Summer is my favorite season. I have more cherished memories from these warm months than any other. Maybe I remember these times more fondly because summers seemed more relaxed, and my family spent more time together. The days were longer, for one thing, so we could go for ice cream after dinner. Whatever the reason – I love summer.
Life Experiences
Namasté In Alaska: the Painting
If you’ve read my vow for this year, you know I am trying to “not purchase anything I don’t truly need” However, when I met Dottie Leatherwood – a gifted painter with the rare talent for capturing an experience and bringing it to life, I began to think about one possession I might just want after all …
“Wait for the Magic” – Cuba Defined
Our guide in Cuba gave us some strange advice at the start of our visit. “Wait for the Magic,” she said. Doubtful, I tucked Carol Steele’s words away, and waited to see if they would be true. Believing that the Cuban buildings would be gray and crumbling, the people poor and sad, and the cars all old, I was unsure where any of Carol’s magic would appear. Sure enough, every time I focused on the people, the magic would start to appear.
What’s Next for Cuba?
We just returned from an eye-opening trip to Cuba, a trip that until recently was not permitted for citizens like us. Cuba, while just 90 miles off Florida, has been off-limits to U.S. travelers for more than half a century. Now, as I settle back into my daily routine, I am having trouble reconciling my pre-existing prejudices with the realities of life on that small but powerful island.
A Reader Writes … “My Mirror”
The best part of sharing my stories is when a reader remembers their own story and shares it with me. Vivian Moose read The Guy in The Glass and it reminded her of a glass in her life. In her story, the mirror went from being an ‘enabler of her pity’ to a ‘life saver’ to finally becoming her ‘best friend and teacher.’ Here is Vivian’s story, told in her words and with her full permission …
The Guy in the Glass
I found a poem folded and put away in the old trunk my mother brought with her to Charlotte. The poem had passed around dad’s office in 1951. This 1934 poem is now framed and hanging next to my shaving mirror. I won’t say I read it every day, but I read it often. Dale Wimbrow wrote the poem in 1934. It seems old-timey now, and may have even sounded that way then, but its meaning is clear …
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom
Mother lived in Charlotte for 20 years before passing away in 2004. She enjoyed spending time with us and celebrating life’s milestones, including weddings and the baptism of all four of her great-grandchildren. She was an important part of our life and we learned from her and her life stories. The world changed more in her lifetime, 1905 – 2004, than during any other time in history. Choices and changes were facts of her life. Some of her early story is told here.
A Front Porch Tops My List
When I’m ready for our next home, my must-have list will be short. I want a home with a covered front porch, in a neighborhood full of other front porches. That’s it. My list will stop there. Good schools, a walkable urban setting, age-friendly, nearby parks are nice, but neighborhoods without front porches no longer interest me.
Yes, it does matter
Sometimes I wonder if what we do, or say, or think make a difference. People are so busy. Do they listen, or care? In my heart, I think they do. Of course, it doesn’t always show up right away. It may take weeks, or even years. People may not ever realize that the ideas stored in their brain were planted long ago, waiting for the right time to emerge. They may not remember who said it, or did it, but that doesn’t matter.
My first art class
I am in my very first art class. I’m learning a lot, but not how to sketch with pastels or paint with oils – I’m learning to sit still and keep quiet. These are skills I should have mastered by now, but I have never been good at either. I can’t talk or move because I am the model. I am sitting in the middle of a high school art class surrounded by a circle of a dozen students, standing at their easels, all sketching … ME.