Close-out sale - everything must go! (subtitle; the 50s are over)

 

Sitting at my kitchen table in the early morning quiet, I find myself contemplating how I will spend the last day of my 50s. Tomorrow marks a milestone, and it’s no joke how quickly the years move now. I try to write an annual reflection every birthday, but I missed the past two years while traveling back and forth to Alaska during our daughter’s yearlong clerkship. At the time, I pushed the writing aside because other priorities mattered more. But this morning, I woke up determined to share one more annual musing in my 50s.

August 24, 1967; Birthday #1

Cursed with the memory of an elephant, my mind is crowded with milestones. As the designated keeper of all family albums — grandparents, parents, and now my own — the pictures bring everything back. Increasingly, I find myself starting sentences with “When I was a kid…”

To prove my point: when I was a kid, school always started after Labor Day, so my birthday was summer’s last hurrah. My uncle and I shared a birthday, and my aunt and her husband celebrated the day before, so we always had a big picnic at my grandparents’ farm. Jarts, hose water, and assorted childhood treachery were part of the deal. As we grew into late teens and early twenties, that farm stayed our gathering place. We’d take the golf cart on joyrides, and I still laugh thinking about the time my cousin and I tipped it over. We may have been slightly tip‑SY, but I can still see us rolling down that grassy hill in hysterics like it was yesterday.

At our own farm, the huge wraparound porch became the family hub. We usually held a reunion for my mom’s side this very weekend. Her dear cousin Lois never forgot my birthday. She always arrived with a small token and a card. In the middle of a big family party, her remembering stood out.

Most people think of gladiolas as funeral flowers, but for me — alongside zinnias — they are my birthday flowers. I would come down the stairs of our farmhouse on the morning of my birthday to a huge bouquet of seasonal blooms, and I knew with absolute certainty that it was my day.

And what does that mean, exactly? For me, as I’ve said every year, your birthday is the one day that is truly yours. Granted, I shared mine with my uncle, the family reunion, and back‑to‑school sales. Much like Christmas kids lament getting combined presents for their birthdays, I got school supplies. Maybe that’s why I developed a lifelong love of crayons, as I wrote in 2012 in  Raw Umber.

That particular rabbit hole led me to peruse past birthday blog posts. 

• 2013- I shared some pre-menopausal angst Fresh Daily Bread: Getting Older
• 2017 - I realized I abandoned (paused?) my empty nest book- though I still want to SOMEDAY put all those posts together into a book... in my spare time? Fresh Daily Bread: Area 51-- the Empty Nest series continues
• 2019 - I shared a birthday message from my Grandma Fresh Daily Bread: Wisdom from the past
• 2021- I did a reflection on why the half decades seemed to hit me so much harder Fresh Daily Bread: Studio 54 closed
• 2023 - I tried to summarize the past few crazy years of growth and loss Fresh Daily Bread: 57 Channels and Nothin's On

As I close out this decade, I realize my 50s were not quiet years. They were full of motion, full of change, full of people I love, full of losses I carry, and full of growth I didn’t always see happening in real time. They were a decade that asked me to stretch, to adapt, to show up, and to keep finding “something” even when life felt heavy or chaotic or uncertain.

Standing at the doorway of my 60s (or as I perpetually joke, my second 30th birthday), it's not with the feeling of an ending, but with the sense of a handoff. My 50s didn’t wind down; they prepared me. They taught me what matters, what doesn’t, what I want to hold onto, and what I’m finally ready to let go. If the 50s were the inventory, the 60s feel like the next chapter of the story — one I get to write with more clarity, more humor, more intention, and a deeper understanding of what “something” really means.

Approaching 60, I’m carrying one truth with me: it's always going to be something.

Something. Find Something. Do Something. Share Something.

Because the absence? Is Nothing. Happy Birthday to Me!

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.