Beagle:  A small breed of hound that has developed primarily as a scent or hunting hound. Possessing a great sense of smell and superior tracking instincts, the beagle is the breed used for detection purposes. The beagle is intelligent. It is a popular pet due to its size, good temper and lack of inherited health problems.- Wikipedia.

Recently, I have taken on the personality of this respected breed for a few reasons. It has become apparent that being compared to this cute, loveable hound is a token of respect and sincere like. Never being compared to any famous being, I am willing to accept this praise and admiration. First, however, a little background. 

Since becoming a single woman just over four years ago, my life has continued to be one of developing change, new adventures, and cautious socializing with the opposite sex. Yes, the dating scene has developed slowly and with slight trepidation. 

For the last year, I have taken to enjoying the company of a sincere, dear, and admirable gentleman. Mr. Bill and I have shared many memories of his children, my children. His marriage, my marriage. His family pets, my family pets. We love them all. The list of shared and the not so common interests keep our relationship building in a forward direction. Mr. B. is slowly earning my trust, as I am with him. 

Bill has been an avid outdoorsman for much of his life. Lake living, precision shooting, hunting and fishing have provided him with worth as a grandpa and human. Listening and learning from these adventures has piqued my interest and limited participation. Inviting change while acquiring new; it’s all fresh and seldom dull. I am growing to enjoy these new found activities. 

Extensive travel has also been a part of our spirited living. Whether short jaunts or lengthy trips to the sunny south, I often drive while Bill navigates, converses and humors me. “I feel safe with your driving. You seem to navigate with ease and have a good sense of direction. Your “beagle-ing” instincts are strong.” Beagle-ing you say?

In a true act of praise and affection, Mr. B. shares my journey instincts and expertise to that of his long held affinity to his canine comrades. Long passed, his beagle buds were aiders and abettors for varmint victories in the wood. Known for their superior hunting and retrieving abilities, Trooper, Sandy and Pretzel provided much pleasure and successful hunting. 

I, too, appear to have a good sense of direction and navigation ability. Whether in unfamiliar territory or solving a dilemma, I am often praised for this innate talent to effectively problem solve and move forward. Accepting this skill, I seldom realized its uniqueness.  

All in all, Bill and I are enjoying this life anew. Mutual respect and trust are building into a future relationship of one. Beagle-ing is just a cup of goodness I bring to the mix. Experts concur that beagles are intelligent, good tempered, and void of inherited health issues. “Ruff, ErRuff! Aaahrooooh!”  I can live with these facts and love it!

Lessons Learned:

A dog IS man’s best friend. I have always found love with my canine company. Taking on a few of their champion traits only add to my affinity! Ruff!

Relationship building never gets old.  Mr. Bill and I are in a most-favored time of our lives. Renewing, relaxed and retired! 

Thanks for reading! 

I was born and christened Josephine Anne Foldesi. A bold, significant name in appearance to my timid, younger me. Rather petite in stature, oodles of curls, and saucer-like eyes, I had a title that signified SOMEBODY. A long title for a petite, uncertain girl. Named after my father Joseph, I was the second daughter of his eight children.

Growing up in a small farming community, I knew no other Josephines. I felt as though I stood out in every social situation. It seemed that whenever “Josephine” was called out, eyeballs aplenty glued themselves to skinny, quiet, me. I so longed to be Debbie, Susan or Natalie. Easy, common, normal. 

As early as first grade, I remember troubles with Josephine. My teacher, Sister Mary Adolpha, often pulled my ears for not writing my name fast enough. Evidently I was slowing the class as I etched my identity on those assignment papers. Without hesitation, nicknames became a necessity for classroom survival. 

“Joey” became my new handle. Siblings, relatives, and teachers made it easy to find comfort with this identity. All the while, I was loving this pet name. It wasn’t until the birth of the fourth child, a brother, that troubles resurfaced. Yes, the first of two brothers, Joseph junior, became Daddy’s new namesake. He would remain “Jojo” until the start of school.

My new title then became “Josie”. Easy and quick to spell, I was one with happy teachers. Momentarily, that is. Troubles with “Josie” soon emerged. 

Sandwiched between Jojo and myself were twin sisters Anne and Mary. Not identical in looks, teachers often mistook Jojo and myself as the twins. “Oh those two, how cute, Josie and Jojo, twins! And they look so much alike!” Yikes!  What was Josie to do? I often referred to this time with the likes of a past television sitcom, “Newhart”. 

Starring Bob Newhart, the show took place in a small, quaint Vermont town. Three backwoodsman brothers lived in the same village and added a bit of odd humor to the weekly show. Named Larry, Darryl, and an older brother Darryl, these often clueless boys added to the show’s enjoyment. Jojo and Josie. Darryl and Darryl. Holy Crikey, would I be doomed for non-identity and confusion?

From Josephine, to Joey, to Josie, I morphed into “Jo” throughout high school and most of my adult life. Easily misspelled “Joe”, I would lightly joke and move forward with life. It was the only way to travel with my bag of “What’s your name again?”. 

As motherhood and teaching experiences grew, so did new coined nicknames. “Mommajo” and “Jomomma” were my two favorites. Daughters Jennifer and Alison, their many friends, and my classroom students joyfully shared these surnames with me. I delightfully accepted and used them!

Today, I often respond to “Gramma” or “Grammajo”. Those I am most endeared to call me “Joey” or “Josie”. I answer, I chuckle, I go with it! Life is good with Miss Josephine. 

Lessons Learned:

A name is your first identity. Whether it sets you apart or melds with others, there is only one YOU. 

Enjoy your name, face, and what makes you unique. I now like the name Josephine. It’s an honor to own a name that had a reputation of giver and reputation of respect. Thank you Momma and Daddy for Miss Josephine Anne!

Thanks for reading! 

FEAR: An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief, real or imagined, that someone or something is dangerous.  

How could one seemingly, trivial event flip into a lifetime of fear and trepidation? I have lived this challenge my entire adult life. Forever engrained. Forever threatening. One incident, multiple attempts to battle and overcome. 

Early summer of 1967. I had crossed the threshold of growing up. Another season of multiple tasks on the farm would be. Gardens, canning, hay baling, and 4-H entries at the county fair to name a few. Memories of innocence and lazy days would get pushed aside for a pre-adult privilege: Driver Training. Simple and accomplishable as opportunities on the farm provided the needed practice behind the wheel. I was ready for adulting.

Age eligible, I signed for the first session of early June. Two qualified, familiar coaches/teachers would provide the mandatory six weeks training in and out of the classroom to mold us into safe, conscientious drivers. Included with book work and tests were experiences in parallel parking, tire changing, driving standard and stick vehicles, and getting stuck in and out of sand. A successful two hour driving experience on major highways wrapped up our training package. 

It had been arranged that my paired partner, BethEllen and two other girls would accompany coach/teacher Mr. Barnes to Beth’s family cottage for an afternoon lunch, swim, and of course, an hour each of driving on unfamiliar highways. Our final feat to become one with the road. 

Just before noon, we arrived at the cottage. A cookie cutter bungalow on a cookie cutter lake. Mr. Sun and temps provided a backdrop for the perfect day of fun. We hurriedly jumped into our suits as we dashed for the shimmering cool. 

Coach Barnes made the first dive into the waist high waters. The three girls giggled their way in with no trepidation. Cautiously, I took to sitting on the dock’s edge, testing the temperature with my toes. 

“Whadya’ mean, you can’t swim?  I seasoned farm girl like you? Can’t swim eh?  Coach B. was teasingly attempting to humor me. 

With a sheepish grin and giggle, I added, “Ah no, I can’t swim. We don’t spend a lot of time doing fun things like swimming. I’m jus’ gonna sit here for awhile and get some sun. I’m just fine with…”

“Well now you’ll be able…” as Mr. Barnes grabbed my ankles and pulled me into the deep, blue abyss of terror. Unprepared and totally helpless, I was flailing underwater while Mr. B. held firm to the top of my head. I was doomed! 

Somehow, I managed to wrestle myself away and reach the top of the water. Breathless and filled with fear, I was gulping while gaining balance in chest high waters. Greeted with three laughing friends and Mr. Barnes’ deep voice of reason, I found it difficult to join in the amusement.  “Oh come on now, this is the best way to learn to swim. Just jump in. Your instincts will take over.” I was not convinced. 

I was out of that water as quickly as I had been yanked in. Off to the cottage to change clothes. I was done. I was defeated. I was a failure. Gathering my composure, I stayed clear of the lake while calming my heart and head. Bits of teasing and challenge would not change my mind. Needless to say, our trip home was uneventful. Feeling embarrassed for my incompetence, I did not share this life-altering experience with anyone. 

Although it has been over 50 years, my summer of ‘67 continues to haunt my courage and strength. Whenever I get near a pool or large body of water, this near-drowning experience never escapes me. A bottomless pit with no safe plan.

Recently, however, while pooling in the pleasant waters of the sunny south, I had a “Eureka” sort of moment.  While encouraging my calm, a dear friend asked, “Have you ever forgiven Mr. Barnes for what he did?” As crazy as it may have seemed, that thought had never challenged my fear. Time to rethink and move beyond.

Slow forward through the winter of 2020. Countless friends and family have attempted to allay my irrational thoughts with their patience and strategies to reduce my anxiety. Hold on, as I take another deep breath. “Just inhale deep and slow. Calm your heart, Joey. Let go and let those fears release. Just float. Float. Float. You can always stand up. The bottom is there.” I have heard and repeated this mantra countless times. My trepidation of water is slowly fading. 

Yes, Mr. Barnes, I forgive you for misjudging my competence in water. What you thought as fearless fun, I did not. What you assumed of me, I was not. Your act of whatever was not appreciated or funny. We all make mistakes. I forgive you. 

Facing and crossing that threshold of fear continue to overwhelm me at times. Slow and steady, I am gaining a sense of security with water no higher than my chest. I can stay afloat with minimal support and open my eyes. Not a great amount of improvement for some, but for me, empowerment and strength! I can and will learn…to swim!

Lessons Learned:

“The act of forgiveness takes place in our own mind. It really has nothing to do with the other person.” Louise Hay. Likely innocent and not intended to harm, Mr. Barnes will never know the impact of his actions. Rest in peace Mr. B. and know you are forgiven. 

“Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” Jack Canfield.  Jump the fire. Stretch your comfort zone. The good is on the other side. 

Thanks for reading!

FOOD. Our sustenance for life. Physical, emotional or spiritual, food is the foundation to our survival. From a nutritional standpoint, foods are the very source of my degree of good health. Recently, I was posed this question, “Are there any foods you dislike?” After a few seconds of pondering the pyramid, I concluded there are few foodstuffs that I find distasteful. My tummy rumbles every few hours, my tastebuds question, I respond to the call. Food becomes my friend as I schedule another affair of pleasure in eating.  

Raised on a small farm, a variety of food was always a bush, tree, garden, or cookie jar away. So many choices! Blackberries glistening off the bush. Tart cherries, pears and apples begged to be coveted from their trees. Hearty snacking from our summer garden provided all the fresh carrots, green beans and tomatoes one could grab and rinse with a garden hose. Add to that, all the chicken, eggs, beef, milk products, pork, venison, and a duck or three. I was nurtured in the land of plenty. An endless supply of yum, yum, and yum! 

Grocery day was not the usual bags of snacks, junk food or sweets as Momma’s double bagged purchases seldom included treats. Once in a great thought, she may have brought home a gallon of Neapolitan, a bag of Tootsie Pops, or box of Kellogg’s unsweetened cereal (usually corn flakes). These precious gifts were few and far.

For the most part, her purchases included the staple items of sugar, flour, soaps, and the like. Large was the order of the day. Twenty-five pound bags of Pioneer Sugar and Robin Hood Flour, three pound cans of Jif and Crisco, and gallons of vinegar. Momma cooked, baked, canned and froze EVERYTHING! 

It wasn’t until I was a teen that I had the “privilege” of junk, fast, and instant foods. From those lively commercials on television, I craved the likes of Twinkies, Pop Tarts, Fritos, and a Big Mac with fries and a Coke! What a surprise to find disappointment and disapproval. These luscious treats did not live up to my expectations of greatness. As a result, it is little surprise that I dislike most fast foods. 

If I was marooned and starving on that lonely island, fries and a vanilla shake might suffice. The Big Mac is my least favorite of all fast foods. Lettuce and special sauce between a sesame seed bun seem so artificial and plastic. Add to that a flat, browned disc called beef. Please, if these burgers are truly beef, then I’m Mrs. Ray Kroc! It’s a faux sandwich wrapped in Ewww!  

Never a question, Momma made all meals from scratch. Some more inventive than others as she did not always rely on a cookbook. I recall a few meals she prepared as offensive to the palate. 

Taking the blue ribbon of disgust was a European soup we called “Pyshel”. Beef tongue!  Simmered all day in preparation of eight hungry tummies, Momma added fresh garden potatoes and homemade bread. Those became our saving flavors as we ate the intense bay leaf infused stew. As we said grace before this concoction, I silently thanked God that cows had just one tongue! 

All in all, there are few foods I dislike. Of all veggies, I could live without eggplant and okra. Meh, not for me. As for meats, I could champion as a vegetarian. Having ample access to these proteins as a child, I have lost appetite for juicy and medium rare. Prime Rib, Pork Tenderloin, or Chicken Marsala can entertain another tummy; I prefer a large salad of greens with a slight shave of meat atop. Fruits and sweets are another plate in themselves. Bring them on, any and all! Correct me if in error, but chocolate is a vital support to the food pyramid, yes?

It seems rather foolish of me to think as a child, scratch cooking, or Momma-made equated to needy. I did not dine on the likes of pot pies, tv dinners or instant potatoes. Because Momma did not buy these products, she simply made all the foodstuffs. Such an irrational thought. How crazy was that? 

Holiday gifts also came from the kitchen. Momma often baked breads and supplied strawberry jams to teachers and friends. All along, because it wasn’t store bought, I concluded this act was a show of cheap. As teachers raved over these treats, I sheepishly accepted their appreciation. Again, how crazy was that? 

Likely, farm life with its hearty bounty of foods have enriched my flavors of most things edible. My perfect meal?  Baked Creamy Chicken Paprikash, Rice flavored with celery, onion, giblets, butter and broth, Fresh garden green beans, Cukes with sour cream, homemade bread and butter. Oh, and a slice of Momma’s German Chocolate Cake! From scratch of course, with a dozen eggs and real butter. Yum and buttery yum aplenty! 

Lessons Learned

Homemade does not symbolize poor. Yes I was raised on homemade and practice much of those prep skills today. I refer to these real foods as, “The gifts of the nutritious and delicious.”

Food is my friend. I like to eat. If something challenges my tastebuds, chocolate, ketchup, or red wine suffice as accompaniments. Eat, imbibe, enjoy! 

Thanks for reading! 

MUSIC. We write it, read it, rehearse it, memorize, or possibly accompany. Music can give us respite to think, dream, cry, laugh. We dance, exercise, and sing. Another language, another emotion grabber. I am the first to admit I so admire these talents in others, however, cannot perform minimally to most of the above mentioned gifts. One long-lasting memory continually reminds me of my minimal competence.

During my years as an educator, we faculty and staff would perform at our annual holiday music concert. Mr. B., our illustrious and most talented choir director, would provide us with a simple Christmas song, offer a few hours of lesson, and empower us to become more than we imagined. Donned in black pants and a festive holiday tie, hat and/or sweater, we would perform as the audience enjoyed, applauded, and donated monies for our families in need. Good as good could get.

The third and final rehearsal of “Silver Bells” had wrapped up and we were as ready as expected. Mr. B. had asked me to stay behind as he had a few words to impart. I had mastered the lyrics and the highs and lows of this classic tune. Hmm, what more could I do? 

“You know, Jo, you have that beautiful smile and energy. Thank you so much for that. But, you can’t sing, can you?”  Mr. B. had me there. I so wanted to give something back to my school, but obviously song was not it. 

I lightheartedly responded to Mr. B. “Well, you got me there. I tried to sing quieter and go unnoticed, but your talent with those ears is undeniable! I don’t want to make a fool of myself and you. Is there something else I can provide?”

“I don’t want you to quit. You offer so much liveliness to the group and I have a plan that might work. I don’t want to offend you, but I have used this before and it’s a lifesaver.”

With that said, I joined my fellow staff on stage to perform the best “Silver Bells” ever. I was placed in the second row of our ensemble of 20 or so real singers. I joined with a holiday sweater of glittering red and green, my pearly whites, and positive energy. As our accompaniment began, I silently mouthed the word “W-A-T-E-R-M-E-L-O-N” over and over. I sparkled, amused, and helped to energize our amateur performers. No one knew but Mr. B. and myself. He winked, I smiled. As good as good could get. 

I so love music and admire anyone who is talented enough to write, produce and sing. Not one to be known for my vocal abilities, humming and moving my lips have provided me countless hours of satisfaction. As a mother of two daughters, I was adamant that they were given opportunities to appreciate the musical arts. Jennifer danced, sang, and played an instrument. Alison sang, played instruments, and piano, and performed. As a proud momma, I hummed, tapped my feet, and applauded. While they became proficient, I so enjoyed the benefits. 

Music will always be a part of me. Happy and spirited for the most part, I have provided a  few of my favorites. They are simple, entertaining to all ages, and timeless. Hum/sing along if you feel the groove!

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, MY ONLY SUNSHINE

YOU MAKE ME HAPPY, WHEN SKIES ARE GRAY.

YOU’LL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU…

PLEASE DON’T TAKE MY SUNSHINE AWAY.

Truly, I have enjoyed this tune as a child, sang it countless times to my daughters, grand children, and to those facing their final journey on earth. I provides me calm and happy. 

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW, WAY UP HIGH

THERE’S A LAND THAT I HEARD OF, ONCE IN A LULLABY.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW, SKIES ARE BLUE

AND THE DREAMS THAT YOU DARE TO DREAM,

REALLY DO COME TRUE.

SOMEDAY I’LL WISH UPON A STAR,

AND WAKE UP WHERE THE CLOUDS ARE FAR BEHIND ME.

WHERE TROUBLES MELT LIKE LEMON DROPS,

AWAY ABOVE THE CHIMNEY TOPS,

THAT’S WHERE YOU’LL FIND ME.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW, BLUEBIRDS FLY

BIRDS FLY, OVER THE RAINBOW,

WHY, OH WHY, CAN’T I?

IF HAPPY LITTLE BLUEBIRDS FLY

BEYOND THE RAINBOW

WHY, OH WHY, CAN’T I?

This childhood song continues to evoke messages of dreams, hopes, and yearning. A timeless classic from the “Wizard of Oz,” Judy Garland gave it life. So much more than farmlife, I wanted to experience that too.  I just had to “fly”. 

WHEN YOU’RE DOWN AND TROUBLED, AND YOU NEED SOME LOVE AND CARE.

AND NOTHING, NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT.

CLOSE YOUR EYES AND THINK OF ME, AND SOON I WILL BE THERE.

TO BRIGHTEN UP EVEN YOUR DARKEST NIGHT.

YOU JUST CALL OUT MY NAME, AND YOU KNOW WHEREVER I AM,

I’LL COME RUNNING, TO SEE YOU AGAIN

WINTER, SPRING, SUMMER, OR FALL, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS CALL.

AND I’LL BE THERE… YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND.

IF THE SKY ABOVE YOU, GROWS DARK AND FULL OF CLOUDS

AND THAT OLD NORTH WIND BEGINS TO BLOW,

KEEP YOUR HEAD TOGETHER, AND CALL MY NAME OUT LOUD,

SOON, YOU’LL HEAR ME KNOCKING AT YOUR DOOR.

YOU JUST CALL OUT MY NAME, AND YOU KNOW WHEREVER I AM,

I’LL COME RUNNING, RUNNING, YEAH, YEAH, TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

WINTER, SPRING, SUMMER OR FALL, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS CALL

AND I’LL BE THERE, YES, I WILL, … YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND.

When in doubt or afraid, this song fills me with hope. God is Always there as my trusted friend and coach. I know I can always count on HIM to get me through any troublesome crossing. I’ve got that friend.

On the contrary, when others seek me out for good times or difficult struggles, I am there. I am the listening ear, the comforter, the calm. This has been my signature for years, whether a daughter, sibling, teacher, wife, mother or friend. Thank you, Carol King for providing this ageless tune and lyrics for those hiccups and interruptions in life. 

And there you have it. My minimal talents being used and all the while, saving face and dignity. Music provides me solace and happy. What are your favorites? May you carry a tune, hum to your delight, and/or pen the next golden hit!  

Thanks for reading and have a happy on me!