I met Cindy for coffee yesterday. I’ve known her for over fifty-six years. We met when we both started 6th grade.

Where I grew up was a farming community of less than a thousand people. Most of the farmers were Catholic, therefore birth control was taboo back then.

Cindy came from a family of eleven children. Cindy has eight children and currently has about forty-seven grandchildren.

When someone asks about my childhood and I start explaining about the large families my friends came from, their eyes widen and their mouthes hang open. I went thru this with my husband last night.

He’s never met Cindy but he’s heard me talk about her. We don’t see each other that often…just once every couple of years to catch up. The conversation started because my coffee visit with Cindy lasted almost 5 hours. He wanted to know what the hell we could talk about for that long.

Well, Cindy and I both love to travel so we talked about recent and upcoming trips. Then we talk about middle school, high school, and any updated information on former classmates. And of course we talk about our kids (I have two) and our grandchildren. As I’m explaining this to my husband, his eyes are still bugging out of his head and his mouth is still hanging open. So I decided to have a little fun.

I started out by telling him that Cindy isn’t my only friend that came from a large family. My friend, Mary, came from a family of nineteen kids and part of those nineteen were five sets of twins. My friend Theresa came from a family of fifteen kids. My friend Cora came from a family of twelve kids.

So, to make things even more interesting, Cindy (family of eleven) married Theresa’s (family of fifteen) brother. By the way, Theresa has eleven children. Don’t know about all the other siblings and how many children they have.

I don’t shake my head or think this is odd, or even think anything about this. This is where and how and who I grew up with. The people that lived ‘in town’ usually had two or three children. It was the farm families that were blessed with large families.

When Cindy’s siblings were marrying into other large families and everybody started having children, there were a lot of duplicate birthdays, lots of cousins, and huge extended families. When there was a baptism planned for a baby, there were other babies in the same family circle who were going to be baptized so they collectively held the party afterwards…at the firehouse. When you take the fire trucks out, there’s lots of room for tables, chairs, food, drinks, etc.

The town I grew up in was the equivalent of Mayberry. Right down to one milkman (Don), one mailman (Herman), and probably only two or three police officers. Where I lived was still dirt roads. The firemen flooded the firehouse parking lot in the winter so we had a place to ice skate. I also skated in my friend Lorna’s cow pasture. There was a penny candy counter at the local drug store. The post office only had one window for transactions. Our address was Rural Route 1, Box 365.

I’m glad I got to share this with all of you because the memories are simply magical.

I was blessed to start my life like this…

As parents and grandparents you sometimes question if you made the right decision’s, did the right things, and have we had an impact or made a difference.

Last night my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from my second oldest grandchild, Vivian (16). Immediately I wondered who died. That child never calls me.

When she was born I was at work. My phone rang and it was my son and he was hysterical. He said they were at the hospital all night, and his girlfriend was just taken into surgery for an emergency C-Section. He said something was wrong.

I immediately left work and headed to the hospital…the longest thirty-minute drive of my life.

When I got there my son was pacing in the hallway and said that nobody had been out to talk to him yet. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, here comes a nurse caring MY baby. I reached for her and the nurse smiled and said, “Daddy first.”

We both checked her over to make sure all the parts came with the finished product.

My son has been up for more than 24 hours so we went into the room where mom and baby would be spending a few days. Immediately he headed for the couch and promptly fell asleep.

Well, since it was just me and Vivian, I decided to take advantage of the situation and sat in that comfy chair next to the bed and stared at her for hours. I rocked her, fed her when they brought me a tiny doll-size bottle of formula, and changed her diapers. I was blessed to do this for almost 8 hours.

Mom had to be put completely under for the procedure so when they wheeled her back into the room, she was in and out all day but mostly slept.

Since my son and his family lived so close to me and my husband, we were always available when they needed us. We watched Vivian grow.

When it was time for day care/school, they enrolled her into a Montessori school nearby. Occasionally we took her to school or picked her up.

Vivian tried soccer and unfortunately when you play soccer, you have to be on your feet. She could always be found sitting on the playing field picking grass or dandelions. She was about four or five at the time. That didn’t work out.

Other activities and sports were tried. None of these were going to be in her future. Let’s try piano lessons. That worked. Let’s try a singing and dancing troupe. That worked and is still going strong. We never miss one of her performances.

Vivian is a genius with a very high IQ. She wants to be an anesthesiologist and has been taking all the right classes in school in addition to some college prep courses. When you ask her why she wants to go into that line of work, her reply is because they make a lot of money.

Being as old as I am, I suggested to pursue something she loves because then she will always enjoy going to work. Not going to happen.

So back to the FaceTime call I received last night. She wanted to tell me that she interviewed for a medical apprenticeship for the summer. She applied but didn’t expect it to go any further. One of the questions she was asked was about the most influential person in her life…and it was me. OMG, I actually had an impact on someone’s life????

She proceeded to explain that she knew what a hardship it was for me to have a baby (her uncle) at the age of 17. I worked hard, went without, became a good cook and baker, worked outside the home, and did what I had to do to make sure my boys were healthy and happy. She actually said I persevered, was inspirational, and a good example of a child raising a child.

If I hadn’t been sitting during this call, I surely would have fell to the floor.

I guess I have made a difference and had an impact on someone’s life.

Every generation thinks the next generation is going to be the one that ends civilization as we know it.

Our parents thought we were too ‘fresh’, wore weird clothes, had strange hair-do’s, and followed up each criticism of us with, “What is this world coming to?”

I disliked my childhood but am grateful for it now. My standing joke to people about my upbringing is that my mother was trained at Auschwitz. She was tough, demanding, bossy, and stubborn.

My mother was going to raise two daughters who would have the advantage over anyone else’s daughters when it came to washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and setting a proper dinner table. She was raising housewives.

I believe she sent us to school because it was the law. Everything we ever needed to know about life we could learn at home.

College? Never going to happen so don’t even think about it. My parents never attended a parent-teacher conference, never saw a report card except to sign it…if we didn’t forge their signature. (Back in the day parents had to sign the report cards that were brought home from school, and then we returned them the next day). They also never attended a school function and never saw a progress report. Some genius thought it would be better to send progress reports through the mail so little Johnny or Mary couldn’t ‘lose’ them if they were sent home with the child. News flash…my sister and I got the mail every day on our way home. And yes, every one of those progress reports was ‘lost’.

Through all of this, I did receive a basic education with reading, penmanship, history, geography, science, arithmetic, etc. So not only would I make an amazing housewife, I could add and subtract! Someday some guy was going to be blessed to marry me or my sister!

The one thing that cannot be taught is common sense. You either have it or you don’t but even if you’re lacking in that area, some of it can rub off from the adults around you…providing they have it.

I am blessed with common sense. In addition to all of those household duties my mother taught me, I actually know that if I were to walk into a bank and try to rob it, that would be against the law. From what I’ve been seeing lately on the news, some people haven’t figured that out yet.

So, this morning I was scrolling through Facebook and saw a video that stopped me in my tracks. At first I was surprised, then shocked, then couldn’t stop laughing.

A roving reporter-type guy was stopping people at large and asking questions. He stopped two high school girls and asked them, “If you drive 80 miles per hour, how long will it take you to go 80 miles?” The answer is 1 hour.

One answered 2 hours and the other one replied one-and-a-half hours.

I almost peed my pants from laughing because the dumbfounded look on their faces was proof that they have not been paying attention in school for the last 8-10 years. I would think that this would be something a 4th grader could answer.

So although I have more common sense than book smarts, I’m further ahead than those young ladies. They better marry well…it’s their own chance at any type of success.

And to prove that some of me hopefully rubbed off on my granddaughters, I posed the question, via a phone call, to both of them this morning. Both replied 1 hour. One is 16 and the other is 25! I’m proud!

I’ve been playing Pickleball for about two or the years now. No, that doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.

I’m not shy about announcing to anyone on any PB court that I am here to have fun and get exercise.

Playing at the Y this morning with my new friend, Jane, we found ourselves up against all men, and they knew what they were doing.

Some of them men enjoyed our not-on-purpose-antics, misses, as well as a few cuss words. And some of the men did not.

Jane and I got more advice and suggestions on how to play the game than could possibly be written in a book. I guess us not-so-good helpless females needed big, strong, tough men to show us what we were doing wrong.

We just laughed about it even more.

I met Jane while playing PB with our local senior center. When I joined the senior center about 3 years ago, there were so many people participating in so many activities, that I couldn’t keep all of their names straight.

Just so it’s understood, I’m not good at small talk, I want to play PB, and go home. I’m learning the game and don’t have a high tolerance for really, really bad players…although I’m not great myself. But I’m learning and taking constructive criticism as well as finding that I play much better when I play against highly ranked players in our group. But late last summer I learned a valuable lesson and it wasn’t about PB.

Every time I played with Jane as my partner or against her, she made a lot of mistakes. But it’s what she did when she made a mistake. She shout something like, “Oh man,” or several other common sayings we all say when we make a mistake. I actually found myself drawn to her self-deprecating comments about her game playing. I laughed along with her. This was uncharted territory for me.

Pretty soon we were making small talk. She has a shyness about her and when she asked me for my phone number so we could text, she followed that up with, “If that’s ok with you.” I found that anytime she asked me a question, personal or otherwise, she followed it up with asking me if I minded and that she didn’t want to be intrusive.

Since I find people interesting, as well as quirky, I like to try and understand what makes them tick. Pretty soon Jane and I were texting a couple times a week. But there’s something going on with her that I just can’t put my finger on.

About two months ago we started meeting for a mid-day coffee about every other week. We shared some of our history with each other and I got the impression that she doesn’t have many friends.

Jane is warm, caring, a good listener, and I enjoy her company. She is also opposite of me regarding our interests and hobbies. And she’s had a hard life.

Some of the things she has told me raise many questions in my mind but I don’t want to be intrusive. She’ll tell me if and when she wants to. I feel comfortable sharing my life with her…more comfortable than I have ever felt with anyone else.

So earlier in this writing I mentioned I learned something valuable. It’s not necessary for me to know all the details of Jane’s life story…just being there to talk to her and be a friend is enough. She is unlike anyone I’ve ever met.

Deep down I feel there’s a great story in her life but for the time being, we’ll have coffee, share, and drive those hot shot PB players crazy with our shenanigans.

You never know what someone is going through…so always be nice.

I travel to Miami about six to eight times per year to visit my son, his wife, and their two children. This has been going on for about three years now.

I’m definitely a people watcher and an observer of my surroundings…and these are my observations…being from the Midwest.

About seventy five percent of the houses either have a tall fence surrounding the property, a twelve-foot high hedge, a concrete wall, or another type of barrier to protect themselves from intruders.

Now, attached to each of those structures is an electric gate across the driveway so nobody can get onto the property.

The first thing that comes to my mind is that these folks don’t want anybody, for any reason, having access to their property, which would give someone from the Midwest the impression that these folks simply are not social. With all those gates I wonder how they get their Amazon packages??

However, that’s not the case. Miami is very family-oriented, friendly community, and no matter where you go, if you run into someone you know, everyone greets each other with a kiss on the cheek.

There’s more planning of play dates among parents for their children than there is a desire to have an immaculate house. Most folks with the right income have a housekeeper to make sure the house is clean and laundry is done.

Surprisingly there is a lot of green space. Lots of parks every few blocks. And they’re always full of kids with parents, grandparents, or Nannie’s.

When my son and DIL were house hunting, I learned that you choose an area to buy according to the school ratings. That’s a huge deal there.

The majority of homeowners have a lawn service, and from sun up to sun down, the streets are littered with lawn service trucks and trailers…seven days a week. Most houses have a built-in swimming pool, therefore there’s no shortage of pool boys or pool cleaning companies.

If you have a dog it’s usually a small designer dog that goes everywhere with you. And I mean everywhere. Fido is either being carried, or pushed around in a mini dog stroller. They are seen in grocery stores, malls, department stores, banks, and probably churches. There are many mobile dog grooming companies that go house to house to make sure Fido looks good and smells good.

And let’s not forget about the mobile car washing vans that come to your house to porter your vehicle.

Traffic is very interesting. It is non stop. In the Midwest where I live, I know I can drive to work in about 8 minutes if I make all the lights…and that’s to go about 4 miles. You are never going to go anywhere quickly in Miami. It just ain’t going to happen. One of the most mind-boggling things I’ve observed is any stop light where you need to cross US 1.

US 1 is a major thoroughfare. If you’re traveling on US 1, the longest you will wait at a light is two or three minutes. If you’re unlucky enough to be on a crossroad, with a stop light, and you need to get to the other side of US 1, plan to wait…and wait…and wait. I’m talking at least five minutes and that is a very long time to wait for the light to turn green. On the average I’ve noticed only about five cars are able to make the green light before it turns yellow, then red. It is a rare occasion if there are less than fifteen or more cars waiting to cross US 1, therefore you could be sitting at that light for a very, very long time.

At least ninety percent of moms are pencil thin, all moms wear leggings whether they’re pencil thin or not, their wedding rings are ginormous, they drive high-end SUVs, they all have long hair parted down the middle, and makeup is done to perfection.

While the malls in the Midwest city where I live are always empty, the malls in Miami are always packed…the valet parking they offer to shoppers and diners is a bustling business. Restaurants are always busy as they are where I live, except I’m old fashioned and still like to cook dinner every night. I’m not a fan of restaurants.

So if you’ve been thinking about a vacation in Miami, you should do it once. Many parks, beaches, sites, entertainment, activities, a fabulous zoo, and so much more. The great year-round weather allows this city to offer great things all twelve months. Almost everybody is always doing something.

Several months ago my oldest granddaughter told me about Reddit and encouraged me to look into it.

I’ve heard of Reddit but didn’t know what it was. However, several years ago we were on the island of Zakynthos in Greece and were having trouble with the wash machine in the house we rented. All of the settings were in Greek.

My husband had been texting with his very resourceful son and mentioned our washer problem. His son asked him to take a picture of the settings and text it back to him. A short time later my husband received a text message with all the words in English.

When asked how he did that, his son said he put the picture out on Reddit and asked for a translation.

This Reddit must be the greatest thing since sliced bread!

Back to where I started. As soon as I had a minute, I looked into Reddit…what it was, how it’s used, etc. I downloaded the app.

I started out by choosing the ‘categories’ I was interested in. Others are thrown in the mix but for the most part I get to read about things that interest me. What I’m not interested in, but keep getting inundated with is, ‘What should I name my cat or dog’? First of all, I don’t give a rats a$$, and most surprising to me, is the astronomical number of posts per day asking for help in naming their pet. Seriously?

Anyhoo…one of the categories (or subs as they appear to be known as) is about women over 60. I happen to fall into that category.

Women will tell a short story about something they’re struggling with and ask for opinions or suggestions.

Today a woman asked the readers about what we did or didn’t get in our life…something along those lines.

That got me to thinking. We start out as kids, go thru our teens, adulthood with spouses, children, careers, highs and lows, good times and bad, and pretty soon we’ve morphed into senior citizens. I personally never stopped long enough to ponder about what I did or didn’t get out of life. I was dealt a hand and played it to the best of my ability.

So now someone is asking me about what I did or didn’t get out of life.

What I DIDN’T get: the wedding of my dreams, the house of my dreams, a good singing voice, a skinny body (my sister inherited that), sympathy and empathy are not in my DNA, a green thumb, a filter for my mouth, or the patience of a saint.

What I DID get: two wonderful sons, a great husband (took a couple of try’s), four amazing grandchildren, frequent international travel, a cute house, the gift of baking and cooking (I self-published my own cookbook last year), a set of balls, and after a lifetime of insecurities about various things, I have found confidence.

I’ve eliminated some people from my life that were bringing me down, I’ve learned to say no (It’s all in the approach. I now say, “Thank you for asking…but no”), I’ve given up fighting for everything I’ve wanted but never got…so I found peace and contentment in what I have. I’ve played all my cards.

To my surprise, I’m still alive. I took many chances in my life and am surprised I wasn’t the next days headlines. Nothing illegal…just some very dumb decisions. You know…the guy who says, “Here, hold my beer and watch this.” Usually doesn’t turn out very well.

So here’s my suggestion…if you’re under forty and have a dream, try to make it happen. Surround yourself with people who believe in you and will help you achieve that dream. Travel if you have the means and opportunity. There’s a beautiful world out there. If you’re in your twenties, sock as much money away for retirement as you can. If you’re over sixty, quit fighting for everything you think you deserve and finish playing the cards you were dealt! I have found a lot of peace by just accepting who I am and where I am at this point in my life.

Let the planning begin! Where to start?

It starts with a diet. The bride’s mother (my SIL) and I.

In anticipation of the wedding since the engagement in November, my SIL has already been trying to lose weight and it’s noticeable.

I have an evening gown that I wore for my son’s wedding in 2018. I’d like to wear it for this wedding. It’s been in a full length garment bag for the last eight years so I hauled it out. For the last month it’s been hanging in my bedroom from the top of the closet. Looks good. Smells good. Doesn’t zip…by about an inch.

I know how that happened. I’m a baker and a cook. I bake about three times a week, have 2-3 pieces of anything I bake, and then take the rest to work where my SIL is. She gave up on my baking before I did. It’s been days since the dress didn’t zip and I haven’t used my KitchenAid since. I thought I heard it whimpering from the closet I keep it in.

The wedding is in seven months so if I behave myself and stay out of the kitchen, I feel confident about losing enough weight so the dress zips.

So as you can see, the wedding planning didn’t start with a wedding dress or anything else remotely related to the bride and groom. It started with dieting.

Our niece, Grace, is marrying Chris. They got engaged a couple of months ago while doing one of their favorite activities…hiking…in Colorado.

They’ve been together about seven years, completed their college educations, and got themselves established in their new careers.

Several days ago we went wedding dress shopping. I was flattered to get asked to go along. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a bridal salon that I didn’t know what to expect.

There were four scheduled bridal appointments over the course of two days. First appointment, first dress, Grace is in love. Hell, you can’t stop there! About six or seven dresses later, Dress #1 was still the top contender. We all decided to go out to lunch before hitting appointment #2.

I should mention to future wedding dress shoppers that when you make an appointment at a salon, they hold your appointment with a credit card. If you don’t show up or you cancel your appointment, there’s a $75 charge. That was news to me! So let’s say Grace decided to buy Dress #1 at the first salon, calling to cancel the other three appointments would have resulted in a total credit card charge of $225 for cancelling the next three appointments.

Off we go after a nice lunch to the second appointment. Praise God that Grace knew what she wanted. She was not, and is not, an indecisive bride. I think that makes it easier for the bridal consultant also.

Most of the dresses were very similar to the dress she loved at the first salon. However, one of the dresses was eerily similar with one noticeable difference. The dress at the first salon had a set-in waist. The dress at the second salon didn’t have a set-in waist and it shaved about twenty pounds off of Grace’s figure and she looked like a million bucks. We were all sold! Get measured, break out the credit card, we have us a dress!

Oh, don’t forget to call the two salons for the next days appointments and add another $150 for those cancellations on your credit card.

The reception venue, photographer, florist are booked, and all the attendants have been asked. My SIL found her dress the other night, the centerpieces have been picked out, and there’s still one or two taste testings with caterers. They’ve been making lightening speed progress.

What a fun time for a family. Everybody’s offering to do whatever they can to help. It’s going to be a beautiful day and their future holds so much promise.

Since my last post I was able to visit my son and his family for eight days about two weeks ago.

I couldn’t be more pleased at the progress my DIL has made since I saw her eight weeks before.

She’s calmer, bright, engaging, and almost back to the beautiful girl my son married. Without fail she takes her meds. At least three or four mornings a week she goes to yoga at Lifetime Fitness and stops for a freshly made acai bowl on her way home. She continues to eat healthy and organic. Her weekly sessions with a therapist are very helpful and she is encouraged by them.

One of her favorite things to do is to spend time in her newly planted organic garden. It’s starting to fill in and looks like a prairie full of flowers.

About twice a week she goes for massages. She’s struggling a bit with anxiety and this is helpful for that also.

This week she started back to work remotely and next week she’ll make the transition to the office. I’m not sure this is her dream job, although it’s an executive position with a well-known, world-wide company. But she knows she’s has options.

My son has his wife back and my grandchildren have their mom back. I continue to send her words of encouragement and love several times a week.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure this day would ever come…but it has…and my prayers have been answered.

They had it all. High-profile jobs. 401k’s that were busting at the seams. A beautiful home worth north of one million dollars. Two beautiful children. Worldwide travel. Tons of friends. Nice cars. Designer clothes, shoes, luggage, and handbags. A Nanny. A gardener. A housekeeper. A pool boy.

You can have the world by the tail but when mental illness rears its ugly head, all the money in the world can’t fix it.

The victim here is my beloved daughter-in-law.

My son and his family live out of state. I noticed something was ‘off’ about four months ago during one of our phone calls.

‘Off’ is our new go-to word to describe her when it’s not a good day. As things progressed, my son and his wife sought professional help. She was diagnosed as bipolar. This diagnosis came after a very manic week which landed her, under The Baker Act, in a facility where she was formally diagnosed.

If you’re unfamiliar with The Baker Act, look it up. I don’t know everything about it but what I have learned in the last three to four months is that the individual with mental illness has all the rights while the rest of us sit back and watch our world crumble.

Under The Baker Act the individual is locked up at a treatment facility for up to 72 hours and at that time they can simply sign themselves out and go home.

She came home from the first treatment center after four days. I was there when she came home because I flew there to help fill in taking care of the kids and keeping the household running.

When she walked in the door after four days, I saw the anxiety, the wild eyes, and her going room to room to retake control of her home.

She continued with her meds and therapy for about a week and then decided to go off of the meds. That is not uncommon. Nothing she did or said made sense but to her it made sense. It was the rest of us that were crazy.

Less than 2 weeks later she was Baker Acted again after a violent outburst and attack on a family member. This time she went to a different treatment center and stayed about four to five days. On new meds that appeared to be working much better for her, her arrival home looked good. The goal while in the second treatment center was to get her to acknowledge there was a problem and to voluntarily go into a 30-day treatment center.

All hands on deck, the family was scouring the Internet for just the right facility, recommendations from therapists were investigated, and the entire time all of this searching was taking place, my DIL was involved in the process. The thought process here was that if she was involved in choosing the right place, she would voluntarily stay for the 30-day treatment plan.

On a daily basis while in treatment center #2, she was given brochures and information on each facility.

After two or three days a facility was chosen that everybody liked. Hell, I loved it and wanted to go there myself. It was a spa-type treatment center with individual and group therapy, an equine center to work with horses, beach days to decompress, yoga, a chef who provided made-to-order meals, readily available snacks and soft drinks, etc.

This all comes with a hefty price tag and luckily my son has insurance that covered about 90% of the cost. Perfect.

I talked to her family members and my son for updates on her progress and she seemed excited to be there, liked all the offerings, re-found her spiritual side, loved the food, started journaling, loved individual and group therapy, and everything else they had to offer.

Again, the person with the mental illness has all the rights and can check themselves out at any time. After eleven days of a 30-day program, she came home. She felt she had learned a lot, knew the triggers of a relapse, knew she had to have one or two therapy sessions a week, and stay on her meds.

Within 3 days of being home she started to crash again. She’s using weed and alcohol to ‘decompress’. Both of those work against the meds she’s on.

Now she’s picked up a new hobby…pyromania. She can’t be left alone, she’s starting random fires, the kids are more then affected by all if this for the last 4 months, I’ve gone to help out three times in the last 8 weeks, and everybody’s hands are tied.

She’s discontinued therapy but claims that she keeps calling for appointments but nobody calls her back. We don’t know if she’s still on her meds. You’re probably asking why I can’t find this out from my son. He’s been severely affected by this and has withdrawn from outside contact with myself, his brother, his friends, etc. I talk to the Nanny several times a week to get updates as well as two of her sisters.

Living as far away as I do, it’s had an impact on my attitude, my sleeping, my eating, my focus, and God only knows what else. There’s nothing I can do. I continue to text my son with offers of anything and everything. He’s not taking calls. He’s trying to hold it together for the sake of the kids, his job, etc.

If someone with mental illness cannot be left alone, cannot be trusted, cannot follow doctors orders of staying on meds with no weed or alcohol, and not continuing with therapy, there’s not much anyone can do or say.

Right or wrong, for the sake of my son and grandchildren, I texted my son yesterday and told him to seek legal counsel and pull the plug on this marriage and get full custody of the kids. My DILs family supports him 100%.

Until you’ve walked a mile in our shoes, don’t judge me. This was a difficult story to tell.

Yes, it’s the name of a movie and it just so happens to have popped in my head this morning about 6am.

I was hosting a lunch today with my mom and cousin. Nothing special…just been a while since we’ve all been together.

Here in Wisconsin, there’s nothing quite as good as hot ham and rolls on Sunday mornings. It’s practically its own food group. Right up there with Friday fish frys.

I decided to get the ham, rolls, and bakery from a well-known, 4th generation, Milwaukee institution known as Grebe’s. (Pronounced Greebee’s).

Several days ago I called them to confirm they still had hot ham and rolls on Sunday mornings since it’s been quite a long time since I’ve gone there. The gal on the phone said that hot ham and rolls is what they’re known for. I beg to differ with her.

They make crullers…and you haven’t lived until you’ve had a Grebe’s cruller. I pronounce them ‘crawlers’ as do thousands of other locals. I personally like mine frozen…they last longer when you’re eating them. Basically, any bakery item you get from Grebe’s is going to be amazing.

They are so amazing that when I visit my sister in another state, I always take a dozen of them along for her and my BIL. When my sister comes here to visit, it’s a given that I have a dozen of them here waiting for her. We used to travel internationally with a group of friend’s and I always brought a cruller along for each traveler and we would eat them prior to departure. Again, they should have their own food group.

After I got off of the phone with the gal from Grebe’s, I realized I didn’t ask what time they open on Sunday. “Ok Google…what time does Grebe’s open on Sunday mornings?” 5am. FIVE A.M. WOW! That works for this early riser.

I left the house, in the dark, at 6am. It’s about a 15-minute drive to get there. I’m never out and about at that hour, especially on a Sunday morning, so I took my time. Needless to say, traffic was non-existent. On each city block I drove, I was surprised at how many people were already awake because their house lights were on.

Now…this is the part where the movie As Good as It Gets comes into play. In the final scene of the movie, Melvin and Carol are walking in the dark, down a city sidewalk in the early morning hours. There are trucks making deliveries, flour dust filling the air from a delivery, and they pop into a pastry shop. There’s just something wonderful about that early morning stroll.

As I’m winding through the city on my way to and from the bakery, there were a couple of people out for an early morning walks, a few people were walking their dogs, and the biggest surprise was waiting for me at a stop light. Kitty-corner was a church parking lot with one light shining on the lot and there’s a guy on rollerblades just dancing around the parking lot at what most people would think is an un-Godly hour. I had my window down and it was eerily quiet outside except for some fallen leaves being blown around the street by a fall breeze. I just sat there watching him skate around the parking lot. I kept watching and not paying attention to the stop light turning green, and there was nobody behind me to give a friendly wake-up call to the green light. I was just mesmerized by the skater, who as they say, was skating like nobody was watching.

But I was watching…and picturing Melvin and Carol strolling down a city sidewalk to a pastry shop.

I sometimes make off-the-cuff jokes about empathy and sympathy not being my middle names. And they’re not. If someone has a problem or crisis that is not of their own doing, I’m right there to help. If your problem or crisis is self-inflicted due to poor decisions and bad judgement AGAIN, lose my phone number.

Cold? Uncaring? Probably.

The world is made up of two categories; givers and takers. So which one are you?

I’m a giver. I give until I have nothing left to give. And who do I give to? The takers.

We all have heard sayings that apply to different people and situations. My very favorite saying is, “Poor planning on your part does not constitute and emergency on mine.”

Say that several times. The more you say it, the more you live it. And I live it daily. I also say the Serenity Prayer at least five times a day to bring myself back to earth.

A couple of weeks back a friend was planning a party. It’s an annual party. That means it happens at the same time EVERY year. Kind of like Christmas for those of you who wait until Christmas Eve to start your Christmas shopping.

The night before said party, the hostess was still working on the menu…and there were 100 people coming. Since several of us were around to help and I, totally unaware that nothing had been planned, did not feel it was my problem to fix it or stress about it. This happens almost every year for every occasion. In previous years things were better planned than the day of.

Not only was there a great deal of tension and stress all around, getting food for this party was also going to cause stress for a deli, bakery, and God only knows who else.

It should be known that at least three to four weeks prior to the event, I spoke to the hostess and offered all of my get-it-done, pre-planning, organized wisdom. I was shot down.

Then another saying comes out of my mouth: not my problem. And it’s not. How many years is anyone going to keep bailing people out of self-inflicted jams?

Sometimes there are events that happened years ago that just stick in your head for just such an occasion. That day it popped in my head and I shared it with everyone.

About forty years ago, an old neighbor’s daughter was getting married and we were invited to the wedding. It was about 2 hours away and the weather was horrible. I called the mother-of-the-bride (the old neighbor) to find out how the weather was by them so we could better plan if we were going to need to spend the night.

I apologized for the call during what would normally be a very hectic morning with everyone getting ready for the wedding in about four hours. The MOB was cool, calm, and collected and told me that they were all just having their last breakfast together as a family. There were six kids in the family and the bride was the first one to leave the nest.

She proceeded to tell me that there was plenty of time for everyone to get ready and that she would see us at the church. When I saw the MOB at the reception I asked about our phone call earlier that morning. She said there was nothing to stress about because everything was planned and they wanted to have a nice family breakfast for the last time.

So back to an old feeling returning. Anxiety. When I was younger and unaware that pre-planning was actually a gift to ones-self, I used to be that person who was still running around the day of an event. Age and experience are what makes us grow, thrive and survive.

Most people will agree that leftovers are better than the original meal. Case in point: Thanksgiving. I have always prepared my Thanksgiving meal starting on Monday prior to Thanksgiving and completing it on Wednesday night. Thursday is for setting the table. The turkey is made and divided into two pans; white meat and dark meat. Some homemade gravy is poured over both pans. The same with mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, etc. Homemade cranberry sauce too. And let’s not forget about all the pies.

Two hours before dinner time, the oven is turned to 300 degrees and everything is getting ‘reheated’. Nobody is in the kitchen for hours and hours. There’s no dishes to do, the table is set, and you can enjoy your company.

You don’t have to agree with me and that’s fine. I just know who’s not stressed on party day and who is.

You may remember as a kid that your mom, grandmas, aunts, neighbors, and almost anyone else you knew did a spring and fall cleaning.

I remember it well. Twice a year every piece of furniture in the house was moved, cleaned, cleaned under, and cleaned behind. The drapes and curtains were washed and hung out on the line. All the bedspreads, blankets, comforters, pillow shams, and mattress covers were washed. Every closet was gutted and cleaned. It was also a good time to go through those closets and get rid of anything that wasn’t being used. All the kitchen cupboards were cleaned out also. Basically, there wasn’t a square inch of our house that wasn’t cleaned like this twice a year.

Early in my adulthood / married life, I followed suit. As the years went by, I probably did that thorough cleaning once a year. I’ve always tried to be a good housekeeper, so I didn’t see the need to clean that deep.

As more years went by, I think I skipped the once-a-year deep cleaning more often than not. Again, since I clean all the time and occasionally do cupboards, closets, and move furniture, I didn’t feel a spring or fall cleaning was necessary.

That is until a couple of weeks ago. It was a beautiful end-of-summer day. The windows were open and a nice breeze was airing out the house. I felt ambitious and decided to fall clean my kitchen and dining room.

Out came the refrigerator and stove which I knew weren’t going to be terribly dirty as I clean behind and under them several times a year. Now that appliances are made to just slide out of their designated area, it’s much easier to do this frequently. Curtains were washed and hung out, everything off of the counters, cupboards inside and out were washed, and the walls got a once-over also. When all was said and done, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

While I was doing the kitchen and dining room, I was pondering (a new word in a lot of people’s vocabulary these days) about the other rooms of the house. And that’s where it ended. Until yesterday.

What an absolutely beautiful, sunny, breezy, and perfect day to fall clean one of the bedrooms. The sheets, blankets, bedspreads, curtains, and anything else that wasn’t nailed to the floor got washed and hung on the line.

While doing this, I was once again pondering about how many people still do this…if any. Old timers like me might do it occasionally but I doubt if the twenty- and thirty-somethings do this. After all, is it really necessary and who does it benefit? After you’ve given your house a good cleaning and had company over, has anyone ever walked in the door and commented on how beautiful your spring or fall cleaning turned out? I doubt it.

I guess every now and then we all get a burst of ambition and decide to tear a closet or drawer apart…just because.

My house is small and it wouldn’t take much to complete this process I started. After all, I’m retired and between my two-mornings-a-week job, and the three to six times a week that I play Pickleball, what would prevent me from completing this?

Fast forward five to six months when spring arrives. Will I feel the need to do this again? After all, I just did the entire house so why do it again?

How come our mothers didn’t adopt that attitude? Mine didn’t. She made it clear early in the week, twice a year, that we better not have any plans for the following weekend because ‘it was that time of year‘.

I still remember the dread of coming home from school every day that week praying for some debilitating illness that would prevent me spending the weekend cleaning.

It never happened.

Yesterday Bill and I drove to Weston WI for lunch. That is 180 miles from our house or as Wisconsinites like to say, it’s 2 hours and 40 minutes. We’re known for giving distance in time rather than miles.

Our oldest granddaughter, Savannah, was throwing a surprise birthday lunch for her husband Nick. Just so you don’t think we’re the only ones off of our rocker, Nick’s parents came as did Nick’s Aunt and Uncle. They drove slightly further than we did. Savannah’s parents were also there, and they drove just a little less than we did. Some of the members of this group were staying overnight and others, like us, were heading home after lunch.

It was the first day of fall, the skies were blue, and the temperature was about 80 degrees. The ride wasn’t all highway driving…there were some county roads also. Seeing a few farms that remain in Wisconsin that dot the landscape was nice. Trees were turning, the last of the unharvested corn was still standing, and some wildlife was taking advantage of empty fields, rivers and creeks.

This isn’t the first time I’ve driven a long distance only to return home the same day. One time there was a daytime party in northern Wisconsin and I attended. That was a 5 hour drive each way. I stayed 2 hours and went home. It was important to me at the time to be there.

Several years ago my son that lives in Miami was going to be in Chicago on a business trip. He asked if I would be interested in meeting him for dinner. I wouldn’t pass up that opportunity for anything.

I left work early, drove to the Intermodal station to catch the train to Chicago, grabbed an Uber at the station in Chicago, and met my son at a restaurant. It was beautiful. He chose a restaurant that was near the top of a skyscraper, and the view of Lake Michigan and the harbor from our window-side table that was breathtaking. We chatted for a couple of hours, had a great dinner, and then I had to head home.

When I got to the train station in Chicago, I saw that my return trip was delayed. Not much you can do about that. Finally headed home about two hours later and by the time I got home it was after midnight. This was a Tuesday night and I had to get up for work at 5am.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

When I told several people at work about the trip to Chicago, they thought I was crazy. I told my mom about it also and she actually said I was nuts. I disagree.

What if…WHAT IF…I hadn’t traveled to each of the destinations I mentioned above and something would have happened to the person or people I was going to see? I would have never forgiven myself for not taking a few hours…or even a day…out of my schedule to see loved ones.

Daily we read, hear, or see something about someone’s loved one passing away, and the survivors telling anyone who will listen to always say ‘I Love You’ each time you say goodbye at the end of a phone call or part ways with a loved one.

Sometimes it’s not possible to take these trips due to time, other commitments, or cost. As long as I am able I will continue to take advantage of seeing a loved one if a short trip is involved.

So how far would you travel? Think about it…

There’s a commercial on TV for a credit card asking, “What’s in your wallet?”

There is also the age-old question about what women actually carry in their purses. I’m here to share what I carry in mine.

I have many purses…probably around twenty. Most of them are designer bags that I did not purchase. Generously my sons have purchased them for me. Most of them are small, several are medium-size, and there are two large tote-like bags.

When you buy or receive a designer bag, I find the one thing they are lacking is compartments for organizing. The one I am currently using, and have been using for a couple of years, was a gift from one of my sons and I know it cost more than my monthly house payment. And there isn’t one single, solitary pocket or compartment in it.

With that said, it’s like a carry-all bag for me. Occasionally I have stunned people when they mention something they wish they had or forgot at home. Like a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat, I pull that item out of my bag.

About fifteen years ago my youngest son purchased a used car. On the driver’s side visor, there was an elastic strap to hold papers or whatever, and the elastic was very stretched out and hanging down. I noticed it when he took me for a ride and mentioned it to him. He said if he had a paperclip, he could fix it. I reached into the coin section of my wallet and pulled out a large paperclip. He’s like…”You’ve got to be kidding.” Nope…here you go!

Another time Bill and I were out riding our motorcycles with some friends. Our friends received a phone call from their son who happened to be out riding motorcycles with his girlfriend. She had a mishap on the bike, had some road rash and scrapes. They weren’t too far from where we were, so we rode over there.

Jen was a little banged up. I got my purse and pulled out a zip-lock bag of Neosporin and bandaid’s. One, two, three…I had her all taken care of. Another round of odd looks from the peanut gallery.

Not too long ago I was at a craft fair in Florida. I was wandering around and stopped to look at something. The lady next to me was on her phone talking to someone about something she found but didn’t know if it was going to fit in the intended space. She told the person on the other end of the call that she wished she had a tape measure.

I tapped her on the shoulder and told her I had one. Dug to the bottom of my purse and pulled it out. She measured the item and it was perfect. She bought it and thanked me for having the tape measure. It’s just a small one that doesn’t measure more than six-feet and it’s got a tiny level on it also. It has come in handy more times than you know.

About two weeks ago, my son, granddaughter, Bill and I went to play Pickleball. Instead of just taking my paddle to the courts, I took my Pickleball bag.

Bill had recently purchased a new Pickleball paddle and the group that we play with during the week requires everyone to have their name on their paddle. While we were waiting for a court, I noticed Bill hadn’t put his name on the new paddle. I reached into my Pickleball bag and pulled out my label maker.

Now before everything thinks I’m totally off my rocker, the reason the label maker was in my bag was because several people that we play with during the week don’t have their names on their paddles nor do they have a label maker. I mentioned that I would bring mine along the next time we got together so I threw it in my bag so I wouldn’t forget it.

My granddaughter who is fifteen, stepped back, looked at me and said, “Don’t tell me you just pulled a label maker out of your bag…” Yes I did. She proceeds to ask me who the hell carries a label maker with them. I explained why I had it and she understood. I made a label for Bill’s new paddle, put the label maker away, and went to play Pickleball.

So there you have it folks…you now know the kind of ‘stuff’ I carry around. Oh, there’s more but we’ll save that for another time.

The only thing missing from my purse is money!

No, this is not about football or any other professional sport. This is about the seasonal differences between the two states.

I chose Wisconsin because I live here. I chose Florida because I am there every other month compliments of my oldest son who flies me down to spend time with my grandchildren.

I love our four seasons in Wisconsin although if I had to rate them in order of preference, without a doubt winter would be last.

For the last week or so, it’s felt like fall is in the air. Today was in the high 60’s, sunny, and breezy. A perfect day to hang wash on the line. Outside that is. I watch the weather on a daily basis from March through November to pick the right days for just that purpose…hanging wash.

It dawned on me while hanging wash today that they don’t do that in Florida. It’s either too hot, too humid, or raining. I don’t believe in all the time I’ve been going there that I have ever seen a wash line.

In rating our seasons from one through four, it’s difficult to choose which season I would rate as number one…spring or fall. Spring offers a new beginning after a long winter. The trees are leaving, the spring perennials are poking through the ground, and things are greening up. The air smells fresh, the windows can be opened, and on select days, I can hang wash. Florida goes through a ‘winter’ season, but they are never 100% without flowers and they’re not shoveling snow.

However, there is fall that offers so many wonderful things. Craft fairs, cool days and nights, aka sweatshirt weather, leaves turning with amazing shades of gold, red, yellow, and burgundy. Apple picking, pressing apple cider, pumpkins, cornstalks and Halloween. Not to mention the wonderful smell of burning leaves, campfires, hayrides, and preparing for the holidays. Florida has some craft fairs, and some trees do lose their leaves.

My DIL is a Miami born and raised girl. She thinks we’re crazy to live here simply because of winter. About seven or eight years ago my son and DIL came to Wisconsin in January for a family funeral. That girl was going to freeze her butt off. I purchased a matching gloves, hat, and scarf set, and had it sent to her in Miami so she could pack it and bring it along with her. Any layovers north of the Florida – Georgia line was going to test her thin blood. She wasn’t bowled over by a fire in the fireplace or hot cocoa once she got here. Not to mention warming up your car for ten minutes or so before going anywhere.

However, about three years ago, my son and DIL went to northern Michigan (not the UP) with friends in the middle of September. I knew it was going to be chilly and they were staying at a resort on a lake. I suggested that early one morning she bundle up and go out by the lake and just listen. Listen for loons. And she did. And she loved it. Some of the other ladies joined her around a fire pit with blankets and morning coffee. I do believe she was beginning to see the light. She was as giddy as a schoolgirl telling me about all the farms she saw, the apple orchards, and farmers markets. Ahhh…the things we take for granted until they are seen through another’s eyes.

As sweatshirt season approaches, it’s soup making – baking – slow cooker season, and holiday planning in my mind. And while I’m hanging those last loads of laundry for the year, I’m loving the chill in the air, the turning leaves, and the leaves that are falling. Florida doesn’t have this and wouldn’t understand this.

And yet by droves of thousands, folks are moving to Florida every month. Not all for the same reason but I recently heard that an average of 20,000 people move to Florida every month.

I am NOT bashing Florida. After thinking about what we experience here with our four seasons, I feel Floridians are missing something. But you can’t miss what you don’t know. Since I am there every other month, I’ve gotten a good taste of life there, outdoor activities can be year-round, playgrounds are everywhere, and a healthier lifestyle exists in Florida.

After writing this, I’m all psyched up for fall. We had early fall weather this entire past week. I just checked the upcoming weather for the next week. It’s going to be in the eighties.

I wrote my last post the day after not winning as many ribbons at the State Fair that I felt I should have. Going into this, there’s no guarantee of any ribbons.

You don’t know which judge is going to judge which items, are they in a good mood, do they really feel like taste-testing at least 100 items that day, and are the sun, moon and stars aligned? It’s a crap shoot.

After I got over my pity party that Thursday morning, I decided to calm down, turn on my favorite music (classic country), and do the best I can. I had to change my mental approach to baking those last seven items.

It was a gorgeous day outside, all the windows were open, and the most amazing breeze was blowing through the house. Nothing could have made a baking day more perfect.

The next two days were spent actually enjoying myself and putting it on the back burner that this baking marathon was for State Fair. Not once did I mentally comment on the outcome of any of the baked items. I was having fun.

Saturday morning, Day 2 judging, I’m out the door at 5am. Yes, 5am. I have been doing this ritual for well over twenty years. The fairgrounds are five minutes from my house. I go through the gate along with all the hundreds of deliveries that are being made around the clock one week before the start of the fair.

Food and beverage trucks, porta-potties, rides being erected, windows of brick-and-mortar buildings being washed, millions of flowers being watered, and so much more. I find my parking space in the dark, right outside the doors of Championship Hall. I park, turn on the radio, and watch all of the activity around me. It’s also a time to think back on the previous two days of baking, mentally checking that I brought everything I was supposed to, and checking my purse for my paperwork and recipes. There is at least one hour of time to myself before the next entrant arrives…it’s my friend Jan. She’s been doing the Culinary Challenge for over 40 years.

At 8am (used to be 730am but nobody told us of the time change) the doors open and it’s time to register our items. After that’s all done, several of us take a short ride to a Greek restaurant across the street from the fairgrounds to have breakfast and talk about what we baked, what worked, what didn’t work, as well as catching up on each other’s lives in the last year. See…we’re State Fair friends and only see each other once a year.

After breakfast we head back and find more State Fair friends and catch up with them as well as watch all the other entries get registered. We get up, walk around, comment to others on how beautiful their cakes, cookies, and pies are. We’re killing time until 1pm when the judging starts.

There are six judges and one of those six is only for the canning division. The other five take care of the numerous other categories.

The first five items are presented to the judges and one of them is a cake I baked. Gosh, I can’t remember one of my items ever being judged in the first round. However, I’m in good company as there are about eight or ten cakes in this category. The category is Lemon Hibiscus Cake.

There are four ribbons give in each category: first place, second place, third place, and fourth place.

Still not allowing myself to be on pins and needles, I didn’t watch my cake category being judged. I was watching other items being judged. Breathe…breathe…breathe.

Finally, they are announcing the top four cakes and I won first place…a blue ribbon. OMG, I can’t believe it. If I didn’t win anything else that day, I was happy.

Fast forward about five hours. The judging is done but now it’s time for the judges to choose the winners of Judge’s Choice Award and Best of Division Award. In the past several years I’ve won two Judge’s Choice Awards, but in almost thirty years, I’ve never won Best of Division.

To explain Best of Division, say there are ten different categories for cakes. Each one of those categories has a first place, blue ribbon winner. At the end of the day, it is decided by all the judges, which cake of those ten cakes is the Best of Division. Watching all the judges tasting all the cakes, going back and forth, and conversing with each other, the decision was made.

For the very first time in all these years, my Lemon Hibiscus Cake with Lemon Buttercream Frosting won the coveted prize of Best of Division. I could hardly breathe.

The judges congratulated me, pictures were taken, a beautiful ribbon was handed to me, and all the thoughts of the first day of judging simply vanished.

This time I drove home crying tears of joy…instead of disappointment, as I had done three days earlier. I won a total of five ribbons on Day 2 and ended the 2024 Culinary Challenge very happy.

For the last several years I’ve seen a man in my neighborhood that is homeless. The first time I saw him about three years ago, he was sitting on a bench outside of the grocery store about three blocks from my house. At that time I assumed he was homeless because he was surrounded by about a half-dozen plastic bags…and they weren’t the grocery store bags. He didn’t look dirty or disheveled. His hair and beard were well groomed. His clothes looked clean and decent. He was ruggedly handsome.

At the time I didn’t think too much about it simply because he was so well groomed and clean. I assumed he had a clean, safe place to go every night.

Then I saw him sitting on the bench almost every time I went to the grocery store. Nothing changed about him or his belongings. I was strangely curious because I’ve heard that most homeless people have a level of mental illness, but I still could not comprehend carrying all of my belongings with me and walking the streets.

After quite some time of seeing him, all of a sudden I didn’t, but was still curious about him, and hoped he found a place to live. I wondered where he went when it was raining, snowing, or bitterly cold.

Spring came and as the weather warmed up, he reappeared. He wasn’t hanging out on the bench at the grocery store anymore. I saw him, with his growing collection of bags, sleeping under trees. First on one side of the street, then the other side of the street, and then several blocks away leaning against a wall at the gas station. This went on for about three or four years.

He reappeared about two months ago when the weather warmed up once again. His collection of bags was growing and growing. I often mentioned to my husband that we should get him a wagon to make it easier to move all those bags.

See, what he does is take two bags in each hand, walks about twenty or thirty feet down the sidewalk, and puts them down. He returns to his previous ‘residence’, picks up four more bags and walks them to where he put the first set of bags. He continues this practice until all the bags are moved. Then he starts the process all over again and again until he reaches his new destination.

I’ve never seen anyone approach him and was a little apprehensive myself. I’m a member of an online neighborhood group so I decided to post something about him to see if anyone had more insight. I received many responses. Several knew his name was Jeff. Some people said he was very mean as they had approached him with food and offers of a wagon for his belongings…always turning down both.

I told my son about him and he said that one day as he was driving to my house, he noticed ‘Jeff’ walking with a bunch of bags and assumed they were groceries. He pulled over and offered him a ride. Jeff told him to go f**k himself.

So it’s pretty obvious that ‘Jeff’ wants to be left alone, carry all of his belongings without assistance, and wants to sleep under trees. He’s not hurting anyone but it’s nice to know that many people are watching out after him.

About ten years ago there was another homeless man standing day in and day out at the end of an exit ramp from the Interstate. He held a cardboard sign saying he was homeless and wanted money for food. I never saw anyone give him anything, but I don’t hang out at the exit ramp of the Interstate.

About a year later there was an article about him in the newspaper. So many people had seen him and were curious enough to contact the newspaper. They sent out a reporter to interview the guy and he was nice enough to answer the reporters’ questions.

He admitted that asking for handouts was easier than keeping a job and that he did quite well at it. Florida was his winter home and he couch-surfed all the way there in fall and headed back this way in spring. I don’t recall everything the article said about him, but he seemed content doing just what he was doing.

As we’ve heard, it takes a village to raise a child. In these types of cases, that same village could help the ‘Jeffs’ of this world with food, clothing, and a wagon…if they wanted the help.

(In Rod Serling’s voice) Imagine if you will, 6am, still dark outside, the house is quiet, and you’re looking for something non-electronic to amuse you.

It’s not your house and the only magazines you can find are a National Geographic and Esquire. I knew Esquire was going to be loaded with ads for things I could never afford but since I’ve never cracked the cover of an issue, now was as good a time as any.

And I was right. I had to turn 16 pages before getting to this issues Table of Contents.

A couple pages later an article caught my attention. Written by a gentleman who had apparently been in regular therapy for over twenty years, how it helped him talking to someone he could trust, and what happened in his life that lead him to therapy.

Naturally, as I can imagine in ninety-nine percent of therapy patients, it is your family, or a member thereof, that led you to this point in your life.

What the hell…I decided to read it since there was nothing else for me to do at this hour of the morning without making noise.

Although the writers childhood issues were different than mine, his feelings about them were the same.

As I continued to read his story, how he felt about situations, or better yet how different instances made him feel, I saw parallels in our lives. I almost felt vindicated because I finally have a found someone who shared my feelings.

As he shared different situations in his life, how he was affected, and how his long-time therapist helped him through these bumps in the road, I couldn’t get over our connection.

Have you ever shared something that was troubling you with someone only to have them reply, “You shouldn’t feel that way?” No, you shouldn’t feel that way, you don’t want to feel that way, but yet here we are…and that’s how I feel.

I was in weekly therapy over thirty years ago. For several weeks I focused on one issue and one day the therapist asked me what it would take to resolve this situation. I told her I wanted an apology from an individual. She asked if there was a chance I would that that apology. No. Very nicely she said, “Then let it go.”

Those four little words instantly lifted a heavy weight. I felt light and free. I wonder if someone else would have said those same words would have had the same impact. I don’t know.

Since that time I’ve tried avoiding telling someone what they should and shouldn’t feel but instead, through a short Q&A session, find out why they feel that way. A better understanding of where they’re coming from instead of telling them how they should feel.

That’s what a friend does…

In an earlier post I talked about moving my mom from independent living to assisted living. I also mentioned that she was one step short of a hoarder.

Two dumpsters and about thirty-five 55-gallon garbage bags later, what didn’t go with my mom to her new teeny-tiny assisted living apartment, came to my clean, clutter-free house.

I made a pact with myself that whatever boxes I brought back to my house, each item was going to be cleaned before I went back for more. I did this for about 14 days in a row. That meant her collection of throw pillows, sweaters, jackets, afghans, etc., were washed. Each knick-knack, and believe me there were hundreds, kitchen items, cookware and God only knows what else, were all washed in warm soap and water.

As everything was cleaned it went into my basement for sorting and pricing. That took another couple of weeks. I set the garage sales dates for April 26th & 27th, 8am to 3pm. My sister from Michigan was coming to help.

I made arrangements to borrow 5 tables. Each was covered with a nice tablecloth. I think I was hoping that the better everything looked, the more people would buy. Since it’s been about 20 years since I’ve had a garage sale, I didn’t know if anything had changed.

Social media seems to be the way to advertise so I picked three or four different sites and advertised as well as on Nextdoor and Facebook. I created a cute little ad and repeated it on each site about every other day.

Garage Sale signs were ordered from Amazon and strategically placed within blocks of my home. Everything was set up the day before so that we could have a relaxing morning the first day of the sale. Not knowing what to expect, I wasn’t sure if I should have arranged for crowd control. Someone told me that sometimes people show up the night before to get the best stuff or they show up one or two hours before the advertised start time for the same reason.

By 8:30am all I heard was crickets. My sister said where she lives, the crowds start shining around about 9am. Sure as all hell, 9am rolled around and people started arriving.

Very few people bickered on price over the course of two days. Several made comments on how clean and organized everything was. That made me feel that all that work was worth it. I don’t care for small talk but thank God my sister does. Several people just wanted to chit-chat and she obliged all of them. Our husbands graciously helped people who purchased multiple items get everything safely to their cars.

About fifty percent of my mother’s treasures sold and the rest we boxed up as soon as the sale was over and took them to St Vincent de Paul. Two full SUV’s of ‘stuff’. After we got home, we had a nice dinner, were in bed by 8pm, and my sister left the next morning. After stripping beds and doing laundry I spent the afternoon sleeping on the couch.

As God is my witness I will never, ever do this again. The reward isn’t worth the work.