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I was with my son in Target the morning of Halloween, getting last minute candy, because the Trick or Treat candy was left out on the table for two days, which turned out to be a bad idea. Nothing more needs to be said about that! We both came up just short of panic, as workers were busy having already replaced orange and black, with red and white decorated shelves in preparation for Christmas.

Christmas! It was October 31st! Where are the paper turkeys? The cutouts of pilgrims, and native Americans? The colored corn, and pumpkins? Nowhere, that’s where! We are on our own to squeeze this holiday in before we hit December. It’s up to us to fire up some enthusiasm for the smell of roasting turkey, pumpkin pies baking, and grandma’s recipe for jello salad all on our own. Well, don’t you worry. We’ll make it happen!

I am not a fan of rushing holidays, which is exactly what has happened! It happens pretty much every year. Retailers are in a rush to set up displays for Christmas, and who can blame them. It’s a big job, and having once been in retail ourselves, that fourth quarter is a make or break for most businesses, particularly December.

I know that Thanksgiving is an American holiday, and perhaps the rest of the world doesn’t have anything on the calendar between October 31st and December 25th, but we do! We are not skipping it! You don’t see grocery stores just giving it a sideways glance in favor of the most popular holiday of the year. After all, Thanksgiving is the “food” holiday….I mean the “giving thanks” holiday. Just seems like a food holiday.

In spite of the fact that Halloween was only a few days ago, and Thanksgiving is up next, I found my spirit lifted knowing that Christmas was coming. The anticipation of holiday lights, and Christmas music somehow made me happy. Just seeing those decorations on display raised a gray, gauzy curtain that has fallen over 2020, even if their appearance is a month early. There’s something about Christmas that brings a smile to our faces, a twinkle to our eyes. Our hearts seem just a little bit lighter. That holiday, more than any other, offers hope for something better.

I believe we need a little bit of Christmas, just a little bit longer this year. So, I won’t complain about stores skipping over Thanksgiving to make way for Christmas. Not this year. But, I won’t skip on giving thanks for my family, my friends, my blessings, and my challenges. Yes, challenges, because it is in our challenges that we rise to be the best that we can be.

History has presented many difficult years. 2020 will take its place among them, but it’s only a moment in time. Take a breath, reflect, and may you find you have many things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.

I had enjoyed a little drizzle of honey on my toast for breakfast the other day. A treat I don’t often have. After clearing away the dirty dishes and wiping down the table with a soapy cloth, I dried my hands and proceeded to carry on with whatever was next on my list for the day. Placing my forearm on the back of the chair, I leaned forward and reached for a piece of paper. When I stood up, my arm felt sticky. What the heck? The back of the chair was sticky as well. Where did that come from? You can wipe, and wash, look at every surface from every angle to make sure it’s gone, and as soon as you rinse out the dishcloth, hang it up to dry, you will touch something else sticky! Where is it coming from?!

What is it with honey? You are ever so careful not to drip any of it on anything except toast, in your oatmeal, perhaps in a cup of tea. You throw your arms in the air like you’re Rocky, claiming victory, yet it still manages to make its way everywhere! You will have honey on the table, the counter top, your fingers, the edge of the sink, and down the outside of the honey jar. Kim said, “Didn’t you know? Honey is the glitter of the food world!”

We all know that if a friend is wearing glitter makeup, by the end of the evening, everyone is wearing glitter makeup. It’s on your clothes, in your hair, even on your shoes! I sent a glitter covered Christmas card out one year. It looked so festive! My good friend texted, “Your card came yesterday. What were you thinking?! Glitter?! Your card is now on display throughout the house!” Guess she should be thanking me that I didn’t send a jar of honey!

A year ago, on September 19th, my mom died. A short time later I wrote, “Walking In Quicksand”. Mom’s neighbor and dear friend read it, and asked me then if I would revisit it sometime in the future, wondering how I would feel in time.

So, one year later I look back to where I was, and where I am now. The year 2020 has been rough for all of us. Covid-19 is only part of it, for on top of that, everyone of us has dealt with life, the ups and downs, celebrations, challenges, joy, and heartbreak. For myself it started before 2020 even began, when my mother-in-law died suddenly in December. The new year offered a fresh page, but January marked the passing of a good friend, and peaked the end of June with a sudden health crisis for our son. Life was piling on!

Mom’s death was only the beginning of closing that chapter. My sisters and I needed to go through her things, clean out her house, decide what to keep, and what to let go of. We attacked it orderly, but our hearts rode the rollercoaster of memories, which brought forth stories of times past, laughter, tears, and sometimes an object would elicit a look of “What the heck, Mom?” By the end of the week, when we were dragging heavy furniture outside for the yard sale, we just wanted it done.

I will never forget Charlotte and I getting trapped in my old bedroom, as we pushed and Susan tugged at the futon that got stuck in the doorway. It wasn’t going to budge, unless we took something apart. By this time our brains were in a fog, yet mine worked well enough to be glad I didn’t need to go to the bathroom. But, just what would we do if there was a fire? Charlotte said, as if I was being stupid, that we would climb out the window. Well, just how was I going to get up there? My 5 foot stature wasn’t of much help. There was no other furniture in the room, and I’m pretty sure the days of me climbing on Charlotte’s back, propelling myself through the window, and then reaching down to pull Charlotte up the wall to meet the opening were about 45 years behind both of us! Just like my mom, here I was, thinking of the worse case, most unlikely scenario! We laughed, and if we didn’t stop laughing we were going to need that bathroom we couldn’t reach! Susan was in the hallway, taxed with taking apart a section of the futon frame so we could make that corner. Her mind was mush, not drifting to “what if’s”, but rather making the trek to the tool bag in the kitchen for a wrench, only to discover she returned with the wrong size. Back to the kitchen she went, only this time the wrench was too small. It wasn’t until her third trip did she stop to think that it would be easier to bring the tool bag with her, rather than her going to it. Charlotte said, “We wondered why you didn’t do that in the first place”, as if it hadn’t just occurred to us too. It had obviously been a long week.

The day we closed the house up I took a walk around the pool. Stepping down into the cool water, 50 years of memories folded in around me, and I sobbed. So this was it. Only it wasn’t. I packed up the treasures I would keep, shipped them home, and boarded a plane.

It was mid January when we put Mom’s house on the market. We always knew we would sell it, but actually doing it was a mixed bag. We had grown up in that house. Giant life changes took place there, but what were we to do? Let it sit there empty, fall apart, and fade into the desert because we couldn’t walk away? Though it had always felt like “going home”, without Mom there, it was just a house. We would have our memories. Time for someone else to make theirs. In April the papers were signed. We hadn’t sold our memories, yet I cried. It was over. The book was finished. Only the sequel remained.

I no longer slog in quicksand. The stabbing pain of grief is no longer my companion. I am okay. That’s not to say I don’t get sad; that I don’t cry; that there isn’t a day that I don’t wish she were still here. I have questions I wish she could answer, and sometimes seek the comfort that only a mother can give. I miss her, but love does not die, people do.

When I was in the 3rd grade I went to church camp. I was encouraged to send postcards home. I had never sent a postcard. I didn’t know I was suppose to write something besides an address on it, and “Love, Sheri”. There was so little room to say much of anything anyways, so I sent home postcards with pretty pictures on the front, and signed, “Love, Sheri”. Thats what I get from my mom now. Postcards from heaven, with pretty pictures of memories on the front. No words, just “Love, Mom”.

I was listening to the radio the other day when I heard that starting your day with three minutes of good news allows your day to be more uplifting than if you hadn’t. Well, that’s just jolly fantastic. Just where are we suppose to find this good news?

I’m not saying that it isn’t out there. It is, but it’s buried beneath the headlines. Good news doesn’t make headlines. Why not? I don’t know. I think it’s the thrill ride syndrome.

Television and newspapers have come to believe that a steady diet of bad news excites us; keeps us interested. You can almost see them salivate when something horrible comes across their desk, and we on social media, don’t help, because we repeat it! As we entered 2020 the media was gaining political traction. It is an election year, but they quickly switched to Covid-19, because nothing is better for the news business than a good pandemic. After all, they still had most of the year to beat the political drums. For months we had a steady diet of Covid until most Americans were more than a little tired of it. But just as we were reaching for the remote to shut it off, or to cancel our paper subscription, along came the riots! This new fresh hell buried us in more bad news day after day, and then as the public grew weary of hearing about it, politics was back in the headlines. The Conventions were starting, and we’re off to the races again.

So, I ask again, just how are we supposed to find this good news? Sometimes it comes from your family, like mine did this morning. That’s the easiest way to find it. But if not, you may have to dig. Still, three minutes? Most people don’t have the patience to brush their teeth for the recommended two minutes before they’re moving on. Now we have to go searching for good news? It could take longer than three minutes to find. It’s buried, remember!

Bobby Bones, a popular radio DJ, has a segment on his broadcast called, “Tell Me Something Good”. His co-hosts are tasked with finding good news out there, and they do it. It’s not on the front page. It doesn’t lead on the morning news shows. No, you have to dig deep. You have to look in the dark recesses below the fold, on the inside pages, or scroll down, farther down, keep going on the newsfeed, and then you’ll find it. It’s there, and there’s plenty of it. But why do we have to do all the leg work?

What if you had to look below the fold for the bad news? Imagine if the bad news maybe was reported during the second hour of the broadcast? Wouldn’t our lives be so much brighter, happier, uplifted if the good news led for a change? Most of us would rather eat cake than okra, so why not feed us cake? I don’t mean we should put our heads in the sand, but I don’t think it’s good for any of us to be standing outside in a sandstorm all day, every day! It warps how we look at the world, and how we see ourselves.

“I believe if you just go by the nightly news, your faith in all mankind would be the first thing you lose.” Isn’t that the truth? But, “…the world ain’t half as bad as it looks. I believe most people are good.” Those words come from Luke Bryan’s song, “Most People Are Good”. I believe that too. I couldn’t get up in the morning if I didn’t. Bottom line, those three minutes of good news are worth digging.

Our daughter-in-law sent us a funny meme about being over 60. The doctor told the man to put ice where it hurts. The man looked like a human iceberg, because it hurts all over. She asked us if that was true. Well, sometimes!

I will admit that lately I’ve had an ongoing affair with the ice pack. It started with tennis elbow, which is weird because I don’t play tennis, but I’m sure it was something ridiculously unremarkable that makes it unmemorable. I do remember that it was made worse by the nurse taking my blood pressure during my physical two months ago. The cuff, mimicking a python, clamping down on my elbow in a vise-like grip. Now isn’t that ironic? My back was feeling left out of the pity party, so it has now joined in. It feels as though I am being stabbed with a hot knife between the shoulder blades. Okay, I think that happened when I tried to pick up my 50 pound grandson. Both elbow and back were screaming as if the latest, greatest rock star had just entered the room! And that’s how it all started….this time.

The truth is, if you do it right, going all out through life, you end up with a few bumps, bruises, a torn this, and a sprained that. Some of us even have to replace some parts along the way, but what that all means is that we’re doing it! We’re living!

I do draw a line at breaking bones, or getting a concussion. That’s carrying it too far. I’m not a football player, so I have not experienced an “ice bath”. That’s crazy, but as you grow closer to 60 you might advance from having one ice pack in the freezer to two, or three. Four might really be ideal, especially if you’re married. And some BioFreeze in the bathroom cabinet should really be a staple.

You’ve got to be tough to get older. Society has a name for us that I don’t find flattering. “Senior Citizen”. I prefer “Life Veteran”.  I’m not a fan of the aches and pains that are a little harder to recover from than when I was 20 or 30. I just want to make sure I’ve earned them. I want them to come from riding my bike, swimming, kayaking, dancing, walking (because hiking is really too big of a word for flat Florida), and picking up grandkids, not sitting around growing “old”. I’m not old. I’m older, and I hope to always be that way.

Yes, I’ve earned my relationship with the ice pack, even if sometimes I don’t quite remember how. Perhaps I play tennis in my sleep. I’m sure I’m a champion!

“The eyes are the windows to your soul”. William Shakespeare said that, and the Bible makes mention of it, though not in those words, yet we often forget that whenever we see someone, greet them, stop and chat, our eyes convey more than our words ever could.

Once upon a time, and what feels like long ago, we interacted with one another, friends, family, and strangers face to face. Our words conveyed our thoughts, and our faces expressed our feelings. Different smiles from a gentle upslope to a ear-to-ear grin spoke of happiness, joy, and delight. A frown showed sadness, anger, and displeasure. But, it’s the eyes that tell the whole picture. When we’re smiling our eyes light up, shine brightly, and twinkle. When we’re sad, or angry they become dark and brooding. When we’re disinterested they become flat, and regardless of the color can appear faded. If our eyes are not windows to our souls, they are definitely windows into our moods, and no matter what our words say, our eyes tell a deeper story, and sometimes a different one.

Covid-19 has brought us to a moment in time where most of us are wearing masks whenever we’re in a public place. We’ve become quieter, less likely to exchange greetings. I’m not sure if it’s because with a mask on, especially homemade ones, we’re forced to speak louder to be heard through the cloth, or it’s just easier to become invisible to each other. What isn’t invisible are your eyes.

I may no longer see your face. I can’t see your smile speaking an unvoiced greeting, or reflecting a simple friendly kindness, one person to another, but I can read your eyes. We assume behind the mask no one knows, but when all we have of one another is our eyes, those eyes become the story. If you’re smiling at me, I see the twinkle in them, along with the wrinkles around the edges. If you’re angry because I messed up, and I’m walking the wrong way down the aisle, I can see the flash of darkness, and eye rolling is visible a long way off. I can see the flatness of someone just going through the motions, but most importantly, in some I can see sadness, maybe even grief. To those people I wish for my eyes to express caring, sympathy, and hope.

We are not different just because we wear a mask. We are not invisible. Don’t just go through the motions. We are still people who need each other, maybe now more than ever. So, though I may no longer be able to read your face, I am reading your eyes. My eyes are smiling at you.

A few weeks ago I was watching a documentary about United Flight 1549 landing on the Hudson River in New York. I was surprised that it hit me emotionally, considering I knew the ending, but as I was watching I began to wonder, just how would I react to such an emergency? You never really know until you’re actually faced with it. We’d all like to think we’d rise to the occasion, and not be the chucklehead that reaches for their carry-on luggage, or puts their life jacket on upside down. When I saw the picture of that guy I thought, “Yep, that would be me.” I pay attention, but I wish they would put those things closer to hand. It’s under the seat! My feet barely reach the floor. You truly think my arms are going to be able to search under the seat for that thing?! By the time I find it, I’ll be in a full out panic, so yes, it will probably be on upside down! Don’t judge me! By following along with the flight attendant, repeating the same emergency instructions we hear on every flight, I at least know where it’s at, and what to do in theory! The rest of you are in full out denial that anything might happen. I can tell by the fact that you continue your conversations, or reading your book, or whatever you can to pretend that landing on the Hudson is not a possibility in your world. Landing on the Hudson isn’t a possibility in my world either, but landing on the Atlantic, or the Gulf could very well be.

I got to thinking, just what would I do? What would I take with me? My phone immediately came to mind. Since I stow that in my bag underneath the seat, not in the seat back pocket, I’d imagine in a crash that bag might no longer be where I left it. And if it is, what good is a waterlogged phone going to do me? Considering women’s clothing is short on pockets, just where would I be putting it? In my hand, where my only option would be to use it as a paddle? I don’t think Apple designed the iPhone for that.

And now here is another problem. Without our phones we’d have to find one and make a call, but when was the last time you actually dialed a number? The fact that I used the word “dial” tells you exactly how long it’s been. We don’t know anyone’s number! We program numbers into our phone, scroll to their name when we need them, and click on it. Magic! No need to memorize anything, until you don’t have your precious phone. Hopefully you have at least your spouse, one of your kids, a sibling, mom, dad, or anyone memorized, or you are flat out of luck. Call 911. They like that sort of thing….not!  Give them the name of the person you are looking for. They have their ways of finding people, and then they’ll get back to you for abusing the system.

The final riddle…how to get your loved ones to answer a call from a number they don’t recognize?! That’s right! You never answer a call from a number you don’t know. We’ve had that drilled into us by the media, our family, friends, strangers even. It’s probably a scammer looking for a backdoor into your private information. So, we just don’t do it. We tell ourselves, if it’s important they will leave a message, but how long does it take for us to check? I could be standing on the shore of the Gulf coast somewhere, dripping wet, life jacket upside down around my neck, stranger’s phone in hand, and my husband, kids, or sisters check the incoming number, swear about another scam caller, and ignore!

Yes, my friends, we have painted ourselves into a fine corner! Now what to do about it? I don’t know! Why do I always have to do the heavy lifting? I’m certainly going to do some serious thinking about it. You don’t have to be in anything so dramatic as a plane crash for this scenario to fit your situation. If you come up with a solution, sing out! I know, my kids are rolling their eyes, “You worry about everything Mom.” Well, somebody has to! You’re welcome.

 

Over the past seven weeks my husband, Kim, has been sweet enough to take on grocery shopping, limiting my exposure to Covid-19. He goes suited up for war against an invisible foe, with gloves and mask securely in place. I give him a very specific list, and then when he gets inside the store some caveman survival gene takes over. He comes home with more bags than required for the number of things he was sent to get. He means well, but our checkbook can’t take much more of his well intentioned chivalry.

It’s time I take over. Though I really dislike grocery shopping, after seven weeks of isolation, a trip to the store is rather exciting, but shopping now takes preparation. No longer is it enough to write up a list and jump in the car. Not in these times of global pandemic. No, you need a strategy. I gather my mask, latex gloves, and shopping list, but that is not sufficient! Think it through! I place my debit card in the outside pocket of my purse, so I don’t have to touch my wallet or any other contents with contaminated gloves at checkout. My sunglasses, which I usually hang around my neck, go inside my purse. I can’t risk them being exposed and then walk outside and place them over my eyes! That would be irresponsible. Borderline stupid! Having mentally walked through the entire process of shopping from start to finish, covering every base, I am now ready!

I am both nervous and excited! My heart is pounding, and I feel a bit like I’m going into battle! Mask up, gloves on. Let’s do this! Once inside I settle down. It’s just shopping, and about 80% of the people inside are dressed exactly as I am. It makes me feel good knowing that people are trying their best. I check my list, and begin going about my business when I catch a glimpse of big stickers on the floor. Some are red, some green, and some blue. What is this? They’re directional markers! Uh oh! How many aisles have I just gone down the wrong way?

We’re not accustomed to shopping while looking down. We look up at signs indicating the aisle that has what we’re looking for, or straight ahead at products, but now I have to look down to make sure I’m not venturing into an aisle that says, “Do Not Enter” in red, but instead follow the green signs that read, “Walk this way”. Blue signs are reserved for the main aisles alerting people to stay six feet apart.

I had chosen a big box store for my excursion today. Why???? These stores already require a lot of walking. Add a number of one-way “roads” to the mix, and I’m sure I logged a couple of extra miles going down an aisle in which I needed nothing, in order to go up the one I desired in the proper direction. I was making a series of loops and circles just to get where I was going. Once I accidentally passed what I was looking for, but instead of going around the proverbial “block” again, I looked behind me and just backed up! I didn’t want to turn around, for fear of being chastised for going the wrong way. I figured as long as my cart was pointed in the right direction, I was still legal.

Of course, there were a number of people absently going the wrong way down an aisle. Nobody said anything to them, but you could see the judgment behind the masks. We assumed these were the same people that while driving turn right from the left lane, or stop in the middle of an intersection. They are probably not malicious, or absent minded violators, but simply haven’t adapted to these new guidelines, and the complicated stunt work of walking while looking up, straight ahead, and down at the floor. Nevertheless, they are getting the stink eye! Pretty hypocritical coming from me, considering I ambled down at least three aisles the wrong direction before I even saw the new rules!

I pay, leave the store through the “correct” door, and upon arriving at my car realize I had failed to think through the best way to load my groceries. Do I take my gloves off first, or put the groceries in the back and then remove my gloves? Hmmm? I didn’t prep for this part before I left the house! I thought I had been so clever. Weighing the options quickly, I choose to remove my gloves, open the car with clean hands, place the bags inside, and then use hand sanitizer. It’s tricky these days. You need a risk assessment, graphs, and a spreadsheet for a simple trip to the grocery store! Did I say “simple”?

It’s hard to say how long these new one-way shopping aisles will be with us, but I for one hope not too long. There is way too much thinking involved. I’m bound to drop a ball or two in that juggling act. However, with all the added walking and the mental gymnastics, shopping now qualifies as a “workout” routine, right?

It has come to my attention that I am not doing this “stay at home” order correctly. Everyone is cleaning closets, organizing bookcases, sorting photographs, etc. I have done absolutely nothing! I’m pretty sure I’m managing to do even less than I did before, and I’ve always worked from home!

I have an online job, scoring standardized educational test taken by students around the country. For obvious reasons, that didn’t happen this year. No test taking equals no test scoring. No problem…well except the paycheck part. I have my new book I’m working on, and there is always my blog. The perfect freeing of time to spend more of it writing. You would think that, wouldn’t you?

Instead I find myself getting to the end of the day having played more games of Bingo, Candy Crush, and Angry Birds than I ever did before this virus demanded my days be spent at the house, and staying at home is what I always did! In fact, this “stay at home” order was tailor made for me! Perhaps I feel like everyone is getting this mandated time off, or at least a change in the “office” scenery. For me, everything stayed pretty much the same. I want a change of pace too! But, why can’t my change of pace involve all those productive things other people are finding to do? Well, it can, but in order to make that happen I need to figure out what I want to do, and then make a list. It’s clear I can not just wing this “stay at home” order.

My list is rather long, and my husband thinks it looks a bit ambitious, until I told him that it is for the week, not the day. I’m three days in and have only crossed off three things, but hey, that’s one thing a day that has disqualified me from couch potato status.

Not being able to spend time with my family, especially the grandkids, or going to the beach is the worst of this confinement. Catching up on movies is a perk, though some of us may need to use that stimulus check to pay the cable bill. I do find time to ride my bike, and sit in the sun for a bit. You’d think I could manage to squeeze in a few seconds to empty the ice trays, but that is probably better entrusted to the list.

We’ve all wished many times for the merry-go-round of life to stop, or at least slow down for a few minutes, just so we can catch our breath. We finally got our wish. Maybe this wasn’t exactly what we meant, but make the most of it, however you choose, because this too shall end. When it does we’ll be happy to go about our lives normally again, but before long we’ll be wishing for that little slower pace. If you have a few more game apps on your iPad, watched more movies than you normally would, played more games with the family, sorted those books, or cleaned those closets….well, that’s all time well spent. It’s the silver lining, even in these difficult times.

 

 

I’m a note taker, but not always an efficient one. I was searching through my desk the other day for some numbers I needed. I knew I put them there, because they were important. I would need to re-visit them later. Well, today was later, and what I found in the drawer were several pieces of paper with cryptic notes scrawled on them, but not one single reference to what, or to whom they pertained.

I found one note that had dates, amounts, and reference numbers, but that was it. Nothing more. What did they refer to? There was even one number circled. Well, that must be important, but why?

The note I was actually looking for was written in the corner of a paper that had two other separate notes on it. One was the result of some research I was doing, one was a combination of letters and numbers that I finally recognized as my daughter’s license plate number, and then there were six numbers, one percentage and an arrow between two of the numbers. Wonder what that means? At first I passed over the paper, thinking it wasn’t what I was looking for, but further search of my desk revealed only two more scribbled notes, and neither of them were relevant. Don’t ask me how I could tell. Just a sixth-sense I suppose! I went back and took a closer look at the only two possible suspects, and found some clues that triggered an elusive black hole memory. Now those numbers began to spin and rearrange themselves to make sense. Yes, this was what I was looking for!

It turns out that more than one of my desk drawers holds mystery notes. They must be important, because I didn’t throw them away. They have become like that other item we all keep, because we need it, but don’t know why….the lone key in the junk drawer, or the dresser drawer, or in the jewelry box, because it is really important, but we’re clueless about what it unlocks.

You can’t throw this stuff out! It’s important! It must be, because we kept it. You know if you do, as soon as Waste Management arrives out front you will suddenly remember why you had it, and now there is nothing you can do to correct your error in judgement. So there it sits, mocking you for your forgetfulness.

We are victims of our own carelessness. Don’t be so smug as to think it’s because I’m “older” that I can’t remember. No matter your age, I dare you to look in that drawer and tell me what that one key, lying there all alone, is for. From here forward I vow to write a few more words of reference on my scribblings, and place single keys in a baggie with a note identifying them.

One day, when I’m feeling very brave, or seeking the thrill of being reckless, I will gather all these random notes, search the drawers for lonely keys, and quickly throw them in the trash, then rush them to the curb before I regain my sense of rationale, or is that terror, and retrieve them all. Who am I’m kidding, that’s crazy!