Recently, I was given a gift of documenting a collection of family stories into a keepsake treasure. My daughter blessed me with a year’s subscription to StoryWorth. Once a week for a year, I am provided with a question regarding my family, youth, and the like. I determine the length of each composition. At the end, StoryWorth will print and produce a lovely book for keeping. What a novel (pun intended) idea to preserve my memories and knowledge of family. 

I am finding great joy in readying my life’s thoughts and recollections into woven tales for my children, grandchildren and siblings. One such question posed recently inquired about my knowledge of grandparents. With the upsurge of interest in family ancestry, I have begun to delve into public records and minimal memories I can recall. Discovering my family roots; the anchors to which I have gained strength and growth, have opened my eyes to struggle and survival. 

Roots. The part of any living thing that attaches itself to the ground or a support system, transporting water and nourishment to the rest of the living via its numerous branches and fibers (online definition). Trees have them. Plants have them. Yes, our lives have them. Roots are the basic anchor that provide strength and food sources to all living things. Large, small, microscopic; all are necessary to the cycle of life. Family roots are the basic to our being and life. Personality, grit, determination, and survival carefully entwine with genetics to produce our very being. 

Sadly, I never met grandparents from my father’s side. They came to America as immigrants in the early 1900s and died at young ages. Daddy was raised by stepparents, and they too, passed before I was born. Faded black and whites are all that I have to imagine their struggles and livelihood as subsistence farmers. I have often regretted not knowing their history or learning to speak their native language, Hungarian. Did freedom and opportunity outweigh their struggles and survival? Likely, but I’ll never know their true verbal history.

As for the grands on my mother’s side, Leo and Ellen were present. Living a few miles away, I saw them often as Momma and her eight chicklets would regularly make a weekly visit following Sunday church. Adventurous jaunts to the barn and mammoth, empty farmhouse provided old, battered and tired memories. 

Grandpa Leo was 100% Irish. I remember him as tall, strong willed, and loaded with a full head of the whitest hair. He was often found sitting at the kitchen table slicing a large onion into a bath of vinegar and spices. Quiet and somber, I do not recall him as warm and fuzzy. He was a retired county employee, having driven a large truck that maintained local roads. Sadly, alcohol was a staple in his everyday needs. As a result, family income and healthy relationships suffered. 

Grandma Ellen’s memories have my clearest, most loving thoughts. She seemed to be the strength and spine of the family. Raising five children during the Great Depression had to have its grapple with daily survival. Add to that, Grandpa’s abuse of alcohol, she had to suffice on little to keep her family fed and intact. 

Although Grandma did not have a formal education, she was beyond resourceful. She took in laundry and provided whatever housekeeping needs the wealthier requested. In addition, Gram would scour the streets late at night to glean curbside trash. Anything metal was worth money as the war effort placed value on any and all “junk”. A few cents here and there kept her family roots sustained. 

Likely the most vivid memory I have of Grandma Ellen was her phenomenal cooking abilities. She made the best desserts from scratch. No boxed sweets for her! Lemon Meringue and Butterscotch pie were always waiting on her countertops for our anxious tummies. And her No-Bake cookies, YUM!  Coconut, peanut butter, walnuts, and raisins made for the best of her chocolate concoction. I continue to use and love on her recipes today! 

Sewing without the use of a machine kept Gram creating and busy. Known county-wide for her colorful, intricate quilts, she seldom had idle hands. I fondly remember her making these true pieces of art with no particular purpose or dedication. It was her careful choice of fabric colors and designs that needled their way into prized pieces. Her yellow rosebud Double Wedding Ring quilt made its way to decorating a large bed in the window of a respectable furniture store. Grandma couldn’t be more proud of her dedicated masterpiece. 

Of the four grandparents, I can only rely on public records and stories told for the most part. Grandma Ellen was my best root for deep, nourishing strength. She, along with the others, were survivors in weathering the storms of living and growth. The genetic pool has not disappointed. My roots run deep and are truly nourished with toil, struggle, heartaches, and joy. 

Lessons Learned

Roots are the anchor.  Whether plant or animal, roots provide growth and stability. They are the foundations of our growth and replication. 

Roots are not just physical.  Emotional well being and strength are those roots planted early and often a result of uncontrolled circumstances. These attributes are evident in our search for early family developments and help lead to our abilities to survive and endure. Thank you grandparents, for these roots in planting the seeds of my life. 

Thanks for reading! 

A previous blog piece introduced you to my initial adventures and misadventures with online dating. Keeping my attitude and social journey in honest perspective kept this chapter of intrepid waters joyful and enlightening. After several months of this social experiment, technology has reached its peak.  A few months back I readied to conclude and end this chapter of social searching.

But wait! A beautiful sunset to this enterprising venture made for a righteous ending. 

Call it grateful, blessed, lucky. Whatever the term may be, I have been gifted with a most gracious, gentle spirit. Introduced via the internet, Gentleman B. entered my life with usual trepidation. What has developed, in a short few months, however, is much more than I ever expected. 

Spending nearly a year troubleshooting emails and coffee meetups from a popular dating site, I was ready to stop all this politeness and hooey. Enough of introductory pleasantries, truth stretching, uncommon interests, and the like from the possibles. It seemed I was not finding or providing a good fit. Time out for a break from the social scene of my imaginary friends. Alas, one final profile tugged my strings of interest. 

The last of my choices was anonymously contacted. I was not hopeful to say the least.  Afterall, Mr. B. possessed the confirming assets that invariably secured a typical “No” response. Those included; his residence was too far away and as luck would have it, he was rather handsome. Combine that with a pleasant profile, I was certain Mr. Possibility would not return my “Flirt.”

With a click of “Enter”, I ended my online dating experience. Instant relief from the game of pretend. Online dating had ceased. I checked off, “been there, done that” from my Bucket List of wishing. 

Within hours, the unthinkable “pinged” my laptop. Busied with miscellaneous, I ignored the sound. Later that afternoon a check of the ping assured me that indeed, Mr.  “I Knew He Wouldn’t Respond”, had responded. For certain, I was ready for the polite, “No, but good luck in your search.” Surprisingly, those words did not appear.

A few niceties to each other sensed some mutual interests. Dedicated to family, Christian strength, and humor, to name a few. In little time, phone numbers were easily shared. Common inquiries as to singlehood, family dynamic, previous work, and the like were exchanged as conversations seemed effortless and comfortable. I had not felt this ease with any other matchup possibilities. 

Following a week of phone calls, Gentleman B. presented a possible meet up. Realizing there were over two hours that separated our homes, Mr. Polite made quick plans to visit as he offered several possibilities. Sensing no fear or trepidation, I agreed with a simple giggle. 

As you may have imagined, the rest of this narrative is history. Band aids to heal our previous losses have been applied and the medication of acceptance and adventures have begun. It’s the ultimate fairy tale ending all dating sites attempt to accomplish.

Fast forward nine short months. Extended families have been met and resulted in positive happiness and acceptance. Texting and phone calls have been at an all time high to our eyes and ears. Meetups occur on a regular basis as, “we make things work.”  Events of mutual interest, fine dining, and extensive, serious, honest conversations have weaved their way into our new found livelihood together. All without pretense, truth stretching, or imitated happiness. “If” times are readily being replaced by “when” times. Our hearts are once again being nourished and fed. 

Yes, this crazy life I live has successfully intertwined technology and love. As a result, I am happily and madly in like with a man who is no longer a figment of my imagination.  He meets my emotional and physical needs just as he continually reminds me that I do that for him. Thank you, Mr. B. for your generous heart and soul. And, life is good!

Lessons Learned

Love is where you find it. Friend matchups, workplace, church, want ads, internet. You won’t find what you’re looking for unless you are willing to open your eyes and heart. 

We love because it’s the only true adventure.  N. Giovanni. Mr. B. proves this to me daily! Quelch your fears. Adventure is good! 

Thanks for taking this adventure with me! 

Hmm. Let’s begin by visualizing this scenario:  Country living on a 100+ acre farm in mid-Michigan. A multitude of milking cows, grunting pigs, clucking chickens, stray cats and a dog or two for good measure. Toss in a crazy pony, a few ducks and newly found painted turtles. Add in many chores that needed tackling: weeding a massive garden, tending to the animals, harvesting whatever crops were planted for the season, just to name a few. Regardless of the childhood tales of crazy fun I spin, someone invariably will ask, “Where did you go on vacation as a child?”

Simple and true. Few leisure trips away from home for us eight chicklets ever took place. The demands of time and farm living became our Disney and SeaWorld. I’m not so sure any of us felt slighted in any way by not having adventures away from home. We simply invented our recreation and travel ideation every day! 

Our “holidays” began the day school was dismissed for the summer! On or about June 10, leisure and delight commenced. No alarms to wake us; just early sun and gentle breezes to greet our sleepy faces. No handwriting practice; just letter writing to movie stars for photos. No bus waiting at the end of the driveway; just a hop on the tailgate of the pickup for a creek swim!  Lastly, no polished shoes or tidy clothes for us; shorts, tees, and bare feet became our standard fashion. Ahh, Summer Vacation!

Rising before 9:00 a.m. daily was a given. Momma made the call for breakfast, and up we popped. Oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, toast, and milk was the standard. No substitutes, a solid foundation for the day. Following a quick cleanup of the kitchen, it was out the screen door to a panacea of adventures. Bikes, sandboxes, tire swings, “fishing” the county ditch, building a treehouse, or playing the likes of house, doctor, or church. Our ventures were as varied as our imaginations. No two consecutive days or play partners were ever the same. Here and there, little troubles bubbled, however, most times we enjoyed each other’s daydreams. Ahh, Summer Vacation! 

Yes, our farm was a busy one as well. If Daddy wasn’t in the barn milking the cows, he was most often found in the fields, planting, cultivating, or harvesting. Momma never hesitated to have a bundle of mixed chores needing our attention. Help with milking, feeding chicks, and gathering eggs awaited our energies. Always reminding us that our family was a team, Momma treated us fairly and rewarded our efforts. No monetary allowances. Surprises like hand churned ice cream, fresh donuts the size of a frying pan, or jaunts into town for an orange soda were joyful and yummy. Little treats with large memories. Ahh, Summer Vacation!

One of my all-time “vacation” fun times was spent when our cousins came for a day on the farm. These city slickers innocently shared their naivety and anxious energy to experience the common smells, tastes, and sounds of country living. To them, our life was fresh, unique and spelled, F-U-N! Running barefoot through the barnyard, riding the back of a large, lazy pig, playing hide and seek in the hay loft, and yes, mastering the one-of-a-kind technique of hypnotizing a chicken were experienced. Our inventiveness proved itself every time. Who had the most fun, them or us? Ahh, Summer Vacation!

All in all, I feel so very blessed and do not regret the experiences of summer vacations away from home. Opening the screen door every morning with seven playmates was holiday in itself. Pitching blanket tents pinned to the closeline was the closest we ever got to camping.  Never a dull moment as we embarked on all things country and inventive. Simple. Innocent. Authentic. Epic. Ahh, Summer V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N…on the farm! 

Lessons Learned

Vacation – a leave of absence from a regular occupation, or specific trip or journey, usually for the purpose of recreation or tourism. Often spent with friends and family.

Any word can conjure up different meanings. Our vacations of childhood were not far away, exotic nor costly. Imagination determined our destiny, travel, and leisure.

Necessity is a mother of invention.  Although we may have spent countless hours with necessary chores, our rich, ingenious imaginations provided summers of self-induced vacations. I have no regrets. 

Thanks for reading and taking another journey! 

It’s December. That hurried, yet celebratory time for family, giving, and receiving. We honor this month in a myriad of love, thoughts and actions. Christmas,Yuletide, Noel, Hanukkah and Festival of Lights, to name a few. However we celebrate, memories are likely to be readied, shared, and treasured. Over and over, this season of giving has accomplished that for me. 

First and foremost are those with my ever-present family of seven siblings. As children, we were poor in finances. Regardless of the circumstances, however, we put to use our rich spirited imaginations and giving to each other. Homemade or some trinket that cost a dime or two were often exchanged and treasured. A new pencil, candy cane, or perhaps a fresh orange. The best of times.

Years have passed since those childhood rememberings, however, our holiday lovefests have not.  With a vow of “No gifts other than a ‘White Elephant”’ (either homemade or less than $10.00 in value), we find more memories in our annual feasting and jabberfests. Sibs are now accompanied with children, grands, and a friend or three.  All in good fun, we keep our spirited love well nurtured. 

I would be amiss if I didn’t include my holiday memories while teaching. One of the most vivid of thoughts occurred during my first year. Nineteen young teens of varying disabilities had become my charge. Combine these youths with individual personalities and unpredictable hormone levels, anything was possible.  In addition, a full moon, and/or change in weather patterns aided and abetted in making our class of gaga fun. Upcoming holiday jitters made for the perfect scene of energized anxiety.

The usual simple construction paper chains of red and green adorned our room. Chatter of Christmas hopes consumed these teens. Hunting gear, cassette recorders, and the coolest of jeans were requested as a few of them mentioned “Santa”. Decorum and conversations were controlled and limited in an effort to keep a lid on frenzy. 

I reminded students that I did not desire gifts.  Repeatedly stressing, “No gifts, please. I ask for nothing.  All of you have shown positive efforts with your classwork and personal growth. That is your gift to me!” (After all, I did not become a teacher to receive boxes of Whitman’s Sampler, essence of Musk, or an endless supply of hand lotion.)

My efforts to convince them otherwise were not taken seriously. First and foremost was sweet, shy, Babbette. Her momma had recently died and she was in tight family love with her father and two older sisters.  A few days short of holiday break, she presented me with a small, hand wrapped bottle. I graciously accepted her act of love as I opened the gift.

Inside was a well-worn bottle of Avon’s Topaz. Out of the box, complete with a chip in the cap, I was aware of this gift’s origin. Broadly smiling, Babs could not contain her excitement. 

“I hope you like the perfume Mrs. S. It was my mom’s favorite. She used some of it before she died, but I just filled the bottle with water, so you couldn’t tell.”  

Classic giving of love and honesty! I was touched by Babbette’s sincerity and respect for her momma and me. I rose from my chair, opened my arms for a hug, and Babs took to me like a kitten. I was truly smitten.

Next with her holiday cheer was sophomore, Anne Marie. She proudly emphasized, “Mrs. S. I never gave one teacher a Christmas gift. You are my first. My mom and dad love you so much and wanted you to have this.”  Hiding her smirk, she presented a brown paper sack.  

As she pulled out the brightly wrapped and ribboned gift, I began to speculate. Its elongated boxish shape had me awonder. Afterall, this family owned a local party store and libations were a popular holiday item. I whispered to self,  “Do not go there. It’s chocolate covered cherries.”

Once again, gratefully thanking Anne Marie, I gently tugged at the wrapping. To my great surprise and awe, I gulped, “Oh my!”

Before my 19 cherubs, a 750ml bottle of Drambuie Liqueur had been revealed!  Appropriate oohs and aahs from the girls were in equal competition to the boys’ hopeful imaginations. No one commented except, of course, Miss Anne.

“My Dad, especially wanted you to have this Mrs. S. It’s so expensive and he only gives this to his best friends. We have Drambuie with my family every Christmas too.  My parents think of you as family. They love you Mrs. S.”

Gift of gifts! I was in a no-win situation. A Catch-22 of sorts. A most loving gift of thankfulness, yet one filled with illegalities in the public school, with minors nonetheless!  Ever polite, I thanked Anne Marie and her family. Making quick of rewrapping, I bagged up my endowment and placed it snugly in the locked closet. 

Just like yesterday, I continue to recall the real love of my family and many students. These priceless giving and receiving moments continue to leave me warm and appreciative. I ask for nothing more than their personal success with life. As they soak up self love and pride, I have received so much more. 

Lessons Learned:

Grateful, I ask for nothing more. In family and profession, I have had more days of gratefulness and satisfaction than heartache and pain. I continue to be ever blessed! 

Children are truly God’s greatest gift. Taken from Psalms 127:3, my life with children have been gifts that keep giving. Large, small, intimate, and silly. I ask for nothing more.

May you find gratefulness and love in this season of giving and receiving.

And as always, Thanks for reading!

Of all the writings I have penned in the last year, my greatest joy and ease have been those of family. A childhood of farm life sprinkled by the multiple personalities of seven siblings invariably led to adventuresome antics with a sense of secure well-being. Great memories, great satisfaction of a life well prepared. 

To lead and keep this show of shows operating smoothly, a consistent guide had to be present.  Who was most responsible for our many positive, character building, and loving memories? Once again my readers, I introduce you to the Chief Executive Producer and Director of “Eight Chicklets Strong”, sweet Momma.  

With the support of Daddy, Momma was most often the person in charge, manager of all things that made our house a home. As countless pennings have included her abilities to nurture, discipline, and empower family, Momma had to be resourceful is so many ways. Family first was her life objective and model for success. Second, were her many shortcuts. 

As previously composed, life on our small farm was work-filled, often tedious, with little time for boredom. If we weren’t playing outside, Momma seemed to invent odd jobs to keep our idleness busied. Planting, weeding, and picking gardens of vegetables seemed never-ending.  Fruit trees aplenty had our cellar filled with preserved jams, jellies, and applesauce. Enough butchered beef, pork and poultry added to the healthy food on the table. Yes, homemade everything. 

Momma kept farm and family humming with her many shortcuts of survival. One well-sharpened butcher knife, a pair of tin snips, and one long sewing needle were tools of her trade. The seasoned knife cut meats, scraped old wax from the floors, and served as a handy pair of scissors. No one touched that knife but Momma! 

Tin snips taken from Daddy’s tool box also served her well. Most often they cut up whole chickens in little time. Cut, snip, and ready for baking. In addition, Momma made good of the many fruit blossoms and pussy willows that we often plucked and presented her. Setting the chicken aside, she readied all twigs for a perfect bouquet! Tin snips ruled!

A simple sewing needle provided Momma with many a shortcut. First and foremost was her ability to create just about anything. With a swatch of fabric and her trusty Singer Sewing Machine, Momma whipped up clothing, comforters, pillows, and curtains. Us girls often had matching jumpers, skirts, and flannel nightgowns readied for fall and winter. Oversized comforters and bed pillows kept us sleeping like royalty as she feather stuffed and needled them together. In addition, she festively decorated windows with holiday themed curtains. Creative abundance while shortcutting the catalogs. 

Momma’s first aid was also a shortcut to the doctor. We did not frequent the medical experts as she kept ample doses of Merthiolate (that creepy, burning, orange stuff), Vicks, Bag Balm, and the one very long sewing needle in her first aid stash. The needle, often wiped clean with a dish towel, served as sliver remover and quick pimple popper. With a pinch, a slip with the needle, the sliver removed scar was dabbed with antiseptic, and we were back to playing. Seldom did we develop infection. 

Last but not least, Momma’s sewing needle served another shortcut of sorts. As a young teen, I so wanted pierced ears. Keeping the almighty dollar in her pocket, Momma secured my desire to be ear lobe decorated. Calling her sister, arrangements were made for the expense free service. 

Momma gathered up her chicks and headed to Aunt Mary’s.  Arriving, we found her kitchen table readied with towels, scissors, ice cubes, a rather large sewing needle, and a few cans of cold beer. My courage was challenged, however, outweighed by the coolness I would acquire with my piercings.

To begin my lesson in shortcuts, Aunt Mary and Momma made initiation and calm with a beer. School haircuts to cousins and my sibs followed as they were standard procedure. We giggled and gossiped while they were completed.  Tenseness began to build.

“Ok, Francie, you’re up,” cheered Momma. “Let’s get those ears froze so you won’t feel anything.”  Yikes, no turning back now!

With a large ice cube wrapped in cheesecloth, Aunt Mary pressed it firmly to my right earlobe. Sipping on her second brew, she became more relaxed as she continued to assure me that all would be fine. Deep breaths consoled me as the audience of siblings stared in awe. 

Once the lobe appeared to lose its feel, Aunt Mary centered an ink dot for the mark. With needle alcohol sterilized, she showed confidence and ready.

“Ok, Francie, here we go. I will push this needle through your lobe and at the same time Momma will follow through with the earring. Here, take a sip of beer and a deep breath. This will be quick and you won’t feel a thing.”

With a slow breath and a quick slug I pinched my eyes as the women made quick of their task. One lobe completed, one remaining. Applause as the surrounding kiddos approved. Whew, this was easy as I felt no pain.

The second lobe took a little longer. With an increase of beer, giggles, and confidence, Momma iced and marked the spot while Aunt Mary readied the needle. The task was not as quick, the feeling a little more evident, however, the piercing was complete! I was a rock starlette in the making thanks to these women of wonder and The Needle! 

All in all, shortcuts by Momma led to numerous memories and lessons in survival. Funny how the power of one strong family and a sewing needle can stitch the best of true gifts.

Lessons Learned:

Homemade and/or shortcuts do not equal poor. Often embarrassed as a child to give Momma’s homemade bread and jam as teacher gifts, I now realize the praises I received were genuine and sincere. As an adult, I so appreciate these lessons in homespun.

Always trust a good butcher knife and a well-appointed sewing needle.  Momma did this best. And no one messed with Momma!

Thanks for reading! 

The Tree of Life. A general term representing our personal development, beauty and uniqueness. Just as a tree takes root to strengthen and grow, we too, grow in stature.  Striving for greater knowledge, wisdom, and purpose during our time on this earthly planet (online dictionary). 

People, places, things, events; our Tree of Life. The good, the bad, and the ugly. It encompasses the many facets we weave and stitch to produce quality, quantity and fulfillment in our being. A lifetime of creating, our tree of living can only be as strong as we feed and nurture its roots and soul. 

Listening to a recent Sunday sermon of this very topic has caused me to reflect on my Tree of Life. How have I fared? Tall and mighty with roots deeply planted? Short, stubby, yet a bounty of lush green? Waif like with uncertain, fragile, fingered branches that take the flow of any and all winds? What has been watered, fed and pruned to produce in this short lifetime? 

Regardless of the size, shape, or health, my Tree of Life has been nourished with the gifts of others’ support. Yes, gifts. An overabundance of feeders and nurturers have sustained and assisted my development as a human soul.

First and foremost to my humble beginnings has been family. My greatest gift. Rich in the nutrients of love, I grew up with positive and courageous strokes of guidance and support. Parents of committed Christian values, seven additional siblings, and the richness of farm-fed experiences have all made their claim on my early roots. 

A most appreciated college education also added to my firm root system of life and living. What did not seem financially feasible, became a reality with the support and guidance of those teachers that continued to “water” my growth and strength as a future teacher. A college education:  the gift that kept giving. 

My Tree of Life would not have been as tall or strong without the gifts of new growth. Two dearly loved and admired branches of life: daughters Ruthie and Elli. These two sustainers have fed my mountaintop experiences time and time again. They each share and support a strength within me that give my life purpose and meaning.  Daily, I am ever grateful to my God for these young women of intense capability and self-worth.

How strong is your Tree of Life? Are you in the wilderness of loss and regret or are you strong and alive from having to nurture, tend, and water your personal growth? Whatever your present state, know that in order to grow, one must risk and seek. We must continually seek out to rejuvenate, replenish, and renew ourselves in order to witness and bear growth.  

Identify and “open” those gifts that have fed your tree. Whether they open to forward thinking, positive experiences or the negative, low valleys of life, take and accept. Continue to feed your tree with positives by stepping out of your comfort zone. Put those worries and negatives to sleep. Prune the worthless as to make way for the new growth of personal rewards.  Afterall, it only took one tiny acorn to produce a mighty oak. Continue to replant, resprout, and replenish! It’s never too late.

Lessons Learned:

One cannot climb and experience a mountaintop without first beginning in a valley. Our greatest rewards come from humble, often times, uncertain circumstance. Whisper these truths to give you comfort and peace as you climb. 

Fear of failure is our strongest guarantee of cowardice. It can also be an impetus to stepping out of our comfort zone to reroot and grow. Ultimately, we make the choice. 

In this season of rebirth, renewal, and life, take time to appreciate all that you are. Open and enjoy your gifts of self. And as always, Thanks for reading!

Coffee hour seemed the perfect place to start. Yes, Dunkers 2017. My initial community meet and greet here in the sunny south. With this being my maiden voyage of winter solstice in Florida, I opened myself to meeting new acquaintances of similar like. Some refer to this meet up as “Monday Morning Mugs”, “Tuesday Toasts”, and such. You get it. Whatever the call, we show, smile, greet and share. We are all retired, relieved, relaxed, and ready for another new chapter of happy.

Gathering at the clubhouse, Dunkers hugged, welcomed, and chattered their 100-plus souls. Immediately I was gladly greeted and received by several of the regulars. A most  welcome initiation to my slight anxiety. My cup was coffeed up and smiles shared accordingly. 

Sensing my newness to the meetup, I was offered a seat at a table of well-seasoned seniors. Thankful for name tags, we made eye contact and introductions. Podium centered.  Microphones checked. Peeps with beverage and sweets, seated, name tags in place, Dunkers was geared up and called to order. 

Sharing the mike were married couple, Max and Mary. A generous greet for the winter newbies and the seasoned. Adding to the festiveness of new, Max dryly read, “Welcome one and all. We’ve got a good crowd for our first gathering so let’s get started.  A man boarded a plane with six children. As he was helping them get seated, an elderly woman spoke, ‘Sir, are all of these children yours?’ Piped the man, ‘Well, you see, I work for a condom company and these, these are some of the recalls.”  Max in deadpan, searched the crowd.

Light chuckles gathered as Max continued, “A skunk, a deer, and a duck went out to dinner. The skunk had no cents. The deer had no bucks. The duck said, ‘I’ve got the bill’”. Again, light laughter followed by gentle groans. Regardless of the humor, I was liking this drama free initiation of sunny south sentiments. 

Mary kindly overtook the mike and added, “He’s got more, but I won’t let him share them. You all know why.”  Once again, Dunkers laughter sprouted. 

Two new ladies joined the podium. Rita shared those of the Dunker community who had passed during the recent summer. A few gasps as heads lowered in silent remembrance. Partner Rose replaced her friend as she took the mike while cheerfully changing up the tone, “Good morning all!  Who among us is having a birthday?”

As she traversed the crowd, a few celebrants proudly admitted their maturing ages of late 70’s and 80’s.  Oohs and Ahhs were joined with applause. Rose made an abrupt stop and added, “For those of you who don’t know, this here is Tony, our orchestra of one! Did you bring your harmonica today Tony?”

With pride and expertise, Tony retrieved an ever-worn, mouth organ from his pocket and waved it proudly.  Applause erupted. 

“Everyone, let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to our celebrated bunch!”, shouted Rose. And just like that, everyone was singing to Tony’s rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. Gaiety had been restored as applause broke out once again.

Max and Mary returned to the podium with a parade of followers. Again, Max took the lead.  With tongue in cheek, “ Hey folks, here are a few one liners for those of us over 60…’People call you at 9 p.m. and ask, ‘Did I wake you?’ ‘Things you buy now won’t wear out.’ And this last one, ‘At our age, our eyes won’t get much worse!’”  Mary held out her arms as the audience chuckled with applause. Smiling, Max graciously handed the mike over as she calmly introduced the various committee chairpersons.

Each member shared the meet up for the week regarding their interest. Surprisingly, I was awed by the variety and extensiveness of activities. Puter Nerds met Tuesdays to troubleshoot and share any and all technology concerns. Mah-jongg, Dominoes, Euchre, Pinochle, Bridge, and Canasta had their set dates and times. Toys for Tots, Special Olympics fundraisers sprang to life. The usual pool aerobics, shuffleboard, tennis, and pickleball meetups took center stage to those of athletic mind and body. Activities and clubs overwhelmed as much as welcomed me. 

All in all, Dunkers was not as I had envisioned. It was not the weak coffee, stale donuts, community gossip with a weekly dose of BINGO I had imagined. Far from it!  This group of happy, well-rounded, eclectic, and truly welcoming souls had me. The perfect antidote for my anxious winter sojourn. Let a new chapter begin in my book of living! Welcome to new peeps, pause, and paradise! 

Lessons Learned:

Age is not how old you are, but how many years of fun you’ve had. M. Maldre. Reflecting on my life of over 60+ years, fun has been a frequent staple. I feel just as lively today on the inside regardless of my body’s endurance on the outside! 

Happy is my mantra. The alternative is much too difficult to live with or overcome.  Everyday, my friends, live your best. Onward and forward. 

Thanks for reading! 

With the 2019 Thanksgiving holiday a blink away, I have yet another festive tale to share. Out of the memory attic of brother Frankie comes Thanksgiving 1967.  A phone call earlier in the week helped provide the fodder for this fable/truth. “Francie, I called to ask that you might consider sharing that first holiday on the farm after Daddy died. You remember our first Thanksgiving without him, don’t you? Boy, I remember like it was yesterday…”

And so carried the convo between Frankie and myself. We laughed, he lingered, and may have stretched a bit, however, here’s his take. I’m not so certain of the details as shared, but enjoy another episode of  “Life With the Crazy Eights.” Thank You Frankie!

As earlier mentioned, Daddy had suddenly passed in August of 1967. Leaving Momma to tend the farm, its many animals, and eight growing children, life continued to slowly move forward. A number of friends, neighbors and relatives helped with chores and such while we transitioned into a new family of courageous souls. 

One such neighbor was Johnny Goss. He and wife Bernice checked in often to avail themselves in any helpful way. Thanksgiving would be covered by their generous offering of cooking up one of their farm-raised turkeys. Several had been butchered and smoked by Mr. G. and we would be lucky enough to share in his generosity. Dropping by about noon with cooked turkey at hand, we would be most grateful for this kindness. 

Early Thanksgiving morning, Momma had started the feast of feasts. Fresh garden potatoes from the cellar, canned green beans, squash and assorted pickled veggies would garnish the table for nine. Our favorites, however, had to be her homemade breads and pies baked the day prior. 

Not only did she create two standard pumpkin pies, but her homemade mince completed two others. Often our family favorites, there was always a most difficult choice as to which pie one would indulge. Just like that, however, Momma eased our indecisions. She single-handedly baked up two additional “magic” pies. The bottom half was mince while the top half was pumpkin! No dilemma in decisions! Bless Momma’s ingenuity!

While aromas continued to fill the house, her kidlets began rising. A few of us older girls were allowed to help with peeling, chopping and grinding while the younger ones viewed Detroit’s J.L. Hudson’s Parade on television. All quiet and calm in this house of busy. 

Close to noon, Johnny and Bernice arrived with one huge, roasted turkey. Momma welcomed them in as the golden, smoked, bird took its place in the table’s center. Calm was quickly being replaced by oohs, aahs, and liveliness. The table was readied with the clang of silverware and milk glasses as five sets of chocolate eyes peeked into the kitchen. Shammy the dog and two stray kittens chased each other’s tails in excitement. The buzzer of doneness alerted everyone that the bread was baked. Add a phone call from Grandma and the house was abuzz. 

Retrieving the bread, Momma produced her usual mastery of ordering the crazy eights to composure. “You kids get back to the parade and dinner will be ready in no time. I need this kitchen cleared.” Off we toddled with no questions asked. 

Johnny and Bernice were asked to join us for dinner. Kindly declining, they had family visiting. In return for their generous gift of food, Momma provided them a pie of choice and a dozen dinner rolls. Kisses, hugs, and smiles were exchanged as they left for home. 

Within minutes, Momma had the turkey carved and ready for our pleasure. We excitedly took our places as she led us in prayer. In whispers, we all took time to thank God for our gracious neighbors, the bounty of food before us, and the love that had been our support since Daddy’s passing. And in His name we prayed, Amen.  Let’s eat! 

A most premium of meals filled our eyes and tummies. Little was left as the table was cleared and dishes washed. Naps, a movie on the black and white, or a good game of Scrabble were in order. We had our favorites. Momma left the carved carcass out to cool as she took to her bedroom for a short nap. The kitchen was once again gleaming clean as we attended to our after dinner comforts. 

Late afternoon, Momma rose from her well-deserved nap. Joining us in the living room to assess hunger needs, it was agreed that pie and ice cream would suffice as our cap off to Thanksgiving. “Well then, I’ll get the turkey trimmed up for sandwiches and into the fridge for tomorrow. I’ll call you to the kitchen when the pie is ready!”  Yum! The best part of the best meal ever!

“Kids! Get out here right now! Hurry!” Momma was surely excited.  “Hurry, before it’s too late!”

Nearly tripping over each other, we made a dash to the kitchen. Before our eyes was most unexpected. Atop the counter sat the meatless skeleton while peering from the inside of the carcass were four innocent eyes! The two kittens had cleverly made a feast of the leftovers and had found refuge in the back end of the bird! All Momma could say was, “I guess they don’t like pie as much as they do turkey!”

With that said, she quickly removed turkey, kittens and pan to the front porch. No leftover sandwiches of the smoked fowl. No turkey soup. Just fixins and pie. What a treat for us all. Another memory feast topped with amaze, excite, and a few giggles!

Lessons Learned: 

Family and friends are the backbones of strength.  Following the loss of our daddy, a whirlwind of crazy could easily have occurred. Our family became a team of strength for each other while neighbors and friends offered the same.  God bless us all.

A good laugh heals a lot of hurts –  M. L’Engle. One of Momma’s greatest gifts! 

Thanks for reading!

For those of you who know me well, my life is an open book. Often seen as positive and upbeat, my mood seldom waivers. No cover ups. No hidden agendas. Each new day is greeted with smiles and prayers of thankfulness and gratitude. For the most part, I am happy and content.  Likened to Popeye’s attitude, “I yam what I yam”, while moving forward in this adventurous life. 

Yes, as a child, I spent many a Saturday mornings sharing the sofa with siblings and blankets while enjoying the antics of Popeye, his ever-loving Olive Oyl, and adorable baby, Sweet Pea.  Carefree and appearing to be uneducated, our sailor man hero powered up to tackle the insurmountable. With his go-to can of spinach and ever present pipe, Popeye would miraculously save the day as life moved forward in Puddleburg. But wait, there’s more…

Yes, the insurmountable. We all have those negative and often difficult moments. I liken those to Popeye’s nemesis, Brutus. The spoiler. The foil to our hero being, the Brutus ghost within our lives. Those blackball, often unpredictable, moments. The Brutus influence may stay for hours, days, or months at a time. 

We all have the Brutus complex, some more than others. Without a doubt, my teen years were often consumed by deep depression and hopelessness. Daddy had left our family by a sudden, unexpected means and turned our world of happy upside down. Brutus days slowly crawled into weeks and months of agony for me. The lights were dimmed. Brutus prevailed.

A blessing in disguise, my Popeye  appeared. Prayer, Momma’s strength, the love of siblings, and a high school counselor provided me the positive “spinach” to once again move forward.  Constant, supportive, and loving, my life found a new normal. College, a most rewarding career in education, and a happily-ever-after marriage fed my life with the nutrition of positives and good fortune. 

Over time, however, the ghosts of Brutus beckoned with vengeance. The invincible me would be challenged to find the constructive, optimistic me. Divorce. It became the common thread of upside down helpless and hopeless. My spinach had run out. 

Forty-two years of faithful love and respect abruptly ended within a six-week span of legal wranglings. Self-evaluation challenged my heart, soul, and brain on a daily basis. The darkened abyss was making its home in my Brutus world. 

Before I could grasp it, the improbable single life was waiting.  A half step forward, two steps back. The road became rutted, muddy, and appeared to be going nowhere. Where was my spinach? Unconsciously I heard these words, “The door is open. You are going to be fine. Come through, I’m always with you.”  And that I did with God. My strength and shield. 

At my ripened age of 60-plus, I made the decision to never look back or regret. My spinach of positive and happy continued to feed my daily living. Sacred,  joyous, memories of family, career, and self-respect once again, power me forward. 

Moving to a new city was my first can of spinach. Immediately, I joined a church and became an active volunteer in the community. Helping others gave me the nutritional confidence to grow and discover my new self. Contentment and positive became my Popeye.

Extensive travel and seeking out past friendships have also strengthened my bond to positivity. The sunny south has become my winter lust for the last three years. New friendships and volunteering feed me. In addition, making anew with high school pals has entertained my present chapter of living. And why?  Because I Can!  

Of late, our world appears to dwell on the no good, woe is me, and the like.  This alternative is much too severe to reside in me. Life is just too darn short to spend in negative reality. Complaining doesn’t prove much and seldom strokes our spirit. In actuality, our circle of peers aren’t really interested in our woes. 

All in all, we must find our normal and live where we find comfort. Look within my friends and you may discover a new self. Choose the better. Choose the good. Choose YOU!

Lessons Learned:

Focus on what beautiful things go into your life. Find your beauty and send it out! It gives you a way of facing anxiety and the unpredictable. YOU HAVE THE TOOLS! The door is open… What a beautiful gift!

Feed the positive, Starve the alternative. Spinach your life with confidence and strength! Let your Popeye live!

Thanks for reading as you carry onward and forward!

As mentioned previously, I hail from a large, loving family of seven siblings. Over the years, we have grown apart physically, however, emotionally an intense strength of love and respect exists.  Living for the most part in the state of Michigan, we afford opportunities to gather, celebrate, and share. In addition light truths and exaggerations about those not present make for cheap entertainment.  Strong roots. Strong values. Family first with ample giggles and gossip.

Thanksgiving is one such event we seldom miss. A sib will choose to host, send out appropriate invites, and set a tentative menu. Tentative is a loose term to exactly describe two memorable celebrations in my home. 

Circa, fall of 1987. Invites were sent to family. In total, we would entertain 22 hungry, happy, diners. Gramma, her eight lovebugs, assorted inlaws and grands. The creative teacher in me decided that invites would be a little different this year. I affectionately called it, “Goes With Thanksgiving”.

I penned each invite as such: “Once again, it will be our  pleasure to host family to the annual November Fallfest. To make this Thanksgiving easier, we will provide the Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy. Please provide a homemade specialty of yours that will compliment our feast. Can’t wait for the grand gathering!” 

Homemade dishes were standard expectations. A given for our farm raised family. Claudia was our champion for awesome desserts. Ang often supplied her famous scalloped corn while her twin Zen always provided homemade bread and rolls. Easy enough I assumed. Assumed. A most foreboding word. 

Families arrived early for the 1:00 p.m. dinner. Joyous hugs, kisses, and smiles filled our home. A smorgasbord of aromas kissed the air. Potholders decorated the kitchen counter, anticipating the appetizing dishes. Lids were kept in place for the soon-to-be reveal. The bronzed bird and accompaniments slid into place. We formed a large circle, bowed heads, and brother Frankie led us in thankful prayer. Let the feasting begin!

As brothers and sisters uncovered their contributions, it became apparent something was amiss.  ALL seven siblings had provided a garden favorite, baked squash! Yes, our colorful menu consisted of seven homemade squash delights!  With marshmellows. Roasted. Pecan crusted. Topped with fresh maple syrup just to name a few. None were duplicated! 

Bon Appetit took on a whole new meaning! The gene pool was alive and well with my sibs. Telepathic? Kismet? Nothing mattered. Fun and jibes were once again stitched into our family crazy quilt of memories.

For the 1988 fallfest, I was determined to right the wrongs of the previous year. Continuing the creative side, my invitation, “Family Giving With a Splash of Color”, read as follows:  “ I will be serving the usual Turkey, Stuffing, Potatoes and Gravy. Claudia, please provide a dish of something green. Ang, something yellow, Zenia, something brown.” The list and colors continued for all attending invitees. Nothing would be amiss as I imagined Green Bean Casserole, Scalloped Corn, Home baked rolls, and yes, Squash. Yum, I could not wait to redeem my previous year’s naivete. The term, “ASSUMED” subsciously teased. 

Not to be outdone by each other, my sibs provided a fine mix of color and originality. Nothing, however, was of nutritional value! What graced the table were not casserole dishes, crock pots, or pie carriers. Claudia shared Green Apple flavored Licorice, from the bag.  Ang added yellow Corn chips. Zenia did not provide her delicious bread, but rather, six caramel apples “dressed” like turkeys. Frankie provided his usual chuckle as he laid out a various assortment of Frito-Lay snacks and dips from his work. I’m certain you have a picture of our most unfestive junk food giving! 

Once again, our family circle gathered, we clasped hands, and Frankie led us in thankful prayer.  A snicker here. A giggle there. Another family chapter in the books. We all grew a few inches as the colorful yummy allowed. Heaps of crazy as yet another piece of our family quilt was “stitched” with food, fun, and family. 

Lessons learned: 

Creativity is never predictable. With both of these Thanksgiving feasts, I could never have predicted the menus that appeared on the table. Creative, yes. Predictable, NO!

You don’t choose your family, they are God’s gift to you just as you are to them. Desmond Tutu said it best. My family of seven siblings may be a bit crazy, a bit gossipy, however, we are a family who dearly love one another in good times and the not so much. No matter the circumstances, we have each other’s backs. God Bless my sibs and God Bless FAMILY!

Thanks for reading and have a most blessed day of Thanksgiving!