Being Grateful 

In 2017 I began a Gratitude Journal. Never heard of it? In simple terms, it is a journal where each day you write down no less than one thing you're grateful for. Of course, you can write down more than one. I often wrote down two or three, because there was always more than one thing to be grateful for each and every day. I loved writing in my journal because it made me conscious of all the good going on in my life, and steered me away from dwelling on the bad. You know - stress, politics, difficult bosses or coworkers, all those annoying things that eat you up inside and keep you awake at night. 

Initially, I kept it up daily, but then it became more sporadic. In mid-2018 I stopped altogether and picked it up in 2021. That lasted until the end of the year, and once again I stopped recording my gratitude, though I did have a perfectly good reason why. In 2021 I began developing a tremor in my writing hand. By 2022 it grew worse and worse and by 2023 writing became difficult and laborious. Plus I'd developed severe, very painful arthritis in the same hand making writing all but impossible. Just trying to write a short grocery list was a chore that could take upwards of ten minutes. 

I'd been seeing a hand specialist who by mid-2023 told me that I'd reached the maximum number of cortisone shots he could give me. Any more and the cortisone would start permanently damaging my cartilage and bone. My only option was to have the arthritic bone in my hand removed. I didn't love the idea of undergoing major hand surgery, but if that was the only way to be pain-free and regain the use of my hand I figured I might as well get it over with. My surgeon warned me it would be extremely painful, and the recovery long even with three months of post-op hand therapy. As I sit and type this I am five months out from surgery, and while I am buckets better than I was before undergoing the knife, I still have a ways to go. He did tell me that it could take six to twelve months before I'd truly be pain-free and back to normal. I should have believed him. He was so very right. And that's my perfectly good excuse for not writing in my gratitude journal. 

Today I pulled it out and began reviewing pages and pages of entries. I had forgotten many of the joys that I've written about, the gratitude I expressed. Entries spanned from being grateful for reconnecting with an old friend to successfully making a batch of Fromage Blanc cheese to having a roof over my head to an afternoon nap to finishing a quilt I'd been working on for months to an amazing dinner my husband made to witnessing a blue sky the likes of which I'd never seen to finding and meeting new family to recognizing that gratitude was changing my perspective by giving me a way to look at life and influencing how I responded to it. As I thumbed through the journal I was amazed at all that I'd found worthy to write about, things I should still be grateful for every day. 

In a moment's breath, I rededicated myself to once again regularly write in my journal. I dated a new page and scribbled (my handwriting is not yet terribly legible) several things for which I'm grateful. It was when I closed it and saw what was stamped on the front cover that I remembered why I began the journal in the first place, the reason for its coming to be. In gold ink is stamped: "Start something wonderful." That was the impetus in the beginning, and even though I've taken a long break away, it is now the inducement to continue. Just as my journal entry of long ago made me realize how recognizing and expressing gratitude changed my perspective and life in such a positive way, it is time once again to restart and appreciate the simple wonders of life. 

 

Hanukkah and Lessons Learned from Ancient Israel

Hanukkah, the Jewish Festival of Lights will soon be upon us and will run for eight days and nights. In the year 168 B.C.E., the Syrian king Antiochus Epiphanes sent his soldiers to Jerusalem to desecrate the Jewish Holy Temple. That was not enough. In addition, Antiochus also abolished Judaism. The Syrians set up altars and idols to worship Greek gods and Jews were given two options: conversion or death. The Jews, led by Judah the Maccabee, rebelled against King Antiochus. Around 164 B.C., the Maccabees defeated King Antiochus and his troops.

When the Maccabees returned to their ransacked temple, they found only one jar of oil—just enough to light the temple’s candles for one day. But according to the Talmud, the oil miraculously burned for eight days. Hanukkah commemorates the victory of the ancient Hebrews over those who sought to crush their faith. The triumph is symbolized by the miracle of light. It commemorates the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem in 164 B.C. after three years of war.

Now it is 2023. It is almost ironic that the first night of Hanukkah this year, December 7, falls exactly two months after the brutal, murderous attack by Hamas on innocent Israeli civilians including children and babies.

Much like the war waged by the Maccabees, this is a war that will be fought until Israelis can live safely again in their homes without fear of being murdered for being Jewish. Because make no mistake, this war is about Jewish survival. While many say it's a territorial war, it is not. It is about the Jewish people's right to exist and live freely as Jews in the land given to them by God. Unless you are keenly aware of the war(s) between Israel and the Muslims, you may not understand how deep antisemitism runs in the Muslim world. Their hatred of Jews is on a par with Hilter's, and in fact, bold Arab leaders often say they are intent on finishing what Hilter started. In the West, politicians and leaders have long sought peace in the Middle East. What the West does not comprehend is how can there be peace when the Arabs hate Jews with such a fervor that they see no resolution short of annihilating every Jew standing on Israeli land?

That is why as Jews, this year, perhaps more than any other, we must light the candles all eight nights and remember that this is not the first time that a group has tried to annihilate us. It didn't work then, and it won't work now. Am Israel Chai!

              

                    

A Love Affair with Quilting 

Thirty years ago I made my first quilt for my sister's first child. What I thought was a one-time gift, turned into a love affair, because after that she had another child, and I made another quilt. Before I knew it I was making quilts all the time. 

People who know me know that I am as passionate about quilts as I am about writing. I belong to two quilting groups. I have lots of quilty friends and hang out with quilters. I follow numerous quilt pages on Facebook and any chance I get I go to quilt shows. If you've never been to one, especially a really really big one like the International Quilt Festival in Houston, well, there's just nothing else like it. It's huge! I suppose you could call it the Olympics or Academy Awards of quilting. But honestly, it's so much more than that. For me, it's both inspirational and intimidating because as I look at those works of art, and that's exactly what they are, I doubt my ability to make something so extraordinary. Even so, I can't help but be in awe of the artistry, the colorful array of perfectly chosen fabrics, designs beyond my imagination, and quilting so perfect it takes my proverbial breath away. 

I just love being around quilts, whether I could ever make something so divine as the quilts at the International Quilt Festival or not. I know what I do well. And I know what brings me joy. Because the joy is why I do it. Like my quilts pictured above, I pretty much stick to making quilts using fabrics and colors that make me happy. The collage bunny below is my latest foray into getting out of my comfort zone. I'd made only one collage before the bunny, the lemons quilt at the top of the page. So much fun. I know I'll be making another one soon. Yes, it brings me joy. 

When I began learning to quilt, I didn't have a sewing machine. I made that first quilt for my nephew by cutting out all the pieces with scissors, sewing the pieces together with a single needle and thread, and quilting it by hand. My nephew was six months old before I finished it and I worked on it every day. I point out how I made every aspect by hand because these days, most people sew their quilts entirely by machine. I too sew the top on my machine, which makes it go oh so much faster. When it comes to the quilting though, I often opt to quilt it by hand because.......you guessed it, the act of hand quilting brings me joy and a great sense of satisfaction. In some strange way, it connects me to quilters of long ago, who didn't have lovely sewing machines to do the quilting for them. Once in a while though I will hire a "longarmer" to quilt a piece that requires a more sophisticated touch, like the bunny. I could not have done the bunny justice by hand, but a wonderfully talented woman named Louise Klare could, and she did. I smile every time I look at bunny who now hangs in my sewing room. 

Life is too short not to live joyfully, don't you think? Well, I do, and that's why I'll keep on quilting and writing, and living as happy a life as possible. I hope the same for you.

 

     

 

An Unlikely Adoption

While it may be Halloween, and that time of year when people associate black cats with all things evil and spooky, I can assure you that they are not. They are as loving, smart, and joyful as any other cat. Which is probably why black cats find us. Three cats have adopted us over the past 25 years and taught us that they are some of the most extraordinary felines who walk this earth. Our latest cat came to us in a less-than-usual way.

I was at the supermarket on a busy Tuesday before the Fourth of July. The place was jammed, and my cart was half full when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“This is the Justice of the Peace. Our mutual friend, Tappy, gave me your phone number. I understand that you like cats,” he said. 

I didn’t respond right away, as I was thinking, ‘huh?’

“That’s right,” I finally said. 

“Good, good, I like cats, too. A short while ago an associate found a small kitten inside her pickup truck’s wheel well, sitting on a tire. She brought it into the office. It’s a real cute little thing. She can’t take another cat, I can’t take another cat, and no one in my office can either. Tappy stopped in for a visit, saw the kitten, said you recently lost your cat, and suggested I call you.

“Uh, that’s true,” I stammered. “I did lose my 14-year-old cat recently. It was kind of sudden. Not sure if we’re ready for another cat.” 

“Just come in and take a look at him. I think it’s a him, maybe it’s a her.” Silence. “Yep, it’s definitely him, I just looked.”

I almost burst out laughing as I stood in the cereal aisle, visualizing this judge lifting the kitten’s tail to check out his gender.

“So, what do you think?” he asked. “He’s real sweet and very affectionate. Can you come by my office? I’m leaving in 20 minutes.”

I looked down at my cart full of groceries. “I’m a half hour away and I'm in the middle of shopping. I can’t make it in 20 minutes, besides that I really need to bring my husband, so he can see the kitten, too. He’s got a Boy Scouts meeting tonight and won’t be free till after 8:00. How about we come by in the morning?”

“No, no, I’d like to find this little guy a home tonight. Y’all come by my office when your husband gets home. Here’s my cell …….call me.” And he hung up. 

I stood there a little stunned, then phoned my husband. He wasn’t too excited about the prospect of bringing an unknown kitten into our home. We did agree that the dog had been grieving and lonely since our cat passed away. We’d been hesitating to look for another. Nevertheless, we phoned the judge later that evening, and as promised, he met us at his office. We walked into the break room and there was the tiniest little black kitten I’d ever seen scurrying all around the room like little flashes of black lightning. In one corner was the lid of a computer paper box filled with litter, and in another corner was a plate of tuna and a bowl of water. We no sooner sat at the table than the kitten ran up my husband’s pant leg, laid in his lap, and began purring with a rumble that sounded like one of the trains roaring through the middle of town. He stared up at my husband with piercing, iridescent, green eyes.

“See? Isn’t he sweet?” the judge asked. “I don’t think he’s very old. He keeps trying to nurse on my fingers.”

As if on cue, the kitten got into my lap and began trying to suckle on one of my fingers, and kneading my thighs. That’s when I discovered that he had teeth like little razors and claws as sharp as pins. Nevertheless, he was adorable. I fell for him hard and fast and wondered what happened to his mama and how he ended up on that tire. 

The judge stared at us, “Well?”

I looked at my husband, down at the kitten, and back at the judge. 

“You gonna take him?” he asked again. We nodded. 

“Great! You’re gonna love him. So, what are you going to name him?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, hunching my shoulders. “We’ll have to wait and see what name fits him.”

On the way home, the irony of another black cat did not escape us. This was the third black cat to make its way into our lives. I wondered if maybe cats have their own internet with pages of potential humans, and their locations, where cats, especially black cats, can go to find a loving home. How else did black cats keep finding us?

The kitten moved right into our house, and even though he weighed only two pounds, he terrified our 15-pound dog. The second he saw the kitten, our wussy dog shook like he was stuck outdoors in a snow drift, his ears flattened against his head, and his tail curled up between his legs. He looked at me with confusion and fear. “It’s just a tiny kitten,” I told him. “He isn’t going to replace you. He’s your new buddy.” The dog let out a snort, as he often does when something bothers him, turned, and slithered away. The kitten ignored him and marched around our house like he owned the place. 

Though we had no idea what this new cat would be like, over the following weeks and months the kitten’s antics kept us constantly laughing; like the day he barreled down a long hallway into the bathroom and took a flying leap for the toilet. He must have assumed that the lid was closed, as it usually is, only that time it wasn’t. Fortunately, the water was clean, and he got quite a dunking. He howled, well, screamed actually, until I rescued him, wrapped him in a towel, and dried him off. That was the last time he attempted that maneuver. 

His main amusement is hunkering down around corners waiting for the dog to saunter by. Then he leaps high in the air like a trapeze artist, landing squarely on the dog’s back, attempting to ride him as though our sweet dog is a bucking bronco. Watching the dog trying to shake him off is better entertainment than the comedians on late-night television. The dog starts wailing, the kitten responds with what sounds like squeals of delight, and on and on it goes. Usually, his forays into terrorizing the dog take so much energy that shortly after he collapses on a chair or the floor and falls into a deep sleep, only to wake up an hour later and start bothering the dog all over again. 

The kitten is now a two-and-a-half-year-old cat. He has grown out of his worst kitten habits, like pouncing on my face in the middle of the night and chomping down on my nose or cheek with those sharp little teeth. For months I didn’t sleep through the night and I bore not-so-attractive scratches and love bites all over my face. I looked like a teenager with a bad case of zits. There were nights that I wondered why I let the judge talk me into this. Then I would remember how much I absolutely adore this little guy. How he would burrow himself under the covers and nestle against my chest, purring until he fell asleep. Our vet reassured us that after he had his manhood removed at six months old, he would calm down, and his sharp baby teeth would be replaced by normal adult teeth. And thank goodness, he did, losing all interest in gnawing on my face. 

As for the two fur kids, they have learned to get along and life in our household is peaceful once again. Mostly. Every once in a while though, the cat unmercifully attacks the dog who looks up at me as though to say “Mom, what were you thinking?”

 

An Angel in Blue Walks Amongst Us

Every now and then I stumble upon a person so caring, so kind, and so extraordinary, that it makes me pause. I find myself unable to articulate what I am seeing. Why? Because it is in those astonishing moments that I realize that I am in the presence of an angel in human form. At some time in our lives many of us have commented that someone is the very personification of a heavenly being. In fact, it’s quite common to hear someone say, “What an angel!”

Imagine then how the idea of an angel walking the earth is a police officer. We all know how of late police forces nationwide have been berated in every way. Plus, many cities are defunding their police forces, which makes me wonder who are they going to call when someone accosts them, breaks into their homes, or threatens their lives?

This column is not about that, rather it heralds a man who takes his duty as a police officer in the Texas town of Lacy Lakeview beyond the job requirements. I first stumbled upon Officer Thomas Beasley when I read about him on a local Facebook post. It told the story of how a homeless man and his dog were trying to stay out of the rain near a business. Rather than do the humane thing and acknowledge that the man simply needed a place to stay dry, the business owner called the police. Lucky for the homeless man and his dog, Officer Thomas Beasley responded to the call. This good Samaritan in blue did not cite or arrest the man. Instead, he used his own money to pay for a motel room for the man and his dog, where they could stay the night out of the chilling cold and pelting rain. And while it would be easy to think that’s the only instance of his good heart, far from it. Turns out that wasn’t the only time he has paid for a motel room to assist someone needing a warm and safe place to stay for the night. He’s done it quite a few times. His personnel file is chock full of stories where he stepped up in ways you’d never expect.  

Take for example what happened in 2018 when Officer Beasley responded to a call that a 13-year-old boy’s bike had been stolen. While kids’ bikes frequently get stolen, what made this story so touching was that the boy had bought the bike with money he earned from mowing lawns. The kid worked really hard to earn the money to buy the bike and Officer Beasley understood that. Rather than simply writing up the report, Officer Beasley used his own money and bought the boy a new bike.  See what I mean? Officer Beasley is no ordinary person. This pattern of giving and giving back is nothing new; from an early age, he answered the call to duty.

In 1975, he joined the United States Navy, eventually reaching the rank of Senior Petty Officer. By the time he retired after 21 years in the service, he had been awarded numerous medals for Navy Achievement, Navy Commendation, Good Conduct, and the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal. 

Beasley went on to attend McLennan Community College’s Law Enforcement Academy in Waco where he obtained his Texas Police Officer’s license from the Texas Commission on Law Enforcement. In mid-2010 he joined the Texas State Technical College (TSTC) Police Department. While serving at TSTC he pursued a Texas State certification for basic structure firefighting and aircraft fire rescue from the Fire Academy. Four-plus years later he joined the Lacy Lakeview Police Department.

Clearly, Officer Beasley is a man with a strong sense of purpose, awareness, duty, and wisdom. He steps forward when and wherever he sees a need. Few people in the general public feel that sense of obligation and responsibility for helping a fellow human being. That’s what makes Officer Beasley so exceptional. His Chief of Police, John Truehitt, says “he has the heart of a servant Leader and he does not seek nor does he want any recognition. He is the epitome of the vast number of Police Officers all across our great nation who do these and many more acts of kindness every day.”

He could have kicked back after retiring from the U.S. Navy and simply lived off his retirement. But he didn’t. He knew there were more ways to aid his fellow human beings; he knew that there were people who needed help. He has a calling, a sense of obligation to do more. I’ve met the man; he is incredibly humble and doesn’t desire any attention. He views what he does as normal, what anyone would do for another human being. I beg to differ. While I’m sure that he would argue my point of being an angel on earth, I stick with my opinion. And I am not alone. If there are angels among us, he is one of them.  

 

October Winds

I become more me every October. My soul relaxes and I dance with the leaves that turn color, swaying and twirling on the breezes, gliding ever so gently until they reach the ground. I love October, especially when the weather starts to cool down, the days grow shorter, and the nights long. Pumpkins show up on doorsteps along with witches and little goblins. A new magic, as old as time, fills the air, the magic of autumn.

Memories too. Mostly October takes me back to when I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, home of the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, the world’s largest ballooning event. Each October, as the smell of pungent chiles roasting permeates the air, hundreds of luminous, multicolored, hot air balloons fill the skies at daybreak. The first year that I witnessed the magnificent balloons edging across the sky, I was in awe and wondered what it would be like to fly up where the eagles soar. A few years later I found out.

A new friend asked if I’d ever been up in a balloon; I told him I had not. The following weekend he took me to a wide-open range on the west mesa where we met up with his ballooning friends. We no sooner inflated the majestic flying ship than I was waved in and told to get in the wicker basket.

“Who? Me?” I asked, a bit surprised.

“Get in before I launch without you!” the grumpy pilot barked at me. “You too!” he barked again, this time at the man who brought me. He didn’t need to be told twice.

In moments we ascended, gently floating upward, toward the highest clouds. It felt as though God were cradling us in his hands, lifting us and slowly moving us along with the air current. When we reached “cruising speed,” Wally the pilot seemed more at ease.

“What do you think, first-timer?” he grinned at me.

I am rarely speechless, but this time I couldn’t put into words what I felt. Who could? I was soaring with the birds and the angels surrounded by blinding sapphire skies, the smell of cedar and sage wafting through the air. It wasn’t like flying in a plane, not at all, it was something otherworldly, inexplicable. It was the true definition of serenity. Suddenly, I heard the scampering of little feet. I looked at my companions.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Wally pointed at the ground, which was a long, long way down. “A jackrabbit,” he said nonchalantly.

I stared at the barren land covered in tumbleweeds and watched the jackrabbit running as though he were escaping a predator. “How is that possible?” I asked.

“Sound travels upward,” he responded as though it was obvious.

After a half-hour, we gradually descended and saw our chase crew arriving on the scene to help hold down the balloon when we landed to switch out passengers. After that next group flew and disembarked, everyone helped deflate the balloon, fold and pack it away. First-time passengers were told to kneel on a plastic sheet to undergo a ceremony to commemorate the flight. I realized that something special was about to happen when I was given a glass of champagne. As I held up my glass, the co-pilot, Kathi, recited the Balloonist Prayer:

“The winds have welcomed you with softness. The sun has blessed you with its warm hands. You have flown so high and so well that God has joined you in laughter and set you gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.”

Just as I downed the champagne, my friend Earl, who was standing behind me, poured a whole glass of champagne on my head. “What the ------!” I yelled and then heard everyone laughing.

Kathi quickly explained that the champagne shower was part of the first-flight ceremony and welcomed me into their flying family. At the time I had no idea of the significance of that first flight, of the life it foreshadowed. Soon after, I joined the balloon crew and went on countless adventures that until then only my writer’s mind could imagine. One flight, however, proved even more meaningful than the first. Five months later, Earl and I married in Wally and Kathi’s balloon, aptly named TEGWAR, for The Exciting Game Without Any Rules. And indeed, it was.

In memory of Wally Henderson 

who ascended on his final flight to join the angels on 

October 14, 2021

 

Second Chances or Thirds or Fourths or......

    Have you ever picked up a book in a store or browsed online and thought, 'That looks like an interesting read, I'll buy it.' Then you started to read it and wondered what you were thinking? That's exactly what happened when I started to read Matt Haig's The Midnight Library. From the start, I had trouble with it, mostly because I had no sympathy for the book's protagonist. I don't think I read more than 10 pages before I set it aside and read another book, then another three or four after that. Recently I picked it up off my bookshelf and remembered all the good reviews the book received. I wondered what had I been missing? I decided I would muscle through it if only to figure out what everyone else was seeing that I wasn't. 

    First, I should say, that I finally got it, though it took getting deep into the book before I did. I admit that I did like the strange premise from the beginning and that alone compelled me to keep going. If you haven't read the book you must be wondering, why the change of heart?

    So, here's the deal. The story focuses on a 30ish woman named Nora Seed who has pretty much wasted her life by making poor choices and living a life of regrets. She's on the verge of suicide when the book opens. (This is when I skipped out the first time I tried to read it.) Nora attempts to take her life when an odd thing happens. Instead of dying she is transported to The Midnight Library full of an infinite number of books each containing an alternate life where she made different choices and lived different lives. Can you imagine? Nora is given the opportunity to try out countless different lives she could have lived and in so doing, undo her regrets.

    And this is where I got hooked. Nora tries out multiple lives and in each life discovers it wasn't what she regretted not doing after all. Things weren't what she envisioned they would be. Each had its downfalls, creating its own set of complications. Yet in each one, she learns a lesson, becomes a little wiser, and with that lesson returns to The Midnight Library to try out another life. I was fascinated by the very idea of second or third or multiple additional chances. 

    How many of us haven't thought back on our lives and wondered -- what if I took a different path? How different would my life and happiness be? What if I took the chance to study at that school halfway across the country that I'd dreamed of attending my whole life, but didn't? What if I took a different major in college? Studied art instead of accounting? Or agricultural science instead of engineering? History instead of child development? What if I learned to ski or surf or climb mountains or fly a plane? What if I took that job in New York or Santa Fe or New Orleans or Tallahassee or Montana? What if I married that man or woman I thought was the "one" but got scared and broke up with him/her instead? Would I have been happier? What if I had kids? Or didn't have kids? The questions and possibilities are endless, aren't they? And that is exactly the point of Matt Haig's novel. In the end, it's about gaining insights and perspective and discovering for oneself the best way to live one's life. Because really, none of us really know the best way until we live it, do we?

    

It's Getting To Be That Time of Year 

Though it's only September as I post this I'm just so darned excited that I had to post this topic earlier than usual. Why? Because the mercury never shot above the 80s for the last few days. Most of yesterday it was in the 70s. Was I giddy? You bet! I donned a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and closed shoes (I usually wear flip-flops.) And we had rain, lots and lots of rain. In fact, two inches fell at our house. I could practically taste autumn. Which means that it’s that time of year when I start thinking about pumpkins and ghosts and turkey and cranberries and one of my favorite holidays, Thanksgiving. 

Feeling rather fall-ish, my mind began to wonder. My first thought was -- when did Thanksgiving start being celebrated in the Lone Star state? Curious critter as I am, I did a little research and discovered that a Thanksgiving was celebrated here long before the one in Plymouth in 1621. And I stumbled upon a few other gems as well.

That first Thanksgiving was held in 1598 when Spanish explorer, Juan de Onate, landed in San Elizario after an arduous and perilous expedition to the Rio Grande. The party dined on game provided by the Spaniards and fish caught by the Manso tribe, followed by a Mass. 

Fast forward a few centuries to 1912 when the town of Cuero in SE Texas held its first Turkey Trot. Local farmers used to move their birds on foot to the turkey processing facilities. Someone came up with the idea of making an event out of the turkey drives. In November 1912, some 30,000 people showed up to watch turkeys make their way through the town’s streets. Cuero instituted its Turkey Trot, which started a nationwide dance craze by the same name, and eventually, towns everywhere began holding Turkey Trot runs, where participants dressed up as turkeys and ran for three to five miles. In 2011, the Dallas Turkey Trot set a Guinness World Record for the largest gathering of runners (661) dressed up as turkeys. 

Ever heard the expression that everything is bigger in Texas? It really is true, especially when it comes to wild turkeys. The largest turkey on record killed in Texas occurred in 1993 in Montague County. Just imagine how many people that 30.75-pound wild bird must have fed. 

Considering the holiday’s somber beginnings and rightful focus on giving thanks, it’s interesting how a number of oddities surrounding Thanksgiving have evolved. Number one in my book is the annual presidential Turkey Pardon. We’re probably the only country in the world that pardons an animal before everyone eats the bird’s relatives at feasts nationwide. In weirdness, it’s on a par with Frozen Turkey Bowling, started in 1988 at a Lucky’s grocery store in Newport Beach, California where they used the store’s aisles for the bowling alleys and set up soda bottles for pins. I can't fathom the mess that must have made when some of the soda bottles burst, which you know they did.

At North Technical High School in Florissant, Missouri, the students get a chance to throw pies at the administration and teachers as part of an annual event. Did your math teacher give you a low mark on a test? Have at it – cream that teacher! Not to be outdone, at a high school in Indianapolis, athletes dress up dead turkeys in baby onesies, light them on fire, and throw them across the football field. Why? Who knows. Guess it’s a testosterone thing to see who's turkey flies the furthest. 

Then, of course, there is the strangest tradition of all – Black Friday. I’m sure that the retail industry came up with this one and while it sure has become an economic boon for the stores, sadly it has disrupted a lot of family Thanksgiving meals as people start lining up at the stores on Thanksgiving Day to get that bargain the next morning. It’s a sad commentary on American society that shopping madness has usurped the importance of giving thanks and family time. 

On a more cheerful note, I take heart in several sweet traditions that have evolved over the years. Whether you live in New York or watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, it’s an annual tradition in many homes to watch it as a family. I'm a sucker for watching it every year. 

Some folks make and serve favorite dishes loved by relatives who have long passed even though no one attending the family’s meal likes or eats the dishes. Think mincemeat pie, scalloped oysters, creamed onions, and molded cranberry gelatin salad. It’s considered a way of honoring long-gone loved ones. 

When I was growing up in a Navy town my mother extended an invitation to a couple of sailors at the local base to join us at our Thanksgiving table. The young men were homesick and far from their families. Even though they didn’t know us they appreciated having a family with whom to spend the holiday. As I recall they always cleaned their plates and accepted my mother’s offers of seconds of everything and slices of pie to take back to their barracks.  

One tradition I heard about recently that is just the sweetest thing is to have everyone sign a white tablecloth in various indelible ink colors while seated at the Thanksgiving table. Afterward, the mother or whoever in the household can sew embroiders the names with various thread colors to preserve the signatures. Each year the family uses the same tablecloth and adds the signatures of new family members and friends in attendance. Talk about creating a family heirloom! I love that. 

I hope that a few of these traditions give you something to think about as the holiday approaches. After all, it is a day of giving thanks. I don't think that you can ever express thanks enough or too early.  On that note, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving full of grace, joy, friends, and family. 

 

 How to Write a Book 

For a while now I've been posting stories here, which I hope have brought a smile to your face and a bit of joy to your day. Over the years a lot of people have asked me how I became a published author. What was my magic formula? Did I know someone in the publishing biz? How did I do it?

There's no easy answer, though I can tell you I started writing about the age of six or seven. I wrote stories about everything. When I was 11 or 12 my parents gave me my first blank book, which I filled with poems and stories. Every year they gave me a new blank book, and after a while, I bought my own blank books.

In seventh grade, my English teacher took me aside and encouraged me to keep writing my stories. He told me I had a talent and the only way to develop it was to keep writing every chance I got. And write I did. Until life came along.

In college, I wanted to make a difference in the world. So instead of being an English or creative writing major, I studied social welfare, followed by a Master's in social work and when it came time to find a real job, there weren't any. I fussed around with various jobs, feeling lost and very disillusioned. I couldn't fathom where I'd taken a wrong turn.

Then one day I remembered what my seventh grade teacher told me. It dawned on me that what was missing in my life was my calling. I wasn't using my talent. So, I bought a new blank book and started writing again. I began writing articles and submitting them to publications. Never mind that I didn't know what I was doing. I just kept it up and got published. I even wrote a cookbook filled not just with recipes, but also stories about the foods and their origins. Through sheer luck, I found an agent who found a publisher. I was kinda astonished and thrilled at the same time. The cookbook did very well. It was a Book of the Month Club selection and a Better Homes and Gardens Book Club selection. Even though I was now a published author I decided it would be a good idea to refine my writing. I enrolled in the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley. Over the course of two years, my writing improved substantially.

Ever since then, I've been writing regardless of where I've lived. I've held down communications jobs writing medical articles and newsletters, written two novels and a children's book, plus been a contributor to a dozen Chicken Soup for the Soul books. In between, I've written countless freelance articles on subjects of my choosing. And I'm under contract for a new novel coming out in August of 2024.

To get back to the original question of how I came to be a writer, the answer isn't that complicated. In short, I believed in myself and when I got off track, I got back on track. I just started doing what I'd always loved. I figured that if I was the only person who ever saw what I wrote, that would be okay because I loved to write, and doing what I loved wasn't a bad way to live a life.

My message to you is that if you want to be a published author, you can be. The key is you have to truly want to be a writer, more than anything else in the world. But wanting is just the first step; you also have to be willing to put in the work. A lot of hard work. Writing and dedication to the craft isn't easy. Ernest Hemingway famously said that anyone can be a writer, you just have to open a vein and bleed. Because that's what writing is -- putting your heart, soul, and blood into your manuscript. Want to be a writer? Start writing. And write every chance you get. Don't expect everything you write to be perfect because it won't be. Much of your writing will be garbage. I promise you that if you keep it up, eventually, your writing will improve.

Plus, take lots and lots of writing classes. Buy and read books on writing. Listen to podcasts by writers you admire. Become an avid reader, if you are not one already. Read everything you can get your hands on. Join a writers' group where you can meet and interact with other writers. Learn from others. No one ever cranked out a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel the first time they sat down to write. But that doesn't mean you can't write one. You just gotta start putting down one word at a time.

 

Flies, Honey, and Vinegar

“You catch more flies with honey, than with vinegar,” Nana said in her slow Texas drawl, the word ‘honey’ stretched out long and sweet. At the time, I was little, and I don’t think I had any idea what she was talking about, but I knew that if my Nana said it, first, it was true, and second, I better do it. I adored her. 

Nana, my maternal grandmother, born and raised in Cleburne, was Texan to the core. Born in the late 19th century, she was raised in a strict household of a dozen children who were expected to do their household chores whatever their age, obey, speak only when spoken to, and not talk back. Absolutely no talking back. As long as everyone behaved, life was good in the crowded household. All the children, including Nana, the youngest, were instilled with Texas wisdom and truisms that she passed down to my mother and to me. 

Though I was raised in a different south, Southern California, I grew up listening to Texas vernacular. And lots and lots of advice. It was common to hear about something not being worth a "hill of beans." I knew when trouble was brewing because I heard that someone was "blowin’ up a storm."  I knew that when Nana said, “If I had my druthers,” she meant she’d really prefer to be doing something else or doing it differently.

During my teen years, I often heard “hold your horses,” particularly when Mama became exasperated with me. I knew she meant to stop whatever it was I was doing or thinking or saying. 

Even though I was being raised in laid-back San Diego, and by then Nana lived up the road in Los Angeles, she still expected me to behave like a Texas young lady and if it took every ounce of her collective Texas will, she was going to make sure I towed the line.  

Though my grandfather gave her a good life, and she never wanted for anything, she had standards for her daughter and her granddaughters. Mama was raised in Texas, where Nana tried to instill principles in a headstrong daughter determined to make her own way. She wasn’t always successful, which is why she was determined to mold me into a proper Texas young lady at as early an age as she could. However, she was up against a societal force, the 1960s, where change led the rallying call. If I said that her ways were old-fashioned, and not how we were doing things today, Nana would flutter her hand, as though she were batting away an annoying fly. 

“Manners never go out of style,” she would respond, a firm tone to her voice.

While I heard about manners a lot, it was that phrase about flies and honey and vinegar that kept seeping into conversations. When I was around five, I asked what she meant. Nana explained that I would get a lot further if I was nice than if I misbehaved. And didn’t talk back, definitely, no talking back, just like in the house where she was raised. 

I thought I was an easy-going kid who rarely needed disciplining, but in retrospect, I now realize that I must not have been as perfect as I thought because I heard that phrase a lot. I’ll tell you one thing, it sure made an impact. It was simple advice on how to get along in this life. She wasn’t just telling me how to get what I wanted, as in – be nice to people and they will be nice to you, which was true. No, it was about good manners, how to act properly in a civil society, and how to treat others. Without even being aware of what was happening, I took her advice to heart. It became a way of life.

It wasn’t until years later, long after she passed on, that it dawned on me that she knew exactly what she was talking about. Born in a slower time, when the most exciting moment of the day was watching fireflies dance in the yard as the sun set on the horizon, she saw society changing faster than she could comprehend. Yet, she knew that some things shouldn’t change, and if she worked at it, she had a shot at instilling old-fashioned grace and sensibility in her grandchildren. It was all she had to give us. And give, she did, with all her heart. She taught me well that honey is sweeter, and sweet wins over sour any day.  

 

Does a Quilt Have Healing Qualities?

Since childhood, I’ve always believed that physical items hold certain attributes and capabilities. My mother brushed off these notions as childhood fantasies, yet as I grew older, they did not dissipate. If anything, they became stronger, especially as I entered adulthood. 

Twelve years ago, I suffered a near-fatal pulmonary embolism. It’s not something you ever want to experience. According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control, 10 to 30% of people with a pulmonary embolism will die within one month of diagnosis. While that’s a pretty sobering statistic, in approximately 25% of cases sudden death is the first symptom.  

The doctors in the hospital where I was treated told me that no one in that hospital had ever survived an embolism that massive. The hospital was a regional center for treating pulmonary embolisms. In other words, they knew what they were doing, so when they told me that no one had survived an embolism as large as mine, I was more than a bit concerned. I attributed my survival to it not yet being my time. I also wondered if my handmade quilt that lay over me might have helped. Quilts can make a person feel loved and protected and comforted, something you need when you’re sick. Makes sense, right? 

Fast forward to late 2019 when I underwent surgery to see if a large growth was cancerous. It was one of those 50/50 situations where it might have been, and only by removing the massive cyst and performing a biopsy would we know. As I recovered in the hospital, I lay under the same quilt I’d layed under in 2011 and that I’d layed over my husband when he underwent a quintuple heart bypass in 2013 and another surgery in late 2018 – both of which were successful.  Over the years we came to call it The Healing Quilt. If either of us needed to be in the hospital that quilt went along. 

Ten days after the 2019 surgery my surgeon told me the cyst was benign and for a few days I thought I was good for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper was not deterred so easily. Though I’d beat the Grim Reaper in 2011 and did again with the 2019 surgery, the Grim Reaper had other plans. A couple of weeks after the surgery, I began experiencing familiar breathing problems that felt an awful lot like the pulmonary embolism of 2011. An urgent visit to the ER confirmed that the Grim Reaper was at it again, only this time he upped his game. I had not one, but two large embolisms, one in each pulmonary artery, plus a slew of smaller ones. I was admitted into the hospital, along with the quilt. If the Grim Reaper was going to play hardball, so was I. Some people use amulets to deter evil spirits. Me? I use a quilt. My quilt. A couple of days later I was discharged along with a blood thinner I would take for life and a caution to take it easy. I figured that GR might finally give up. What was I thinking?

A week later I got hit with a serious bacterial infection that took me down like one of those implosions you see on TV when a company internally blows up a building in order to use the land to build a new one. I won’t go into all the gory details. Suffice it to say it was nasty, debilitating, and painful. My husband brought me a quilt, though not The Healing Quilt because we didn’t want it to get messed up. He brought me a different one. I wondered if a different quilt could work the same healing magic. Ultimately, it didn’t seem to matter that I was using a different quilt because I got through it. Two weeks later the infection reared its ugly head and once again I lay the healing quilt over me at home as I started a new round of antibiotics. 

In my latest recuperation, I took no chances. The Healing Quilt had gotten me through several serious health issues, some of which had high mortality rates. I figured that if the Grim Reaper was gonna keep coming at me then I was going to use everything I had to keep him at bay: the best healthcare I could find, The Healing Quilt, and prayer. In each case, I had a bevy of prayer warriors calling on God. I have no doubt that all combined that’s why I’m still here which brings up the question…… Can a quilt or other inanimate object really impart healing qualities? I’m kind of experienced in this matter and I can say unequivocally that yes, it can, but only if you believe. I did and I still do. So, back off, Grim Reaper. I’ve got a Healing Quilt and I know how to use it.

                                                                                

Previously published as "The Little Dog Who Chose Me," Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Dog, 2023.

Saving a Small Life

A sad little dog with soulful brown eyes ran into my yard and begged to be picked up. From the innocent look of him, I doubted that he was vicious. Not with an old man’s face like his, etched with sorrow and a slight glimmer of hope.

Turned out that a friend of my neighbor’s gave her the scruffy little dog. My neighbor didn’t want him and boy, did he know it. Every day he snuck out of her yard and roamed the neighborhood looking for someone who would love him. He found me on his first foray. Though he was adorable I knew I couldn’t take him because I was pretty sure that my indoor cat would never tolerate a dog. I felt so bad for him. He had been owned by an older lady who was put into a nursing home. She asked a friend to find a good home for him. The man dumped him at my reluctant neighbor’s. 

Discovering how often he visited me, my neighbor asked me twice to take him and twice I declined. Nevertheless, the little dog kept coming around. When he saw me, he would run toward me like a scene out of the movie “Ten” and whether I was ready or not, he would leap up to me from several feet away, confident that I would catch him. The moment I did he would shower me with doggie kisses. He made me laugh which made him grin and slap me with his wagging tail.  

As the months rolled by the little dog grew thinner and thinner, his fur a mess. When the warm weather hit fleas took up residence on every inch of his little body, even his face and around his eyes. Still, all he wanted was love, until the day he showed up on my porch, his eyes imploring me for help. I picked him up; his ribs protruded and his dry tongue hung out of his mouth. I ran into the house and brought out a big bowl of water. He slurped every bit and looked up at me for more. I returned with more water and a plate of cat food. When he finished, I put out a cat bed on the porch. He curled up in it and slept the rest of the day and night. 

My sister brought over a bag of dog grooming tools she used on her own pups and topical flea medicine. We applied the flea medicine and the next day we began shaving and clipping away at his tangled fur. The more we shaved the more we marveled at the little being that emerged. We bathed him repeatedly and underneath the dirty gray and brown fur, we found a mostly white and silver dog. By the time we finished, that dog was smiling. He wasn’t just happy; he was grateful and at that moment I decided he was staying with me. 

I took him to the vet for a checkup and shots, where I found out he was about two years old and a Shnorkie (half mini schnauzer and half yorkie.) A few days later I walked him over to my neighbor and told her I was keeping him. She seemed glad to be rid of him. I asked if she knew his original name. 

“Mitch,” she said.

“Mitch? Who names a dog Mitch?” I asked. 

He was so sweet, my husband suggested we call him Mensch, the Yiddish word for someone who is good. We also thought that he might respond to Mensch because it sounded like Mitch. He knew his name the first time we said it. 

Since then the cat has accepted him into the household and we built a fence around the backyard to keep him from running all over the neighborhood. He plays with his toys, sleeps in his little cat bed, and warns us if the boogeyman approaches our door. 

I have never seen a dog grin as much as Mensch, and indeed, he does grin. It’s contagious. Every time I look at him, I smile too, and feel my heart race a little faster. It didn’t take long before we fell in love with one another, though I suspect that our mutual love affair began the day he found me. I knew that I had to save this little dog. He deserved a better life and everything in my being told me that I was the one to do it. 

 

  

 

The Art of Porch Sittin’

There was a time when porch sittin’ was as vital to the day as eating, drinking, sleeping, and working. Who doesn’t remember that when it was hotter inside than it was outdoors, people headed to the porch to sit a spell and relax, talk to family and friends, unwind and wait for the fireflies to make their evening appearance? It became a tradition long ago, especially here in the south, and a way of life. That was why every home was built with a porch. It was as indispensable as a kitchen.

Then technology and a faster pace of life began changing all that. Air conditioning kept people indoors because Lordy, it really was hotter outdoors and who wanted to sit on a porch and sweat? Long working hours drove another nail into the porch coffin. Arriving home from work at 7pm or later, rarely did people want to sit on the porch doin’ nothin', even though doin’ nothin' could be the best part of the day. Eventually home builders got the message that homebuyers weren’t so keen on porches anymore and stopped including porches in their designs. As time marched on the only way to buy a house with a porch was to find an old house with a porch of yesteryear.

Fast forward half a century or more and porches are once again in high demand. Families are recognizing that porch sittin’ has it attributes and spending time on the porch is good for the soul. There’s just something about a porch that boosts the spirit and relieves what aches, mentally or physically.

Now if you’ve never done any porch sittin’ you might be wondering how to do it. I know, what a ridiculous notion, you just sit on the porch, right? Well, yes and no. There is an artform to proper porch sittin.’ I know, because I’ve always wanted a porch. I grew up in nice houses, though none with a porch. As an adult none of the homes I’ve lived in had a porch. Even so, I never gave up hope. I knew that one day I would have a porch and it would be my little slice of heaven.

A few years ago, when hubby and I bought our current home, one of the things I liked most about the house was that it had a big back porch. Right away we started porch sittin,’ even though it needed some TLC and we knew little about the correct way to porch sit. I was confident that we would figure it out. And we have. Over the years I’ve learned a few things about proper porch sittin.’ Important stuff. Everyone knows that if you’re gonna do something worthwhile, like properly sittin’ on a porch, you might as well do it right, right? So, here’s what I’ve concluded are the essentials of picture-perfect porch sittin.’

First, and this one is really important: never sit on the porch without first getting something cool to drink – a lemonade, iced tea, a mint julep, a glass of wine, a bottle of Shiner, whatever. If it’s real hot outside, you’re gonna need it.

Sit on a comfortable chair. Though I’m no brain surgeon I figured out that the more comfortable the seating, the more I’ll want to sit outdoors. The rattan loveseat and chair with cushions are comfortable enough, for now. Next up I’m going get a couple of rocking chairs and hang a swing. There’s something about moving a little in a rocking chair or a swing that relaxes the mind and adds an old-fashioned charm to the day.

As soon as I settle in, I listen for birds singing, especially the cardinal’s trill, mockingbirds imitating every bird in the yard, crickets chirping, and squirrels admonishing my dog. Their melodic sounds lull me into serene bliss.

To get really good at porch sittin’ ya gotta make it a daily ritual. Sometimes I sit for an hour, other times just 15 minutes. It’s something I have to do every day. It’s become a habit, something I treasure and look forward to each day. If for some reason I don’t get out there, it feels like something’s missing.

By the way, I’m not the only one who likes a good porch. Bugs like em too. A lot – to the point that they have successfully driven me off the porch a few times and that really upsets me. It’s my porch – who are they to drive me inside? Hubby came to the rescue. He visited our neighborhood hardware store and got a mosquito trap. They sure do work wonders. He’s also installing a ceiling fan. I expect that it will blow those suckers into the next county. At least I hope so.

If you have some thinking and possibly deciding to do you won’t find a better place to weigh your options than a porch. I’ve done a fair amount of thinking in my lifetime and I can unequivocally say that porches are the very best place to think.

You can porch sit any time it suits you, that’s the beauty of having a porch. My favorite time to porch sit is at day’s end; you won’t find a better spot to sit quietly and drink in twilight’s song as you await fireflies take flight and light up the garden. At that magical intersect between day and night the sky changes, the air shifts, and you hear sounds you don’t hear at any other time of day. And suddenly you see the porch for what it is -- a place to soothe the soul, to entertain reveries, and your deepest wishes, and a place where memories are born.

 I wrote this during the throes of the Covid-19 pandemic when riots raged across the nation. 

Hope in a Child’s Garden

We are living in very challenging times. Scary times really. We see it, we breathe it, we live it every day. We wonder if our lives will ever return to the way it was before COVID-19 bore down on us like a tsunami, before riots broke out in our streets.  I have been as concerned as everyone, worried that our lives have been changed forever. Sometimes I think that we’re living in a dream or someone’s idea of a joke, and then I remember that it’s not a dream nor a joke, but a pandemic of biblical proportions and a societal shift in our country’s future. Thousands of businesses and homes have been destroyed by the virus or by rioting. It’s enough to make you want to stick your head down a hole, and hide from the world. Will this madness never stop? Is there any chance that our lives will ever return to something even slightly similar to our previous existence? 

After witnessing something recently, something extraordinary in its simplicity, I realized that it is possible to return to what our lives were like before havoc rained down upon us. Suddenly, I grasped what I’d been missing. I found myself craving the comfort of ordinariness, of normality. It was that familiarity that I’d been missing and all it took was a group of young children to remind me that there is ordinariness all around us; all we have to do is look – it’s there. 

I was in my backyard weeding my vegetable garden when I noticed the children next door hoeing, digging, raking, and prepping a small area in their backyard. I called over the fence and asked if they were going to plant a vegetable garden, too. They replied that they had found a baby bird who had fallen out of its nest and died. They were preparing a grave for the little thing they named Birdie. A couple of hours later I was back out in the garden when the kids called over to me. They said that they had finished the grave and were about to hold a funeral service for the tiny bird; they asked me if I would join them. How could I refuse?

Each child said a few words, remarking on Birdie’s short life and how it was now in a better place. These four kids, ranging in age from five to ten years old, took it upon themselves to do something right for a small being whose life was cut short. What they did wasn’t so unusual, kids are always burying things they find and giving them funerals. What lifted my spirits was how normal their actions were. They weren’t concerned about Covid-19, they weren’t concerned about the battles raging on Capitol Hill, or mayhem in the streets, they weren’t concerned that our economic prosperity had been yanked out from beneath everyone living and breathing on this earth. No, they were more concerned with providing a fitting funeral for a life, not unlike their own, young, sweet, and innocent. It was such a normal act of kindness; it reinforced my faith in the future. 

I believe it was the five-year-old who found Birdie, though there was some disagreement on that matter. I’m not sure which child suggested they dig a grave, give it a marker with Birdie’s name, and hold a funeral service. It didn’t really matter who initiated the gesture; all the children were in agreement that it was the proper thing to do. As I watched the children, I marveled at how they took it upon themselves to do the right thing for a little being they never knew, and at that moment I saw that our future is in good hands. All around us are children who know what is just and decent. Children who think that everyone, even a tiny bird, has worth. If our youngest generation can uphold and preserve what is important, I am confident that we’re going to be fine.