughter's armoire/chifforobe. I bought it for her as a toddler for her "big girl" room. It was part of a strategic purchase of a guest bed and her trundle bed from the same furniture line. We are keeping the beds, but there isn't a ceiling in the next house tall enough. I feel like I am breaking up a family. 

I am saying goodbye to a beautiful, albeit uncomfortable, chair. It is an antique, probably once was altar furniture as the original set had another chair and a settee. I used to curl up there as a child and read, and felt very fancy. It sold to the highest bidder. 

We watched over 200 groupings of our items sell. As always, with an auction, it's shocking what people want, and what they have no interest in. We sold our lawn and garden equipment for an amount we expected. Some of the furniture was a dud. I caution anyone against buying fine furniture in a trendy color. Mauve leather recliner couches will not EVER make a comeback, despite what my 1990s sensibilities said. Also, just say no to golden oak. 

In the end, it's all just stuff. I am delighted that I can follow the stories of some of it. My one friend bought the luggage that was a traditional high school graduation gift from my grandparents. A full set of burgundy, hard sided American Tourister luggage. It has taken me around the globe, filled with hopes and dreams. My family jokingly referred to my big suitcase as "Big Red" but Big Red and I had many adventures. We explored life and now I find it apropos that I pass that torch to a friend whose own daughter graduated from high school today. 

That luggage doesn't come with baggage, it comes with stories. It comes with the hopes of a life well-lived and the people it touches. 

Because without the human touch? Stuff is just that. I am okay with passing it along and I hope that the next people who touch it find something worth holding onto.  

Emptying the Nest Even More

 In 2016, I embarked upon chronicling the emotions and changes taking place as our second child moved to college and our house truly became quiet. 

I blogged a weekly column for 18 weeks living the emotions and changes I was experiencing mentally. The intention was to write a book about it. So much for intentions. In my desire to wring every last drop of angst out of the experience, I also found employment, new projects, and a renewed sense of purpose. I put the book project on hiatus to revisit at a later date. 

Then came COVID-19. The child who emptied our nest found her job prospects in limbo with the pandemic and moved home, almost exactly a year ago. She finished her college career online and had a you-tube commencement. Frankly, it was pretty lame and a bit of a let-down for such a stellar college career. But she's been under our roof again. 

I cannot pretend to know her stress, but for the better part of this past year, we have been each other's sole companions. A nest of three, but mostly two, as she and I have been engaged in work-from-home ventures. She has been tutoring and consulting, I have been doing content creation for a local boutique marketing firm. 

Then the bomb dropped. My husband was offered a new job in another state (one we never lived) and he took it. Suddenly the nest of the past 13 years needs to be emptied. Talk about a clean sweep. We are moving 805 miles away. Time to assess everything. Marie Kondo maybe lives in a condo? I don't know but I have never looked at all our stuff with such a critical eye in my life. I am purging and emptying. 

I spoke to auctioneers who will help us liquidate. I am debating every single item we own. Wow. 

Our daughter will be heading to law school in the Fall, the year at home helped her pivot her career trajectory. Things are coming full circle in many ways. We began our marriage in a city neighborhood, on a city lot, in a 1920s home. We walked to the store, park, library, and post office. 

Thirty years later, that is our plan again. 

In a way, it will be nice to break from our current town and neighborhood. Admittedly, I still get a little sad walking around and seeing all the school spirit signs and realizing that each year takes us farther away from those days. But we are closer again to being that couple that fell in love and built a life together 30 years ago. We didn't really empty a nest, we simply shifted it to a new location. 

Yesterday things got even more real. I held a "house-cooling" (versus house warming) party to say goodbye to all my local friends. Today, our household items went live on the auction site and tomorrow the new buyers do their final walk-through. (Thank goodness they've already committed to purchasing because the house is a maze of boxes! Certainly not showroom ready.)

As I sorted through a lifetime of memories, really trying to cull what matters, I flashed back over and over. I found notes from long-lost friends, photos of my children when they were little, so many things that sparked memories. I found an autograph book I received for my 13th birthday, that I proudly took to all my family members and had them sign. My eyes welled up as I saw the notes of so many relatives who are now gone left for that new teenager. 40+ years of loving wishes. That will be making the trip. 

Home is so much more than a roof, so much more than walls or tables, chairs or decorations. Home is where there is love. Love cannot be contained and love is not location-specific. So as scared as I am of the uncertainty, I also am confident that if the first thing I unpack is love, I will be home. 

It's... it's... something else

Sometime back, I sat with my teenage children and we watched some old videos. My oldest was about 5 and she was going to be a flower girl in a wedding. I had taken her to get fitted for the dress and was explaining the whole wedding thing to her so she would know what she was doing. My husband was playing with his camcorder when she was recapping her adventure. Her earnest voice explained how she picked out a white dress, but it was saggy baggy, but it wouldn't stay that way because they were going to sew it and make it fit her. Then she sternly looked at her little sister and said, "stop interrupting!" and looked back at the camera and said, "and then I ride with the wedding people in... not a car... not a truck... it's... it's... (long pause, thinking very hard, then a definitive) it's Something Else!" she proudly announced.

One of my blog friends, Dee Dee Mozeleski has done a glorious reflection in her space of what we wish for, what we dream about, what makes our hearts pump faster. It's all about love. I began this blog chronicling my loves after telling someone I'd been in love 20 times, or maybe 100. I love easily and generously. I don't keep track of love, I just invite it in on a regular basis. Love is drop-in company, welcome at any given moment. I will stop in my tracks for love.

While the word love is fraught with fear for many, for me, it's the only thing worthwhile. There is no point in a relationship of any sort with any person if love isn't where it begins and ends. But it's weird the baggage that comes with that word. Say "LOVE" too early or too late or not at all and suddenly it's just the wrong word.

From time to time, I even sign my posts with "Love, Me", and it's sincere. I appreciate the warmth that even words on a screen brings to my world. I love it, and by extrapolation, I love you for giving me the gift of your words. I tell my friends I love them, I tell my kids and family, I tell my dog, I tell everyone I love them. It's something that should be said early and often. I don't love from a place of fear. Love isn't what hurts. Love only heals. Don't believe me? Think about a heartbreak you've had in life. What hurts is NOT love, but the ABSENCE of it.

So why do so many folks fear love or even uttering the word? Why does something so beautiful have so many ugly conditions attached to it? Maybe that's the point - when you attach conditions to love, it dilutes its power. It becomes... not a car, not a truck, but it's... it's... something else.

Speaking for myself, I invite love into my life and I give it easily. I'd much rather have LOVE than something else.

"Getting" a Life

Over the years, I've tended to internalize a lot of comments that folks have made to me over the years. As I've tried to meet an assortment of societal expectations and juggle my own wishes, the messages have been conflicting.

But one of the comments that I never have forgotten was made to me early in parenthood. My husband and I decided that I would stay home and leave my job. I had worked for someone else from the time I had turned 15, so this was not an easy decision personally, and it was fraught with those messages about women that we cannot help but hear, both positive and negative.

Shortly after our children were born, we built a house in the suburbs.  I found myself with little outlet. Most of my fellow moms in the neighborhood worked outside the home and my time never seemed to belong to myself.

I carved out an hour a week to go to a stained glass making class. It was something that had always fascinated me and I just wanted to learn the art. Now while churches will never call me to complete a window, I made a very simple replicate of a Frank Lloyd Wright design to hang in our entryway.

One of my friends upon seeing my new hobby remarked, "You really need to get a life."

I never forgot how that remark stung and how quickly we are to judge how someone chooses to spend their time.

That entire exchange came back to me today as I researched the right way to make French baguette bread. It's a time-intensive process, though I imagine with practice, it would be as easy as riding a bike. However, beginning last night at 7 PM, when I mixed up the starter, until today, after 12 PM, as I wait for the finished product, I've invested a chunk of time in making these baguettes.

That little voice kept echoing, "You really need to get a life."

I recoiled a bit, as the past few years have been exactly about that. After raising our children, the younger who left for college in 2016, I have fervently tried to "get a life". I have volunteered, I have worked, I have organized events, collaborated with several organizations, and successfully nominated two of my dear friends for community awards.

Today, as my bread was baking, those mean-spirited,  soul-sucking, esteem-crushing words reverberated as I waited for the bread to finish.

Then I realized, I have a life. Life isn't something we go out and "get". It's not something defined by what others value. My life is about caring for the people I love and pursuing things that make me smile. Whether that be making a stained glass window, raising money for a worthy cause, praising my friends for their talents, or making three long skinny loaves of bread to share with my friends...

I have a life, thank you very much.

And if you're nice to me? I'll share some of that bread that I made.

"If I survive, I will spend my whole life at the oven door seeing that no one is denied bread and, so as to give a lesson of charity, especially those who did not bring flour." ~ Jose Marti

Looking past the picture

One of the frequent criticisms of social media is how perfect and flawless everyone makes their lives look, and how that portrayal can cause serious anxiety and stress if your own life doesn't match up.

My family has often joked that I don't know any short stories, but for a long time now, I've enjoyed using social media to tell the story, citing that I saved 1000 words by just posting a picture. But a picture doesn't tell the entire story, so forgive me for going back to my long-winded ways. It's the only way you'll know the story behind this year's Christmas tree photo.

We are using the current tree for the 13th year in a row. Last year, as the joints got weaker and the artificial tree was shedding more and more needles, it was beginning to look ragged. The pre-lit lights were a thing of the past, as they stopped working around year 2 or 3, but the tree was perfectly good, so we would use our own strands of lights. We decided last year when we took it down, that we would try to get one more season out of it, so I decided that I would like to flock the tree to give it a little more bulk and hide the bare spots that had shed needles.

Pinterest and YouTube to the rescue. After reading several articles about how easy it was to flock a tree, and watching video demonstrations, I chose the product and rolled up my shirt sleeves. The articles suggested that it was a job best done outdoors, but with unpredictable weather in Ohio, I opted for the garage.

The procedure is fairly straightforward. You mist the sections of your tree with plain tap water, sift the white flocking powder onto the tree, and then mist again to set the powder.

All while sporting a Martha-Stewart-esque smirk of what a good thing it is.

About three weeks ago, I commandeered our garage, drop cloth in tow and started to flock the tree. Soon, the garage was filled with a fine white mist, making the space look like a haunted house fog machine. Then I understood why the instructions suggested that I should probably be wearing goggles and a dust mask.

As I set the flocking to the branches, it did indeed stick pretty well. To everything. Including the soles of my shoes, about 1/4 thick of white paste-y goop on them. Nevertheless, I was committed at this point. Section by section, I flocked and made junior high jokes, about what a flocking mess it was, and what the flock, etc. Finally, I was finished. The instructions recommended that I let the tree dry at least 24 hours, I opted for 48, determined not to haul the mess into the house. Hubby was unhappy enough with the garage mess in his man-space. Forty-eight hours later, again with a determination to contain the mess outside the house, I took the leaf blower to the sections, hoping to blow off any loose flocking. (that wasn't part of the instructions).

Satisfied that all the loose flock was gone, I carried the sections into a spare bedroom until I was ready to decorate the tree. There the sections lounged in their snow simulated glory until Friday, for the day after Thanksgiving decorating.

It was as if Jack Frost took a page from Hansel & Gretel and left a trail of flock as I carried the sections to the living room. As I assembled the tree, I started to cough and wheeze and remembered the dust mask. Every time we touched a branch, our living room simulated a snow globe. We realized that putting a lot of lights on the tree would probably create 8-10 inches of living room snow, so we opted for a handful of big LED lights.

My husband brought the shop vacuum in the house trying to keep up with the indoor blizzard but as the exhaust from the shop vacuum hit the tree, more snow flew as he was cleaning up the initial flurry.

Our junior high flock jokes stopped being funny and we possibly mispronounced flock, substituting a "U" for the "LO". Cursing and sweating, coughing and wheezing, and trying to contain the mess, I resembled a "Before" image for a Head & Shoulders dandruff control advertisement.

If you've read this far, I appreciate your dedication to the whole story as much as I was dedicated to finishing what I started. At one point, I almost ran out and bought the new tree, but sometimes you are so far into an adventure, that you must stay the course.

I do like the way our tree looks and I am grateful that we no longer have a dog to brush by the tree with every prancing footstep. It's a perfect storm waiting to happen.

I will never again flock the halls, the tree, or any other part of our decorations. The irony when you really step back? We get so caught up in appearances that it's easy to forget that there probably wasn't a whole lot of snow the first year in Bethlehem, and there certainly weren't baubles and beads hanging off tree branches.

Instead, was something more precious and beautiful than all the gold, frankincense, and myrrh in the world.

Instead, there was a promise.

"When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy." ~Matthew 2:10.

Wisdom from the past

I've been thinking about my Grandma Ree today, my grandmother on my mom's side.  Today is her birthday, 5 days before mine. She was born 105 years ago, in 1914.

When I was a little girl, I used to go and spend the week of Easter Break with her. Grandma was a devout Catholic, and every day we would go to the Stations of the Cross and say the Rosary. But we also would make cookies and play cards and visit.

Grandma Ree was always a widow in my eyes. My grandfather died before I was born, and she was this strong, fiercely opinionated woman who did everything she could for the people around her.

When I was about 6, she moved with my Uncle and his family to Texas, when he had a job opportunity. After that, we didn't have our Easters together anymore, but she would come up every summer for a month and about every other Christmas. And like a good granddaughter, I took up my rosary beads during those times, and she took up Ouija Board games with me.

We always called her "The Yellow Rose of Texas", because, within a few years of moving to Texas, my uncle and his family moved back, but Grandma stayed. She had made quite a life for herself in Arlington. She worked as a housekeeper and nanny for several members of the 1970s Texas Rangers baseball team, including relief pitcher Sparky Lyle and third baseman Buddy Bell. We had so much stuff that they'd autograph for us. I wish I had realized the value to future collectors. In the day, we just shrugged.

Anyway, over the weekend, I was cleaning (something I've been doing a lot more of these days for some reason) and discovered a perfectly formed letter that she sent me on my 14th birthday.

It was right after my parents divorced and from a distance, she sensed my struggles and would send me the most heartfelt letters.

Here is an excerpt from 1980 to her 14-year-old grandchild,

"Dear Kim, The events of these past few years have forced you to grow up much faster than I would have liked. You are now faced with new responsibilities. You have matured much this past year and I feel certain you are quite capable of handling whatever life hands out to you.

Learn to sift out the bad things and adhere to all that is good.

It is my sincere prayer that your character will be flawless, that your heart will be full of love for your fellowman, and that you find peace of heart...

(left out the part about going to church and saying the rosary...) 

Grandma is proud of all your past achievements and will be cheering you on to a brighter and more secure future.

Remember we all love you. Stay sweet and lovely always.

God Bless You, Grandma Ree"

I just want Grandma to know, I found her letter yesterday and I think her prayers were mostly answered. She was so wise. Thank you for all the love over the decades and happy birthday to our beautiful yellow rose of Texas.

We all love you, too, Grandma Ree.