Producing this blog of over 80 entries has become an ironic sort of unexpected success. Ideas have floated about, the keyboard often sang, I bonded with a well-worn thesaurus. You, my loyal readers, have given me the emotional support to continue one with the pen. 

It is with great pride and joy that I have been given many talents and blessings. Family, friends, a successful career, good health and sustainability to share a few. I have found happy in my retirement and enjoy all that has been sowed. 

Rest the pen. Shelve the book of vocabulary enhancement. Archive the blog. It is time to conclude this chapter. 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you again. You have a piece of my heart! 

Higher Power – a term or phrase often referring to a supreme being or deity, or other conceptions of God. Wikipedia.

A higher power can be anything actually, that one believes is adequate to his/her needs emotionally, physically, or otherwise. In essence, it is that which is greater than oneself and in a loving and caring form. Something of nature, consciousness, science. God. Buddha.  

For me, I have a daily sense that there is a loving God that surrounds my being. Together as one, I feel an awareness of safety and calm within. Whether I have conversations of self-evaluation, unmet needs, or gracious thankfulness, there is always a sense that I am sharing my inner person with a being greater than myself. 

When I find doubt and need of assurance, hope appears to be in short supply. Hope seems hopeless. Power eludes as powerless. Inner conflict is real. Weak and weary in a spiritual sense, it becomes easy to cede and fear uncertainty.

My spiritual sense (or God)  is ever about me. I often hear a calm, gentle comfort reminding, “You’ve got this.” “I’ve got your back.” “One way or another, you will move forward.” “I am always here to give you strength.” “This too shall pass.” So many times this aging body and mind have paid heed. As a result, regrets have been few.

Gratefulness is often times a given in one’s life. Taken for granted becomes normalcy. During these moments of comfort and calm, I am reminded to give humble thanks to my higher power. Ever pleased, life is good.

All in all, there is a conscience that ever reminds me that I am loved, safe and acceptable. I allow my God to work his/her timing to all that is good. I am on this earth to do. To be. To teach others and myself that good is to be. My God who gives me strength also provides me great hope, power and joy. And for that I am grateful.

“Open unto me…light for my darkness…hope for my despair…courage for my fear…peace for my turmoil…joy for my sorrow…strength for my weakness…wisdom for my confusion…forgiveness for my sins…love for my hate…ever grateful for Your love. H. Thurman.

“We cannot go back and change the beginning, but we can start from where we are and change the ending.” C.S. Lewis. 

Move forward. Reach higher and higher. 

Thanks for reading!

It may come as no surprise that I am composing a book of life memories to share with family and friends. The publishing company compiling thoughts of my “masterpiece” of sorts is Story Worth.  Gifted to me nearly a year ago, it has provided for much reflection and good. Here is a small slice of homemade memory…

 “What was your favorite lunch to bring to school?”  What an interesting topic to reflect upon. Being raised in a large farming family, foodstuffs were bountiful, healthy, and for the most part, homemade. Momma, the ever-creative, packed eight basic, cold lunch delights five days a week throughout most of the school year. Some were trade worthy with friends. Others, not so much. For me, taking a bagged lunch seemed mundane and simple. Store bought delights were status, or so I believed.

Television commercials caused me to believe my hunger and happiness would be soothed by yum wrapped in colorful cellophane. I savored those delicious yearnings. With little trade value in my lunch sack, I would only dream of Miracle Whip slathered bologna, ham, or fanciful olive loaf sandwiches topped with Wonder Bread. Round up a snack bag of Frito’s Corn Chips, Ruffles by Lays, a Hostess SnoBall or Twinkie, and I would have Heaven in a handful. Add to that a metal Roy Rogers/Dale Evans lunch box with a matching thermos. Perfection in store-bought yummy, not to mention a likely bump in popularity.

Standard lunches for me were none of the above. They often consisted of Holsum white or Roman Meal wheat bread with a limited variety of sandwich fillers. Momma had two favorites: peanut butter and American cheese. Fridays were devoted to tuna or egg salad (pew!).  A homemade cut of frosted cake, blond brownies or assorted cookies and bars rounded out my carry out.  Carefully wrapped in wax paper and lovingly packed into a brown paper lunch bag, that was it. Plain, simple, adequate. 

Once in a notion Momma would surprise her kidlets with an out of the ordinary pleasure of sorts. My most favorite lunch she packed included her home baked white bread (cut thick) sandwich of ample peanut butter and oozing fresh strawberry jam, a small, juicy tomato or sliced cucumber picked from the garden, a few chocolate-peanut butter no bake cookies and a fresh apple or pear from the orchard. Add a $.03 carton of white milk, and my trade worthy lunch was the best it could be. 

I could only dream that friends would offer to trade Momma’s homemades for their commercially manufactured confections. Oatmeal raisin cookies for Oreos? Blonde brownies for Ho-Hos? The highly coveted Hostess Jim-Jam for Momma’s Chocolate-peanut butter no bakes? Oh my! Possible? Probable? Marcie to the rescue. Yes, Marcie, my savior in cold lunch trading. 

As it turned, Marcie was new to my class and had joined me for lunch on this crisp September day. Seventh grade as I recall, we sat on the gym bleachers to share goods and gossip. As she opened her lunch sack, I spied a panacea of plastic. Rather than gape at the treasure of treats, I casually unwrapped my standard sandwich and cookies. 

“Oh my, Josie, is that homemade bread? Does your mom bake all the time? You are sooooo lucky! I LOVE homemade everything!” Marcie was awed by Momma’s creation. 

Cool and calm I snickered, “Ah, ya my mom bakes all the time. Today I’ve got peanut butter with her homemade strawberry jam. Wanna taste?” 

Marcie did not hesitate. “Taste? You must be kidding! I’ll trade off my bologna any day! In fact, I’ll share everything right now. Deal?”

Thoughts raced my mind. Was Marcie for real? Bologna? Was that like a flat hot dog? Fritos and a Ho-Ho? Never tasting the likes of these cellophane treats, I calmed my bugged eyes and salivating mouth. And trade we did. Lunch for lunch.

To my surprise and disappointment, the chips were much too salty. The bologna slid about the mayo mess of soggy bread. A sip of milk helped to wash the stale Hostess treat out of my mouth. A thin chocolate wax remained on my teeth. All that I had ever imagined was awash with flavorless disappointment. 

I pretended to enjoy while Marcie devoured Momma’s goodness. “Wow Josie, I’ll trade any day you want. This lunch was terrific! I want my mom to make those chocolate fudge cookies. Can I get the recipe from you? They were Yummeee!”

As a result, my lunch of homemade was far more superior than I ever expected. All those commercial messages and plastic food yearnings had assured me that dreams and reality were not one in the same. Intense longings had flipped to indifference and sadness. 

All in all, my adventures with plastic food was swiftly abated with Marcie’s so-called delights. What I had assumed was the epic in eating was not. Commercially made, wrapped and stored in colorful packaging had no comparison to Momma’s homemade creations. Another irrational thought floating about my head proved me wrong. Thank you Mom, for the bounty of scratch foods and cold lunches. We were rich in homemade!

Lessons Learned:

Homemade is best. Momma proved it every day of her life. I continue to share my best of scratch with family and friends.

People can be irrational. Nothing is perfect, including Hostess, bologna and ME!

Thanks for reading!

No Bake Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies

Prepare 2 cookie sheets with non-stick spray or butter. Set aside.

In a large frypan combine:

2 cups sugar

1 stick margarine/butter (I like butter)

½ cup milk( cow milk only. Others don’t work as well)

4 Tablespoons cocoa (I like Toll House)

Stir on medium high heat until a full rolling boil is reached. Continuously stir for 2 full minutes. Remove from heat and add:

1 teaspoon (a capful) vanilla

½ cup peanut butter (a big gob)

Stir until all mixture is dissolved. 

Add:

3 or so cups Quick cooking oatmeal

Add any or all of the following:

½ cup coconut

½ cup raisins

Chopped walnuts to taste

Stir quickly until all is mixed. Quickly spoon drop mix on prepared cookie sheets. Don’t worry about messiness. You will have those morsels for sampling. Leave ample mix in fry pan for doing the same. Makes up to 2 dozen cookies. Enjoy.

Asked recently, “What do you remember about Neil Armstrong landing on the moon in 1969?” Wow, so long ago and far away.  Although this feat was phenomenal at the time, I have scant memory of this remarkable happening.

When I recall significant world events throughout my lifetime, most stand out as a real sense of tragedy and loss. Most vivid for me was the assination of President John F. Kennedy.  I remember where I was, what I was wearing, and who I was with. Add the untimely deaths of respected activist, Martin Luther King jr. and presidential hopeful, Robert F. Kennedy. The unsuccessful assination attempt on President Ronald Reagan. Senseless. Unforgiving.  Lasting and forever losses not only for America, but for the world as well. 

Of recent, events leading up to and including the January 6, 2021 intrusion and insurrection that challenged our democracy as a nation will forever imprint my thoughts and memories. When the United States was attacked by Islamic terrorists on September 11, not so long ago. Columbine. Sandy Hook. Lives stolen, liberty compromised, lost, forever gone. Grief that continues to sting. 

Why is that? Why do many of us focus on that which is tragic, horrific, negative?  Is it our need for that which is sensational? Media of all sorts that imply our hunger for that which is contrary? Whatever the case, small events here and there are beginning to pop that carry an upbeat, positive feel. We are the believers and makers.  With that, I will clear the cobwebs and glean my thoughts of Apollo 11’s Eagle flight to the moon. Positive. One small step to all that was good. 

July 20, 1969. A summer Sunday of chores, church, and rest. As dew was drying off the crisp, green lawn, another gem of a day was beginning to take hold. With a high in the low 80s, clear skies and a light breeze predicted, outside activities were guaranteed . After church of course. Mass at St. Henry’s was hurried so that we could turn to relaxation of those outside “ahhh” moments.    

By noon we had returned home. A quick change of clothes and gathering of eggs while Momma readied lunch. Around 1:00 p.m. all was ready for another afternoon of sun and fun. Before our ideas had become a reality, however, Momma shooed us into the living room. 

“The astronauts that went into space a few days ago are about to land on the moon. It’s going to be live on television in just a few minutes. History being made like no other time. Come on now, sit down and get comfortable. I want to see this too.” 

She popped on the black and white turning the dial to Channel 9, CBS. Adjusting the “rabbit ears” antenna that sat atop the set, a fuzzy Walter Cronkrite came into view. Behind him were a number of men pacing nervously in front of television monitors. Something was astir with their business-like profiles of black, white and muted greys. All seemed surreal and serious. 

As we eight gathered around, questions were abuzz. How far away is the moon anyway?  How did the tv cameras get to the moon? Is this real, Momma? Is Mr. Cronkrite really gonna talk to those astronauts?  Are there phones in that spaceship? Obviously more questions than answers. 

Momma turned from the set, eyed us calmly and met our needs as one, ” That’s why we’re here. Just sit tight and Mr. Cronkrite will answer all your questions.” 

With our eyes glued to the set in total silence, we watched in amazement. Astronauts Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, and Michael Collins were about to land on the moon! This was going to be epic!

Mr. Cronkrite continued to inform us of any and all information prepared for the millions of listeners. Stoic and matter-of-fact, Conkrite was able to carry viewers from Earth to the moon with awe. With minimal errors, the Apollo 11 Eagle space module had made the 240,000 mile trip in less than three days. Set to land in just minutes, we held our breath. No cameras could film this feat. We had to rely on the voices from Mission Control in Houston Texas and those of the three astronauts.

Just then a man from the Houston control center spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen we have live contact from astronauts Aldrin, Armstrong and Collins. Let’s go to them now. History is about to unfold.”

With sputters and static, the nation and world would witness man’s first attempt to reach the moon’s surface. Commander Aldrin spoke first. “Houston, we have landed. The Eagle has landed.” The control center went mad with cheers and hugs. Glassy eyed and gaping mouths, we continued to witness in silence. A safe and successful landing!

Within minutes astronaut Neil Armstrong was the first to set a human foot on the lunar surface. His first words continue to echo today. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” 

We sibs had first hand witnessed three brave, selfless explorers jump, dance like playful boys, gather dust samples, ride the solar powered lunar module, and lastly, plant an American flag on the moon’s surface. It was a proud moment for science, for America and humankind. This optimism would be one to never forget. 

Following a few hours of gathering and exploring, Aldrin, Armstrong, and Collins engaged plans to return to earth. Within days, a successful splash down in the Pacific Ocean sealed the deal of a completed mission to the lunar beyond. In all, just eight short days from start to completion was all that was needed to make the “one giant step for mankind” a reality.

The fact that man has been able to explore and discover the undiscovered realms beyond that of Mother Earth is astounding. The Apollo 11 mission was one project that conquered the unconquerable. My memories are alive with that eventful positive as Neil Armstrong first set his footprints on the surface of the moon. I my wildest expectations did I ever imagine this feat possible. 

In summary, memorable events throughout one’s lifetime can be tragic or upbeat. Funny how easily we can remember that which is disastrous or unhappy rather than the celebratory or positive. It’s all in our mind and being. Weed the negative, grow the positive. It just takes one small step.

Lessons Learned:

Keep good in your thoughts and memories. Constructive. Affirmative. Positive. It compliments one’s  balance in life.

Thanks for reading.

We are born. We grow. We absorb, learn and become. Years and years of discoveries, trials, tribulations, and regrets.  Combined with an abundance of achievements and success, we finish the race called LIFE. 

Recently, the  passage below was presented to me for thought. I do not know the title or author, however, I do believe it speaks to all of us. Why should we wait until our 60’s, 70’s, or beyond to practice these beliefs? 

I’m admitting that I stole this and don’t know who to credit, but THANK YOU!  Enjoy and go out there to live your life of happy! 

• After loving my parents my siblings, my spouse, my children, my friends, now I have started loving myself.
• I just realized that I am not “Atlas”. The world does not rest on my shoulders.
• I now stopped bargaining with vegetable and fruit vendors. A few pennies will not burn a hole in my pocket, but may well help the poor fellow save for his daughter’s school fees.
• I pay my waiter/waitress a big tip. The extra money might bring a smile to his/her face. He/she is toiling much harder for a living than me. 
• I stopped telling the elderly that they’ve narrated that story many times. The story makes them walk down their memory lane and relive the past.
• I have learned not to correct people even when I know they are wrong. The onus of making everyone perfect is not on me. Peace is more precious than perfection.
• I  give compliments freely and generously. Compliments are a mood enhancer not only for the recipient, but also for me. And a small tip for the recipient;  Never, NEVER turn it down, just say “Thank You”.
• I have learned not to bother about a crease or spot on my shirt. Personality speaks louder than appearances.
• I walk away from people who don’t value me. They might not know my worth, but I do.
• I remain cool when someone plays dirty to outrun me in the rat race. I am not a rat and neither am I in any race.
• I am learning not to be embarrassed by my emotions. It’s my emotions that make me human. 
• I have learned that it is better to drop the ego than to break a relationship. My ego will keep me aloof, whereas with relationships I will never be alone. 
• I have learned to live each day as if it’s the last. After all, it might be the last. 
• I am doing what makes me happy. I am responsible for my happiness, and I owe it to myself. Happiness is a choice, you can be happy at any time, just choose to be! 

Lesson learned

If we practice these beliefs in our present, a future of contentment and inner peace are sure to be ours. 

Thanks for reading! 

Notable: Adj. Worthy of attention or notice; remarkable. Noun. A famous or important person. Oxford Dictionary.

On the silver screen? Politically a world figure? Rock star status? Inventor/developer? Entrepreneur? Individuals who have become famous, respectable, remarkable in so many ways.  After all, notoriety is in the eye of the beholder, yes? We all have our favorites. 

Are there notable ancestors among your family? According to the words of Oxford, no immediate relatives of mine, have come near that of being world renown or notable of mention in the annals of historical archives.  Regardless, I have determined that yes, I am certain that particular family and relatives of mine have been remarkable in their own right. Interpretation is everything, yes?

Take for example my father, Joseph Francis Foldesi. Humble beginnings as he immigrated to America with the flood of Europeans to begin a new life of economic and personal freedom. At age three, however, he likely did not realize the fears, dangers and complications of traveling to a new country. With little more than his mother, a small trunk of personal belongings, and no skills with the English language, Ellis Island would open the door to future constraints, detours and challenge. 

Historical records indicated that my dad arrived to America fatherless.  Soon after, his mother married and he became a stepson. Scant legal paperwork available to prove as fellow settlers shared in economic and personal support. 

Hungarian families that had previously arrived opened their arms, homes and hopes for a better future. As a first generation immigrant, my father learned the English language, a number of vocational skill sets and became a property owner. Like so many other newcomers, the American dream lived in him. 

By his early 20’s, Daddy took ownership of a 160 acre property that a local bank had repossessed for back taxes. Over the course of ten years and with the help of family, he logged much of the property, built a large barn, several out sheds for storage and a simple house. Busy hands. Busy minds. 

Known throughout the community, Daddy became an expert in shoeing horses and metalsmithing. Small tattered notebooks provided his accounting records. Shoeing a horse, $.50. Taking out a $200 note from the bank required collateral. Daddy put up one of his Holstein cows and was accepted. Simple trust. 

Not of world fame, he successfully farmed, married and helped raise eight self-supporting, loving, children. A generous man of his word and one of integrity.  He continues to be my historical idol of respect, dedication and love!

Another example of  ancestral notoriety is that of my mother, Theresa Catherine Lynch. Born and raised during the Great Depression, she grew up with struggle and not-haves. Her father, of strong Irish descent, had steady work during this economic crisis, however, battled alcoholism. Income to the home was scant to say the least. 

As a result, Momma learned to survive through serving others and compromising dignity. As a young girl, she lived through meatless days and food rationing, while cleaning houses, taking in laundry of others and waiting tables. As a young teen, she sneaked through darkness of neighborhoods in search of valuables tossed as other people’s trash. All the while, her meager earnings helped insure food on the table and a roof over that of her family. 

Married by age 18, Momma began her own family in earnest. By the age of 27, she had bore eight lively children and was in the daily throes of farm life with Daddy. She sewed without a pattern. She canned any and all fruits, vegetables and meats. She drove tractor and helped milk the cows. She and Daddy made farm life hum like a fine tuned instrument. Just another notorious person in my gene pool of historical notability. Momma was remarkable!

These two adults have provided a rich history and much to be proud. Strong value systems. Morally upright, loving, generous, respectful. Yes, these are just two of the notable ancestors I  honestly admit into my book of history! 

Discover your own history and be amazed. After all, interpretation is everything, yes?

ADULTING – The practice of behaving in a way characteristic of a responsible adult, especially the accomplishment of mundane but necessary tasks. -Oxford Dictionary. 

You may ask, “What are some common behaviors of adulting”?  

1. Having a budget                                  

2.  Buying a house

3.  Scheduling regular doctor and dental visits

4.  Doing your own laundry

5.  Watching the nightly news

6.  Etc., etc., etc.

For me, 2020 has seen a wane of most things responsible. Practicing mature decisions and behaviors has taken a back seat to poor choices. A small consolation to all this? I am not alone. 

Perched on the edge of too much. Feelings of minimal control, order, peace, time. The season of disappointment. The year of dismay. The year of 2020 has been nothing ordinary for so many. 

Hours, days and months of the same endless blur. What day is it, Blursday? Are the kids home today? Am I safe? What’s for dinner? Where’s the mask? Have I prayed enough? I can’t. I won’t. I don’t believe it. UGH! It’s endless!  

As a result of all this fertile frenzy, I weakly continue to challenge myself. Who is doing the adulting here? 

First and foremost; the body. Now that I have retired and have time, time, and more to plan, prepare and eat responsibly, I forego. Foods of ill-repute have become my friends. Pretty much anything chocolate, salty or of the carb family. Yes, I know, chocolate is plant based as with most carbs, thus, may provide nutritional value. But in excess? 

As a result, heartburn, bloating and tight pants have been constant reminders of these inadequate choices. Alka-Seltzer, a spoon or two of soda in water and elastic have become near-daily supplements. Thank you CVS, Walgreens and Publix for BOGO temptations. I support and appreciate you. It’s time, however, to make the turn for “Just Say No”.

Second in challenge: exercise. As for regular exercise, I purposely forget. Having the luxury of excess time, sunshine of the sunny south and good health, I choose to roll over and play dead. Lazy has become me. So like a recent commercial, I wish I had a pet to attach my Fitbit to for pretend exercise. Again, I sense that I am not alone.

Ten pounds later, I am not livelier or happy. These feelings of chub and blah have got to go. Lame, lame and blame need another body to harbor. BAM! Emeril Lagasse, Chef Boyardee, Julia Child: It’s time to leave the body! Poke a fork in me; I’m done!

Third in question: common sense. Sound judgement in practical matters. In short, adulting. Easy enough to define and practice, however, what have I done with this normalcy? Binge watching anything. Pleasure reading nonfiction, historical lust. The likes of mindless Solitaire and Scrabble online. Awake until wee hours of the morning often resulting in a wasted half day of sunshine and light. Jeez, need I say more?

Ta-tah to technology marathons and my frenzied lifestyle of 2020. I cannot thrive and grow. Come into my life, 2021! I’m ready for a new and improved adulting! Once again, I will safely bet; I am not alone.

Haphazardly, we are about to finish a marathon of 2020 unbelievable. The world and its final sunset to accept those plateaus, slumps and failure-to-thrive episodes. In one form or another, we’ve battled the Goliath of fear, disappointment and loss. Let it go my friends. Buh-bye negative. Hello gorgeous! 

Resurrect that which is good for 2021. Practice deep breathing and once again, win over your heart. Find the good and grow. The sun will always shine once the clouds give way. A rainbow often follows a storm. I wish you the best in your 2021 journey to bigger and better. 

Thanks for reading! 

Ahh, hunting varmits in Michigan. Mid September to mid-March, opportunities aplenty. Tall grasses, brushy areas and open fields offer up the perfect nesting and hiding habitats for our furry friends. One adventurous tale from former student Jack proved his love not only for the joy of hunting, but that of nabbing the perfect gift for Grandpa.

Early December, 1998 or so. Jack, an 11th grade student on my caseload had returned from the vocational center a few minutes before the start of his third hour class. With fast-food breakfast in hand, he entered my office for a chatn’snack. Always up for light conversation, I welcomed his happy soul. Today was a chilly start to the week with light snow and falling temps. Holiday tunes were softly playing. 

“Morning, Mrs. S. Care if I hang before third hour starts? Gotta story bout huntin with Popcorn, yaknow, my beagle. Yur not gonna believe it.” Peeling away the wrappings, he chunked a bite of hash brown slivered between his egg Mcsandwich. 

“Well, let’s just share n’care a bit, shall we?” I joined him at the large table with my coffee and a few students finishing up assignments.”By the way Jack, you’ve got about 8 minutes to brag. No one here will be late to class, got it? Summarize and carry on my friend.”                                                                     

Interest was high as non-academic boy talk took to the stage. Cue Jack. “It all started Friday night when me and Popcorn drove up to Grandpa’s farm in Chesaning. I couldn’t hunt, cuz it was too dark, so Gramps and I went for pizza at Pintown, you know, the bowling alley…” Jack began to wander as he continued to chomp. 

“And?” I jokingly added. 

Jack nodded, inhaling a last bite. “So me and Popcorn and my 12 guage, ya know, my semi-auto, we left Saturday mornin for the woods. We was in a clearing tryin to flush out some rabbits from the bushes. Ya know, for stew, snowshoe stew,” he chuckled. “Well, nothin’s punchin out. Ya know. I was gettin a little down about that. Ya know. So I just sat with Popcorn and took a break.”

Time was ticking and Jack had a story to embellish. “So what did you do then, Jack?” I asked. 

He had piqued our interest. “Well I didn’t want to just walk all day for nothin, so I decided to find Grandpa a nice little Christmas tree. And there it was, like magic or somethin! Bout a six footer, ya know.  A little scraggly but a trim would make it right.”

Continuing forward, “So, instead of rabbits, I was gonna git a tree. No saw, I’ll  just use my shotgun, ya know?  Yup, plaster that stump until that tree drops! Great idea, ya?”

Always one to ramble, Jack had his audience captured. Boy talk. Woods. Gun. 

“Cool! How many shells did it take Jack? Ya know, did you pound it?” fellow huntsman Jerry asked. 

I could only reply with, “Oh boy” and rolling eyes. “Wind this convo up, Jack. Time is short, ya know?”

Anxiously, young Jack yammered on, “I obliterated it man! Bout 12 shots and I felled that tree! Pop, pop, pop! An Popcorn, he took off for a good chase. Rabbits were no where.” 

Jack proceeded his edgy adventure of hauling the tree to his nearby truck. Back to the search and nab of Popcorn and rabbits. A pretty good day.

As the afternoon began to wane into darkness, however, Popcorn or snowshoes had not appeared. Yelling for the beag proved worthless. Experience reminded Jack to leave a scent and likely his prized pup would return. Shedding his coat, Jack laid it in the new-fallen snow. 

Returning to his truck, the prized pine was gone. A quick search showed two sets of boot tracks and the swish of the tree’s boughs. “Who’d ever take this tree?” he thought. A quick chill ran through Jack as he jumped in the truck to follow the trail. 

It wasn’t long before the suspicious traces ended. Fresh tire tracks appeared to capture the tree and nabbers. 

Jack was disappointed to say the least. “Yup, I scored zero for the weekend. Popcorn scored a zero, an Grandpa scored a zero. The rabbits, the robbers, an my shotgun won. I jus lost that trail fast. A big fat ZERO!”

“That’s it, Jack? That’s your story?” I inquired. “Beginning, middle and end? No happily-ever-after?”

Jack rose from the table. “Yup, jus like that. Good thing though, Gramps and I went back to Pintown for another pizza. Sharin my bad luck, I noticed a red Dodge Ram in the parkin lot with a tree on back! Cha-Ching!  Checkin the stump, it was filled with BBs. I knew it was ours!

“Load it up boy,” yelled Gramps. “No pizza tonight, we’re buggin outta here!” 

Transferring the tree to Gramps’ truck, they dashed to Mac n Dees, then for home. Pulling into the drive, headlights spotted Popcorn shivering on the porch. It turned out to be a good day after all!

Jack had taken stage. He captured an audience and won out in the end. The bell rang to end class and all left without a tardy slip. Another happily-ever-after moment.

All in all, my days were not always consumed by academia. It became apparent early in my career that my listening was just as important to these students as their learning. Subject matter for the boys seemed to revolve around three topics; hunting, drugs and sex. Girls shared their priorities as well; anything with drama. Tales aplenty, I was blessed with countless memories. Thanks Jack, and those who shared the “stage” of my office. 

Lessons Learned:

Listening and learning are validation to one’s growing knowledge. I learned so much from my students as they gained confidence and independence. I could write a book! 

Growing up, I seldom accepted or practiced reading for pleasure. Books were not aplenty in our home. I do not recall our town as having a public library. Other than a few Golden Books, a large collection of fairy tales (thank you, Aunt Pat), or any reads secured from the school library, reading was limited. 

Pleasure reading just did not exist. Idle time was devoted to farm chores, household duties, sibling care and school. Momma and Daddy subscribed to The Detroit Free Press, a few farm magazines and the J.C. Penney catalog. It was there I was introduced to comic strips, horoscopes, delicious recipes, and shopping by mail. My world expanded with the mindful thoughts of Ann Landers, Erma Bombeck, professional sports and the costs of shipping and handling. I read. I gleaned. I began to fill my thinker bucket. New-found knowledge and I were becoming one. 

The summer of 1962 ushered in the Bookmobile. Twice a month, this monstrous, feeble green library on wheels, took its afternoon residence in the nearby town of Delwin. Piled in the back of the Chevy truck, Momma introduced her kidlets to their very own library card and an assortment of books never before seen. Independent and pleasure reading tied neatly together in a book. My love for the printed word was born.

These books became sacred. As colorful and varied as any wide-eyed child could imagine, I was awed by the touch, smell and uncovered adventures that laid in wait. My early dreams of imagination and escape. Goodbye to Dick, Jane, Sally and Spot.

Throughout the school year, an hour or so was devoted to library time. Proper book etiquette and making protective jacket covers (using a paper bag) consumed us. And let us not forget becoming familiar with the card catalog and the Dewey Decimal System. It was there that I met and fell addictingly in like with “The Bobbsey Twins”, “The Boxcar Children”, and “Pippi Longstocking”. Their far-fetched adventures seemed so distant than my simple farm existence. I so longed to be a twin, pretend with a few sibs in a boxcar, or live crazy like Pippi. Secrets and comfort were just a tale away. 

Throughout senior high my pleasure reading waned but minimally suffered. Duties of the farm, home and academics took added priority. As an unlikely result, mandatory book reports took a survivalist turn to minimal and mindless effort.

It became common to check out a novel or two from the library. Familiarize with the front jacket, peruse pictures, read the first and last few chapters and begin to pen my thoughts. I’d compose my best report using perfect spelling and penmanship. Avoiding specific details, I easily gleaned low A’s and high B’s from my strategic plan. Good enough. 

College, marriage, teaching and motherhood continued to take priority over my efforts to read for enjoyment. Educational texts, Dr. Spock and Ladies Home Journal became my printed pleasures. My dreams of “take-me-away” had been sidelined. 

That all changed as daughter Jennifer entered her freshman year. She was given a list of classic novels to read before school commenced in September. Having an hour here and there, I took to reading “Native Son” by Richard Wright. This classic depicted the life of poverty and racial injustice. My desire to pleasure read had been rekindled. Once again, I was hooked. 

Since those early days of open eyes and mind, I have kept record of any and all reading undertaken. I have joined various book clubs, and subscriptions. Bookstores have a gentle likeness for me. There’s always an unfinished book on my nightstand. Endless time to imagine and escape. 

Some of my favorite reads include historical fiction, non-fiction and auto/biographies. Love, love, love taking my thoughts to another place and time. Relearning historical events seems effortless. Oh, and to read of the delights and struggles of another’s life… Nosy-Josy enjoys this as well! 

The following are a few of my favs:

Historical Fiction:  The Poisonwood Bible and Flight Behavior. Barbara Kingsolver. 

News of the World. Paulette Jiles. The Book Thief. Markus Zusak.

Non-Fiction:  Unbroken, Boys in the Boat and Seabiscuit. Laura Hillenbrand.

Auto/Biographies:  Love, Lucy. Lucille Ball. Empty Without You: The Intimate Letters of Eleanor Roosevelt and Loren Hickok”. Edited by Rodger Streitmatter.

All in all, the benefits of reading are plenty. We engage mental stimulation, we relearn, and all the while, increase vocabulary and memory. Reading slips one’s stress away while enhancing tranquility. Least of all, reading is FREE! It’s one of the lowest budget forms of entertainment.

Crack a book. Get comfortable with a beverage, favored chair and hum of the fridge. Escape for just a little and take time to find yourself. Soothe your soul. The “Ahhhh” will find you. 

Lessons Learned:

Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body. J. Addison. Expand, replenish, revive. Reading has done that for me.

A good book is like a good friend. It will stay with you for the rest of your life. C. Lovett

Thanks for reading!

The older I get, the more I appreciate farm life as one adventurous gamble after another. Little time for “ho-hum” as we did not let the world pass by. Combined experiences and risks only aided and abetted our development to become above average human beings. Adults with juvenile thoughts and a good dash of humor. Yup!

My childhood emerged from meager beginnings. Second in line of seven siblings created in nine short years, adventures were a given. Raised on a small subsistence farm, self-entertainment and mayhem was all that we could conjure in our imaginations. 

Sandboxes, corn cribs, tree houses and fields of clover became playgrounds. Imagined with limited wisdom but plenty of wit, we hypnotized chickens, rode on the backs of pigs and trained our pony to ride. Teasing our genius with twine, bike and wagon parts, boards and rusty nails, we hobbled to produce a circus of activity. Work and play. Play and work. Daily rituals seasoned with make believe. 

One of most adventurous tales of the farm invited the hay loft, several sibs and neighbors Kimberly and Curtis. It was my 11th summer and too hot for outside play. Brother Joe had hatched yet another idea of double dare and we all jumped at the challenge. 

Along the roof line of the barn loft was a suspension of ropes and pulleys attached to a track. Running the length of the loft, it was a delivery of sorts for loose hay from one side of the barn to the other. Pops had long put this contraption to rest.

Anything and everything inventive, Jojo somehow rigged those cobweb infused ropes into a trapeze of sorts. Looped over a large pulley, we would traverse the barn, imagining ourselves as one of the famous Wallendas. No caution. A few fears. Abundance of action! Our circus was born.

I was the first to take to the makeshift trapeze. Entwining my legs and feet securely about the dusty, tattered strands, I hung tight. Obviously there was no plan for landing or general safety. 

Sister Anne and Jojo took to the dangling rope. Exercising their combined strength, the pulley was in motion. With a power yank, I jolted forward. Another pull and I swayed uncontrollably. Heart and body begged safety, my mind, however, had no choice. Joey Wallenda was in full motion. No turning back.

“Jump Joey! Jump NOW! Let GO!”, Jojo yelled. It seemed everyone chimed in as I neared the far wall of the barn. A quick glance assured landing in a small pile of loose hay. 

“Quick, let go!” screamed Kim and Kathy. I could see nothing ahead of me but the monster of grayed timbers. With a short inhale, I released the rope. BOOM! Into the small heap of prickly, dusty, dry hay. I was brave! I found confidence! And I was alive! 

This feat of Wallenda frenzy didn’t deter my fanbase. I had initiated the afternoon thrills of Jojo’s cobbled trapeze. One by one, sibs took to the new-found act of dare. Sailing through the air and plopping into the dust was nothing short of fun. Proud of our senseless regard for safety, the afternoon was consumed with sweat, grime and starry eyed wonder. 

Last to take the dare, lil Curtis grabbed the trapeze. Barely seven years and likely weighing no more than 40 pounds, he was the rambunctious neighbor that often joined in our fun. Nothing would stop Curt from our big kid activity. Clutching the rope, he signaled the okay to fly with the greatest of ease. 

Curtis sailed. Speed was his friend as he yelped with glee. Regardless, landing efficiently became suspect. With uncontrolled inertia, he slammed into the far wall of gray. BAM! Curt unknowingly thumped in the hay below. HE DID NOT MOVE! 

Stunned and gasping, we dashed to our comrade. He lie motionless and all too quiet. Ever so slowly, he opened his eyes to confusion. Six pairs of bug eyes met his fears and shallow breathing. 

“Don’t cry Curt, you can’t cry or we’ll get in trouble,” rushed Jojo. 

Big sister Kim assured him, “Curt, you can’t cry. If you do, we won’t be able to come here anymore. Just get up, you are fine.” With help and reassurance, Curt rose from the dust heap. Quivering lips and shaking, he did not cry.

During dinner, Jojo incessantly yammered of our circus performances in the barn, minus Curt’s mishap of course.  The flying, the leaps, the lands. Momma’s eyes seriously searched Daddy’s. Without a word, we sensed disapproval. 

As our tale of lust waned, Daddy frowned. “You all need to know those ropes and pulleys are no good. They are rusted and weak. Too weak to haul hay. You kids could have been… It’s a wonder none of you were killed. There’s no more fun in the hay loft, you hear? It’s not a place for kids.”

Danger had abruptly threatened our circus adventures. Soberly, our heads lowered as we imagined Jojo the blame. Although his ideas, we had shared in the foolishness. We were all active players in the haphazard circus. Sheepishly, we nodded in agreement with Daddy. The pulleys, ropes and loft were left to gather dust, cobwebs and afterthoughts. 

With a little harm, and a few fouls, our circus disappeared. A limited engagement, however, it proved extraordinary. All because of the ingenuity and fearlessness of Ringmaster Jojo. Memories continue. And thanks for adding crazy to our crew of eight! 

Lessons Learned:

Trust and obey may spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E.  Jojo’s ideas often included fun with a slice of danger. We trusted. We acted. We reaped what we sowed. 

Crazy 8’s is not just a card game. We eight siblings proved this over and over. We were the living Crazy 8s! What a deck of delight! 

God bless Curtis. He was often the pin up runt that took the brunt of our foolishness. He is a survivor and continues to be a great friend and neighbor. 

Thanks for reading!