Essays

There’s an uncomfortable curse I’d like to debunk. One that’s all too familiar to those of us hailing from days past. It involves travel and its dogma regarding “acceptable” ways to show up anywhere in the world while living out of a suitcase. This “doctrine” involves, ahem, undergarments.

There are a few things that make me smile during the cold, shorter days of winter. One is watching a daily flock of deer that peacefully graze with bowed heads in an adjacent (protected) farm field at dawn or dusk. Another is the song of warblers willfully staying behind in bare timber.

But the one that warms my heart most …

It’s November. The landscape has donned deeper shades of brown, ochre, and crimson. The trees give final bows as cold winds jar remaining foliage from nearly bare branches. Deer rut, small animals scurry, birds head south, all in preparation for change. Old Man Winter knocks loudly. Everything settles in for a seasonal nap. We humans head indoors to the warmth of home and crackling fireplaces.

Blazing goldenrod waves me toward a favorite lakeside viewing bench. Grasses and wildflowers sport comforting familiar cloaks of gold, mauve, caramel, and crimson as early morning sunshine warms a crystal blue sky, and dew still catches a ride on my boots. The all too familiar mosquito buzzes about, hoping for one last blood draw. It’s the season of conundrum: do we surrender to autumn or continue our (loosening) grasp on summer’s last rites?

“Number seven… Lucky 7,” I muse and smile. “Seven, Seven, Seven,” I whisper to myself as a row of 7s skid to a jackpot stop on the slot machine in my mind’s eye. I open the metal door and move in –clogs, stethoscope, pens, scrubs– the accoutrements of life in health care. Locker Seven initiates the part-time journey I’ve now attained and coveted for years: the promise of better work-life balance for my sanity and for that of my family. 

“Figlio di puttana!” Leaving my station to assess the commotion erupting in the kitchen, I stop short, seeing and feeling the floury contrail of a high speed pizza cutter whipping across the space. I remain still and watch my boss, fully immersed in a first-class Italian hissy fit of unknown origin.

Growing up, “home” was a humble abode along Rural Delivery route #2, (Box 496 to be exact), on a hill in western Pennsylvania. Along that hill lived generations of my family – grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. “Home” meant not only being surrounded by a glut of kin, but also by a combination of northern seasonal changes, the joy of woodland trails, and the ambiance of enclaves like Grandma’s house just down our driveway.

With a warm hand through soft fur, I feel a regular heartbeat turn irregular. As her labored breathing subsides, a palpable fibrillation slows to stillness, acquiesces to eternity. “She’s gone,” I quietly tell our family. Our beautiful yellow Lab, Angel, an elder at nearly 15, has crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

“There’s no way in hell they’ll pick me,” I muttered while sipping some wine and chuckling. The email declared this particular day the deadline to sign up for a triathlon club I had applied to in the past.

“Put it down! Put it down! You’ll get FAT!” the middle-aged male cousin barks to me across the lawn. At the tender age of eight, I reached for another delicious brownie at our annual family Fourth of July picnic. A chubby child, I shamefully put the confection back on the plate despite it also being my birthday – the one day of the year when I should be allowed to eat whatever the hell I want.

“We’re going to do things a bit differently this year,” I replied to my perplexed mother as we started the holiday pie baking. Once known as my side of the family’s “pie maven,” my mother looked at me and scoffed: “Well that’s not the way I usually do it.” 

A violent, deafening roar shatters the calm. Time stands still. Frozen in place, a child lets out a bloodcurdling scream. A brutal boom penetrates brain and bone, obliterates any thought but sheer horror. The apocalypse has arrived. Parents out of grasp, she clings to the tall poplar trees lining the road where she stands. Panic stricken, she holds tight, trembles and shrieks. 

Hi there! You’ve likely been wondering where I’ve been or if I am still writing. Yes, I’m still here. Autumn is on summer’s heels, at least in these parts. The warm months here have been a season of connection. In that vein, it’s high time I connected with you all!

The inchworm in front of me reaches forward and with a firm grip, loops its tiny mass to heave up its rear, and reaches forward again in what seem painful repetition. At 25 millimeters long – roughly an inch – it crawls literally one inch at a time. While its destination is likely unknown, the tiny creature simply moves ahead at its steady, inch-wormy pace. Clearly not a Type A organism seeking shortcuts.

There’s been a cosmic shift at our house.

Trickster March tiptoed in like a lamb with her seductively warm temperatures, nesting birds, and uncharacteristic gluts of sunshine. Yet like a good date gone bad, the she-beast abruptly reared her lioness head with snow, gray skies, and accompanying sour moods. Such is the course of nature in these parts. It’s no wonder that, compared to other locales, March in the North boasts the pinnacle of poor mental health.

“I’d like an exact replacement down to the color,” I crisply inform a salesman at our favorite car dealership. My beautiful red Chrysler Town and Country minivan had been totaled en route to work the preceding day. I was fine – in sharp contrast to the six-point buck who stepped in front of me on a dark country road at the less-than-sociable hour of 5:15 am.

I knew this day was coming. It inevitably does. Overall, parenthood has been a great ride. Yet now we are all in transition. And some days it’s just plain hard to navigate.

The pilot light’s whiff of natural gas readies twin caverns in the behemoth 1940s Chambers Range. High octane coffee in avocado green melamine cups jump starts the holiday baking marathon for a well-seasoned 10-year-old and her favorite grandmother. It’s the early 70’s and caffeinated coffee (yes, even for the younger set) is the elixir of inspiration as pans clang and beaters whirl. Como, Crosby, Martin, and Sinatra croon while the official Blue Bowl of Goodness makes its way to the counter. 

“Please – let me know, somehow, that you’re OK up there?” I ask my mother earnestly on what seems her death bed. Holding her arthritic, frail hand, I continue. “You know, come visit me sometime as a little bird or something. I just need to know you’re OK up there.” She slowly nods, staring straight ahead while I glance out the adjacent window in time to see two large buzzards roost on a light pole in the hospital parking lot.

From where I sit, a sea of amber, red, and gold reminds me that change can indeed be beautiful. Autumn is upon us in full swing.

My face burned fiery red as I left my patient’s room into earshot of the charge nurse’s bellowing rage, her index finger stabbing in my direction. It had been a busy night and with final patient care tasks complete, this exhausted newbie headed to the nurse’s station to report off on my patients.

My face burned fiery red as I left my patient’s room into earshot of the charge nurse’s bellowing rage, her index finger stabbing in my direction. It had been a busy night and with final patient care tasks complete, this exhausted newbie headed to the nurse’s station to report off on my patients.

“I’m in!” my daughter exclaims as I broach the idea of a road trip south. She’s on break, not starting grad school until late summer, and I have a week off work. With her twin sister sucked into a new job and the hubster out of town for work, we take the serendipitous bull by the horns to get out of Dodge (IN a Dodge)…

It’s time to check in on a personal note. Spring has indeed sprung in my part of the country, albeit still with a bit of chill. Thank goodness blooming relies on extended daylight and not warmer temperatures.

I have rarely sipped the spring-cleaning Kool-Aid, but this year I had a sudden, irrepressible urge. One of my triggers was an old file cabinet. Placed in our garage “a few years ago” to make room somewhere else in the house for heaven knows what, this piece of office furniture has continually hindered entry and exit into the passenger side of my vehicle. So, as winter waned and my annoyance bloomed, I deemed it necessary to (finally) address the cabinet’s contents and either donate or relocate said steel monstrosity.

“We want to be in YOUR family!” hotel staff would buoyantly exclaim in response to my kin’s general tomfoolery and raucous laughter. Affectionately dubbed “the prisoner transfer,” we siblings would convene semiannually in random Interstate 57 motels to pass the aging-parent baton allowing both ourselves and parents a change of scenery and posse of caregivers. Our planned weekend overnights to share the load would occur somewhere between our cities and include a rollicking catching up, routine medical updates, and typical slapstick fodder of our collective DNA. 

A recent reader essay in Victoria magazine got me thinking. It was a loving tribute to a set of bone china, recently passed to –and eagerly accepted by– a younger generation. My own cupboards reveal that I am the lucky (though some would label me unlucky) recipient of three sets of ancestral dishware, each with its own pattern and ethereal dialogue of its forebears encompassing joy, hardship, and most notably, perseverance. 

“My legs won’t work,” Dad answered as we suggested he move out of direct line of campfire contrails. The breeze had shifted as we settled in for the start of our weekend in the Great Outdoors. With tents pitched and kids ready for bed, we had been decompressing with beverages in hand, mesmerized by dancing flames. Dad was perched on a bench, his back against the picnic table.

Several years into the sandwich generation of caring for aging parents along with our own small children, my Christmas spirit took a rapid sleigh ride to the bottom of the not-so-festive dumpster of unrealistic expectations.
But a few days later, our basement floor drain mysteriously refluxed a murky puddle. With the movie quote lingering a bit too close for comfort, we called the plumber, expecting a straightforward solution. Nothing a plumber’s snake couldn’t easily handle, we surmised. With a glut of family coming for Thanksgiving, loo efficiency was of utmost importance. Not only were we a spirited bunch of frequent flushers but, for this first Thanksgiving without my mother, the entire extended family would be together.

“Shitter’s full, Clark!” Our family laughed at this classic holiday movie, sharing the quote in unison while snug in front of the fireplace. It was early November, and we had started our seasonal movie binge early, smugly content that our water closets were just fine.

But a few days later, our basement floor drain mysteriously refluxed a murky puddle. With the movie quote lingering a bit too close for comfort, we called the plumber, expecting a straightforward solution. Nothing a plumber’s snake couldn’t easily handle, we surmised. With a glut of family coming for Thanksgiving, loo efficiency was of utmost importance. Not only were we a spirited bunch of frequent flushers but, for this first Thanksgiving without my mother, the entire extended family would be together.

And THAT’S why we should have a dog, Dad,” our ten-year-old daughter asserted with conviction and cool confidence, closing her power point presentation … 

Unlike our well-seasoned rivals across town, our brand new high school didn’t disappoint in our paucity of marching talent. Our haggard esprit de corp was led by a man who appeared an already elderly descendant of John Phillips Sousa. Attempting to span a few generation gaps, our director was determined to put a new show band on the city scene despite our seemingly lackluster talent and non-nonexistent marching skills. “Tryouts” were a misnomer: if you could fog a mirror, you were IN. 

A long time ago in collegiate Tennessee, I donned a pair of swanky two-tone beige, heeled cowgirl boots and found myself whirling around a dance floor. Akin to a country ballad, a fake ID was my partner in crime to accompany my older roommate in gaining access to weekend fun at Desperado’s Dance Hall …

When it comes to picking friends, I’ll take wildflowers any day; rogue perennial sorts popping up where least expected year after year; cultivars that buck convention, bloom in unlikely places, and refuse to be suppressed, flourishing outside society’s parterre while smirking at their staid, firmly potted brethren. 

A damp chill penetrates senses muddled by jet lag. An overnight flight affords little shut eye for this eager traveler, now stepping into the past with eyes wide open. Tudor half-timber buildings, brick streets and iconic red telly booths greet first steps on distant soil. I am finally, serendipitously, in the U.K.

Two years ago, I stared at a blank page while thinking about an upcoming birthday. Words flowed onto paper as I lovingly recalled Fourth of July celebrations growing up …

Another evening fades to dark. A campfire and twinkle lights match the light of the moon. The Minnesota state bird, the mosquito, has gathered its troops – a thick fog of stormtroopers undaunted by DEET. Their mission: drive the bipeds inside so the winged can now enjoy the ambiance called “home.”

Everyone wants warm lake time, even the pests. And who can blame them?

My fingers gently grasp the 37-year-old sheet of onionskin paper. On it are the sentiments of a woman whose life was cut short, whose voice I sadly did not have time to commit to memory. Rarely does a mistake surface on these delicate pages — a testament to her pre-word processor typing skills.

The glare of day dissipates as I enter the barn’s comfortable embrace. Wings overhead softly undulate toward a niche of protected calm in the timber frame of her ample underbelly. Feathers aloft in cool, fragrant air propagate the perfume of freshly steamed hay, tanned leather, equine musk, old wood, and Mother Earth. Muffled hooves and dove call sift through hand hewn stalls and plaits of sunlight from aging, wavy panes festooned with frilly arachnid lace. Her confidentiality, like her fortitude, stands witness to the cycles as earth is tilled, livestock nurtured, and life brought forth and laid to rest.  

A recent writing prompt suggested describing oneself without any reference to occupation. Since much of my identity has been tied to my job, facing retirement and moving away from my vocational dub has provided an enlightening mindset shift.

When it comes to the weather, March in the Heartland is a dice roll. If a day should present itself as favorable (as in over 40 degrees with a hint at sunshine), we Midwesterners stream outside in droves, some even sporting shorts and flip flops, to absorb a little vitamin D.

I was never a history buff. But as I age, I find myself writing down my husband’s and my personal histories for our daughters. Once these young women remove the blinders of young adulthood, they may begin to wonder why they entertain certain thoughts and exhibit odd tendencies and preferences.

Gold and silver rings encircle a finger on my right hand. Recently refurbished, these circles of infinity whisper to me from the women who paved the way for my existence. 

We’ve all heard the buzz and likely taken the online quiz regarding which of the five love languages we and our significant others most identify with. For those of you unfamiliar, the five actions presumably tripping our affection triggers in our relationships are: acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, words of affirmation, and physical touch. In the spirit of a northern (read glacial) Valentine’s Day, I would like to offer a sixth language that nicely tosses a blanket atop the traditional five.

Clinking glasses, raucous chatter, and a thick haze of smoke partially obscure the arrival of an unusual patron. She bellies up to the bar, placing front hooves on the slick surface, ears flicking in anxious vigilance and anticipation as her spindly legs grapple for balance.

I love a blank page before me and a new year ahead of me. Both offer a (hopefully soft) landing pad for new ideas and fresh hope. The desire and anticipation of good times ahead propels us forward in both actions and words, that what we offer the world may matter, even in some miniscule way. 

Every December prompts reflection on a year drawing to a close. A few days from the winter solstice, I watch an even earlier waning sunset upon a cold horizon and ponder my personal and professional past chapters. These two years have been a doozy. And while many consider life somewhat back to normal, those of us inside hospital walls may disagree just a tad.

My brothers and I would nag our parents relentlessly as soon as the last crumbs of Thanksgiving were brushed off the good tablecloth …

“If it weren’t for the eleventh hour, I would get nothing done.” This was my mantra for everything around the holidays. From the start of November, I would stress about every detail related to “holiday cheer:”

November heralds the avalanche of holiday cooking that promises to win the love of family. Not that affection is a culinary contest, per se, but it is a commitment to ensuring everyone’s gastronomic satisfaction in the name of tradition.

As a nurse, I have had to clean more than my fair share of other people’s dentures. As my parents aged, theirs were also added to the duty queue. Let me be honest and say I abhor this task, even when performing it for loved ones.

There is one place I avoid like the plague at an airport: the circular mayhem of erratically tossed suitcases, aggressive hands, and potential bagless despondency, Baggage claim. That “Carousel of Hope” has forever lost its luster as my bestie, and thankfully so …

As the saying goes, “Getting old is not for sissies.” And the truth is… I am aging just like the rest of us. Indeed, the sands of time seem to be racing faster through the tiny waist of that blasted hourglass. 

The landscape around my home is currently awash in this warming hue. Farm fields boast shades from straw to ochre, amber to russet. Whether in the kitchen, sewing room, or other inside spaces, flavors, textures and rich colors nourish my soul and stoke my creative fire as days shorten and temperatures decline. Luxurious rays of progressively earlier sunsets seep indoors and coax us to windows, bathing everything in gilded bliss.

“It’s a curse being a woman,” I thought as I opened a few recent invites to fall nuptials. Out of it erupted my vortex of analysis paralysis to find the right frock. I thought my closet had been streamlined to wardrobe perfection. Like Goldilocks, I wanted a dress that was just right. But three cranky bears showed up instead: my disposition, my family, and the Citibank bill …

“Tomato and cheese omelet and large coffee to go, please,” I tell the cashier in the coffee shop. I sidestep other patrons and take my place in the wait queue. It’s 2AM and the hospital’s only food station for us night owls is soon to close.

A huge fan of perennials, I prefer to plant something once — usually too late in the season — and rely on Mother Nature to do the rest. This allows me to spend winter fretting over its fate. Even if sparse, the magic of freshly green shoots year after year bolsters my shaky sense of horticultural success. The only annuals I entertain are those that quickly erupt into florid color, and the irony of a favorite – impatiens – is not lost on me.

My daughter, a burgeoning nursing student, recently asked me, “If you had to do it over again, would you still be a nurse?” I thought for a moment and responded affirmatively, that it was, quite simply, what I felt I was meant to do. A nod of satisfaction was her relieved response that she too had made the right vocational choice …

“Oh Baby, pleeeeze!” Ana purrs in her luxurious Latino brogue as she pauses the wine glass at her lips. “You’re livin’ life! It’s OK!” she offers against my anxious apologies of sparse communication. A rendezvous in the Windy City has brought us together to catch up and clink glasses in a toast to enduring friendship, no matter the passage of time …

“It’s never over till it’s over,” our realtor cautioned as we excitedly embarked on our home purchase. They say you know when you are “home,” and something I cannot explain led me room to room, as if by the hand, at the open house. I connected with this place on a level I could not articulate, falling madly in love.

Her ample figure bustles about the room, her piercing eyes watch as pencils in stubby fingers scribble hieroglyphs onto blank pages. An imposing presence from both habitus and experience leaves little doubt about the consequences of cheating. In the stark, fluorescent lighting of this classroom, many have barely endured the passage into sixth grade. I however, have found a kindred spirit. 

I recently finished my first half-marathon, a 13.1-mile trial of discipline and perseverance. Unlike my past rollercoaster rides of inactivity followed by bursts of overachieving, this was a respectable, incremental effort of kinder steps followed by an event completed without needing four day’s rest. I will, however, admit to experiencing a migraine requiring meds and a nap later the same afternoon. And, yes, according to the data from my fitness tracker, I still overachieved, but far less than the usual gross negligence of my physical wellbeing. I still have work to do. Fitness is a process and the discipline required to stay fit never ends. So, how do I persevere? Baby steps.

Our eyes adjust to the dim light. Faint rays of late afternoon sun illuminate suspended dust particles in the cavernous warehouse. The musty scent of bygone eras greets us and tickles our nasal passages. A few sneezes later, our expedition begins: Dad and I are in search of an old stained-glass window – my college graduation gift …

Considered “too fancy” by some, this perennial space is where I prefer to start and end my day. An abundance of ancestral artifacts and trappings of ladyhood render the atmosphere calming and restorative. Most importantly, I hear the whispers of women in my past. I feel their presence here, young and old, shimmering individually and collectively with the changing light of each day.

Lifeless flesh undulates to the rhythm of external chest compressions. A crowd of providers streams in from a variety of departments as invasive lines are placed, medication timing recited, and respiration commandeered by a surrogate. Several minutes of continued effort offer little reward…

Another dose of caffeine seeps into my bloodstream while my teenage chauffeur drives. Heading home from a two-week, five-state college tour blitz with my twin daughters, I feel the road weariness, the bloat from vacation dining, and the weight of parental concern for two young ladies leaving the nest …

“Are you EVEN kidding me?!,” I annoyingly ask out loud to the flat round screen on my wrist. Having just completed a two-hour sweat fest, I feel as though my efforts have gone somewhat unnoticed by this feisty fitness “friend.” Based on the data she has collected, her smug determination that I have merely maintained my fitness, and not improved it, tweaks my ire. Rolling my eyes, I cave to her assessment, vowing to train a tad smarter with the next workout …

With reverence for this weekend that remembers so many lost, each pilgrimage to this part of America’s heartland starts with this foremost habit of paying our respects and reconnecting the dots of our past …

We stand vigil around Mom’s hospital bed sporting matching yellow isolation gowns and masks. Our humorous spectacle as a banana bunch offers the dichotomy of levity and the gravity of life’s potential end. As family of humor seekers, laughter, as well as respect, has been part and parcel of our DNA through all our earthly trials, even death.

My husband and I celebrated our fully vaccinated status in grand style with another vaccinated couple: one of the first dinners outside the confines of our home since the start of the pandemic. To begin the festivities, our hosts proposed a toast to this milestone that would be best enjoyed “on the boat.”

As I honor the women in my history this month, my paternal Grandmother Ruthie’s spirit remains especially strong. She lived just down the driveway from us in a small house that was the safe haven my brothers would “run away to,” toting suitcases and trusted stuffed animals, when parental rules were too stifling.

My mother guides us to our airport gate, my 5-year old hand warm and safe in her firm grasp. Hallways and doorways appear as an endless, towering maze to my low-to-the-ground wide eyes. I marvel at how Mom knows where to go. Affable smiles from passers-by are reciprocated with Mom’s knowing winks.

The one-eyed giraffe winks at me; not because he wants to, but out of necessity. He lost one of his small felt eyes somewhere along the past 52 years of loving use and storage. For whatever reason, I had chosen this souvenir from a family trip to the battlefields of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – a far cry from a giraffe’s natural habitat – back in the late 1960s …

Regardless of where I have hung my hat, the sight of blooming forsythia warms my heart every spring. Roots in rural Pennsylvania germinated my love of the perfume of rich, pregnant earth coupled with the eye candy of sunny yellow flowers brave enough to promise warmer days …

A toddler grins precociously from the faded sepia-tone shore along with her doting older siblings in period swimming costumes. The Atlantic City Boardwalk of the Roaring Twenties springs to life from these otherwise still shots. Carefree smiles captured for perpetuity coax me to join them in the sand.

The dazzling sunset plays along the crystal facets of the lovely wine goblet in my hand. I raise a toast to the warm spring day and to the goblet’s prior owner. My friend Nita, whose spirit glowed as colorful as the evening before me, lives on in my heart.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? – Mary Oliver

A younger colleague recently sent me the following screenshot, immediately thinking of me and adding a red heart emoji: “Having a work wife/husband is cool but y’all ever had a work mom? That’s the real deal.”

A funny thing happened on the way to the microwave. Carefully sidestepping the dog, guarding the bowl of leftover squash casserole in my hand prompted me to reminisce about the origins of my love affair with the simple southerly nourishment about to be consumed. A story spanning 46 years and counting …

“Six?!” a pragmatic friend incredulously repeated, hearing how many whisks she had to choose from in my kitchen drawer. A bit defensive, I hastily retorted “Is there a problem with that? I use ‘em ALL!” “But why on Earth do you need SIX? I have ONE and it works out just fine,” she pressed …

“I’d be happy to fix your quilt for you!” I heard myself say roughly eleven years ago, completely clueless as to what I had gotten myself into. What I did know was this enormously sentimental bedcovering chronicled several generations of a family, stitched together as one …

The forty-two yellow spines are aligned like dominoes on my bookshelf, in direct view, eliciting a smile every time I glance their way from my desk. Boxed up for years, these volumes were dusted off and resurrected as décor during my vintage love renaissance some years back.

“Well HELLO CA-rol DE-uh!,” the plucky, red-cheeked Irishman and his wife proclaimed in thick New England accents, taking a pause from clanging pots and pans to offer warm embraces. The mouth-watering aromas trailing them were a delectable temptation of what was to come. A meal at this table was more than simply good food. Stories, laughter, and advice were the seasonings in this soiree of solid fare, lovingly prepared and abundantly presented.

Sandpipers scurry in their zig-zag pattern to find snacks, following the ebb and flow of the surf. Despite their urgency, their behavior is strangely calming to me …

Backpacks and shoes scatter as the back door is shoved open by the weight of the day, my work-weary frame pulled by agitated kindergarten twins in a hangry plea for sustenance. Amid the cacophony of snack requests, clanging pots and pans, and diatribe of school day doings, I ponder the most efficient way to sling dinner toward the table. At already six-thirty in the evening, there is no relaxation in sight…

All is quiet aside from the hum of rubber on pavement, our pensive focus on the fall colors whizzing by as we drive. While the change of scenery is welcome, this is not a dreamy sojourn. It is October. We are headed to Florida to see my elderly father-in-law, and timing is critical. Long- term care facilities recently reopened to visitors, and my husband and I have enough time off work to travel as well as quarantine. We feel this trip is now or never, and we await our bittersweet reunion.  

Midlife badassery was mine as I crossed the finish line of my first triathlon a few years ago. I high-fived fellow merrymakers at the back of the pack knowing it mattered not where I placed; the thrill of finishing was more than enough …

WAIT! WHAT’S THAT?!” Mom exclaimed as she double-checked her rearview mirror, suddenly slamming the Torino in reverse. Her unexpected outburst and trajectory startled me as I braced for impact, grabbing the dash before it walloped me.

My elderly friend – affectionately dubbed The Queen of Cool – made her own Christmas cards every year. A retired counselor, she had heard it all. Each holiday season, she offered her insights as seasonal love letters to those of us privileged to be in her circle. While her own children rolled their eyes and scoffed at their mother’s unconventional greetings, I found her simple words refreshingly grounded in an otherwise disjointed world.

Grandma and I were rebels, eating raw cookie dough and drinking high octane coffee while we baked Christmas cookies. This gloriously naughty habit started around age five, spawning a respectable sugar and caffeine addiction in my later years.

The glossy brochure confidently stated anyone in moderate physical shape could enjoy the 31-mile kayaking weekend. Three days of rustic beauty, easily attainable for two fit thirty-somethings, included nights of tenting on the Apostle islands of Lake Superior. I booked the trip, determined to prove to my other half this city girl could indeed enjoy the great outdoors …

Glued to the front of our massive console TV, my brothers and I faithfully watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade every year. Large zeppelins, tethered by armies of pedestrians, gave life to our preferred cartoon characters. Mischievous attempts by Rocky or Bullwinkle to …

I have written on my penchant for perfectionism and I desired the perfect family. I had a wonderful husband, a wonderful career, and I wanted a wonderful family. It wasn’t happening.

My mother was the queen of domestic prowess. Nothing escaped her razor sharp scrutiny for disarray, even when eventually relying only on peripheral vision due to macular degeneration. One year on her birthday, I gave her a card showing an older woman vacuuming a horse pasture through a ramshackle wire fence; the caption: “A woman’s work is never done….”

My love affair with the patina of age blossomed early in my childhood. Despite my mid-century Boomer upbringing, I have always enjoyed the opportunity to converse with earlier generations via the treasures that surrounded me at home.

Freezing rain pierced my jacket, the tulle princess gown, underlying jeans, and finally, my delicate flesh. A drooping tiara and scepter, along with saturated socks and sneakers, were only minor annoyances on the slippery jog down the roadside brickway as I attempted to keep pace with my older brothers on this most serious of missions.

A rumble has started in the closet. The matron of the house is embracing more minimalism. Tired of too many choices, and with a pandemic offering time to question need versus want, clothing and accessories are the next cache to curate.

A pocket of backyard paradise is tucked under a generous shade canopy, its dappled light an outdoor disco ball. Next to the Lilliputian playhouse built long ago by Grandpa, hammocks are strung between the trees where our daughters gently sway to the breezes of each day. Far more than a hobby, “mockin’ time” is a nourishing ritual in their development.

My fingers caress the bespoke covering’s coarse weave and silky crossed stitches. Holding another generation in my hands and heart, I gently lay the tablecloth in place. Many a vivacious conversation has obliged the various underlayments now in my possession, glorious tales spun into the thread count of history.

The Head, a twisted hotbed of excessive thought, random memories, vocational facts, and endless conundrums, with a sprinkling of trepidation and nervous tics, is a contained snarl on top of my shoulders. Along with nagging “shoulds” and occasional regrets, now erratic temperament shifts occur thanks to our old friend Estrogen having hailed a cab, never to be seen again.

The sugar sand and scattered shells are still friendly to my tender feet. This Gulf shore was once my home, and now, at a seaside conference, I bask in its warmth once again. Lost in the thoughts of years past, the ebb and flow of the tide licks my toes as I stroll.

The overwhelming scent of lavender permeates the entry of the lavish funeral parlor. Deeply inhaling the strategic aromatherapy, my brother and I bolster ourselves for the bittersweet task ahead.

Quietly entering our open bedroom window in late summer, her cooling tendrils wrap themselves around my sleeping face. A first kiss is gently placed on my forehead as I wake to enjoy the hint of what’s to come. The calendar may state otherwise, but her stealthy wink lets me know she’s returned and in the wings, rehearsing for her yearly fete.

I study the monitor screens before me. Displayed in a rainbow of color and a pulse tone, the usually rhythmic waves are my visual and audible vocational artform. Most people will never understand, but the always-in-motion bits, bips, and blips are an integral part of who I am. This soothing white noise provides a context of what matters.

I’ve always loved the woods. Shaded and cool, quiet, and perfumed with nature, I breathe in a welcome retreat from the glare of daily life. Sunshine is great, mind you, but the lush, comforting enclave of the forest wraps its soul around you as a hug from Mother Nature herself.

Journaling has been my cathartic outlet for many years. Cheaper than therapy and, coupled with a slowly sipped glass of wine, putting pen to paper is mighty satisfying. Whether reflecting on moments of joy, gravity, or frustration, the ability to pour a soul-cleansing river of thought onto a page is tremendously therapeutic.

He lifts the beautiful, rosy-hued violin off his desk and begins to play. The sweet, silky sound that follows is one I’m supposed to replicate. My attempts are a far cry from the magnificent melody he demonstrates. He listens intently as I struggle, hearing a chord of progress inaudible to my young ears. A musical maestro and gifted instructor, he coaxes out emotion as well as intonation.

Spring gradually unfolds outside my car window as the road and the miles gently whiz on by. I watch my private, time-lapsed arrival of the new season as we head further and further south. Dogwood and redbud blossoms float gently amid the soft brown haze of branches pregnant with buds. While viewing the scenery, I also lovingly polish the silver charms on my mother’s charm bracelet – a last minute inclusion to my trip wardrobe.

She hangs silently among her dressier siblings in a land of infinite options. Not drawing attention to herself, this one exudes a quiet confidence, a stability unmatched by the frilly sidekicks and high-heeled seductresses rubbing shoulders with her just inches away. She knows one thing and one thing only – she’s The One.

This essay was originally composed in May 2015 after the burial of my parents,  long before the pandemic with its associated gathering size limits and travel bans.   I hesitated to post something so deep during a time of already intense struggle, but writing has always been my creative outlet to productively process my spinning head. 

A rush of air stirs the fine hairs on my crossed arms. A bustling waitress, arms full of clean coffee cups, briskly passes us en route to her table, its tired recipients grateful to receive their morning jolt. A swirling cloud of food envy envelopes us as we wait. The delightful smokiness in the air is balanced by scents of fresh biscuits, eggs, and fried potatoes. The counter is lined with locals – farmers, professionals, seniors – all starting this new day in familiar camaraderie. Mugs clink, forks scrape and conversation flows along with the free refills. I sit quietly, enjoying the fervor of the morning as I read the scribbled menu on the grease board complete with the plethora of daily pie selections.

My mother watches me as I dab tinted moisturizer on her face. The full face makeup of younger years has been replaced by cosmetic minimalism. Strong lipcolor has been tossed aside, a lightly tinted gloss in its place. Her salt and pepper hair color is now her preferred shade. Watching my mother’s transformation from youth to midlife and beyond has been, and will likely continue to be my blueprint without even realizing it. We strive to NOT be our mothers for a variety of reasons as we age. But the inevitable is, well, inevitable. The face in the mirror is mine.

Welcome to the closet! MaryAnn was the fictitious imp in our childhood home who was always leaving closet lights on. It was as if she beckoned us back inside this privately quiet space to examine, remix, or purge options to help us best represent ourselves and bolster confidence on any given day. While contributing to

A hot breeze blows through the rolled down car windows as we carefully turn into the country driveway at the top of the hill. Passing the local gas company’s substation with it’s twisted nest of pipelines and meter boxes, I again wonder why one would live near such an ugly array. Once under the ancient shade tree canopy near the house the temperature drops to comfort level. Anticipatory fidgeting gives way to joyful release as my brothers and I sprint past ice-filled barrels of pop bottles toward the wiffle ball game beyond the parked cars. We’ve looked forward to this day all year long – the annual 4th of July picnic at my Great Aunt & Uncle’s place.