So, what do the Monks and Bad Bunny have in common??

 

 live in a pretty little purple house on a pretty little street in a pretty little town. I do. Most of my day-to-day life is within a one-mile radius. The University. The theatre. The shops and restaurants and movie theatre. The grocery store. I love this. I love living where I know the folks tending shops, know the folks at the University, and know my neighbors. It is all charming in every way. But I also know the world is big and vast and full of color and culture, and I love being part of that too.

My passport is a record of my cultural beliefs taking me from London to China to Prague. My U.S. travel has taken me from Okracoke Island to Seattle to Denver to Dallas. I have traveled by train, plane, bus, ferry, car and yes, bicycle! I have been blessed in my life by the eternal words of my Uncle Dean, “Be curious about everything.” I think of that daily.

Curiosity also opens the mind, the heart and the soul of experiences. I can find these while drinking tea in my pretty little purple house. This winter I have experienced just that.

I don’t know when I first became aware of the Buddhist Monks, and their dog, Aloka. I think it was after Christmas when the first post came through. I was immediately captivated by the story. A group of 24 Monks began their 2,300 mile walk for peace on October 26, 2025. The journey took 120 days from the Huong Dao Vipassano Bhavan Center in Fort Worth, Texas. The end of their journey is today in Washington, D.C.

Every morning when I wake up, I check on the Monks. Are they healthy? Did they sleep well? Were they received with love? Their walk has taken them through snowstorms, blizzards, deep Arctic cold and still they walked. People along the way have showered them with flowers and bracelets, which the Monks gave back to those along their way. They have been fed by towns and cities embracing their message, housed by churches and synagogues and centers set up for them. Personal challenges brought out their love and bravery as they marched. One Monk was struck by a car near Dayton, Texas. His left leg had to be amputated. His doctors were overcome with inspiration as he never became angry and was full of forgiveness.

Why did they walk? For love. For unity. For compassion. To give us all hope.

My other reason for hope on this February day was the half-time show by Bad Bunny. Now, I will say, do I know much about his music? (Well, I do now!) Do I know Spanish? No, I do not. But do I know a man full of joy and love for this country and his own culture? I do. The first part of the Superbowl I was at rehearsal for our new show so I caught the second part of Bad Bunny’s show and the first part on Youtube. (Lucky for us to have all of this available.) I am not embarrassed to say I cried and cried. It was so beautiful and full of the same values of the Monks. Love. Unity. Compassion.

Have we come so far in this country that we have lost those values? Have we lost trust in our friends or neighbors or those we do not agree with? I can only hope that our minds are open, our hearts are open, and our eyes are open.

Two cultural phenomenons have come our way this winter. Two completely different cultures have pulled at our heart strings. How interesting to me to have these two residing within my own mind telling the same story. Today, when I woke up, I was filled with much hope. I wish the same for you. Let’s take what we have learned and share it. Can we walk 2,300 miles or shake up the stage at the Superbowl? Probably not. But we can do what we do best, my friends. Hold the door for someone, say thank you, shovel walks, pay for groceries, make dinners.

As I said, I live in a pretty little purple house on a pretty little street in a pretty little town. But my passport and my travels tell stories about life and culture. And, if you can’t travel in real time, there’s plenty of traveling from your armchair.

“The only thing more powerful than hate is love.” Bad Bunny, 2026 Superbowl.

A celebration of St. Brigid and a big welcome to February!

 

February is such a fun month. Even though it is a short month there are so many traditions steeped in folklore. When we think of February, we think of the color red. At least I do. Red for hearts and Valentines and everything associated with February. The actual birthstone for February is amethyst, which is purple!

Folklore dots the landscape for this month, and of course, I am always tuned in to that. I love learning more about the ancients and folklore even if we all just go about our lives. For the next few moments, let’s just take a folkloric trip. Maybe we will learn some fun facts or just some fun traditions to make our lives more joyful. I know I will be learning some new things here also!

Let’s head to Ireland to talk about the old Celtic tradition of Brigid’s Night which also divides the winter in half, the other half marches towards spring. Brigid was so much engrained into the Irish that the Catholic Church made her the patron saint of Ireland. Her job is to reign over mothers and cattle and poets. Yes, you read that right. She is the patron saint of poets. Thousands of years ago the Romans took to the streets on St. Brigid night carrying candles and torches to frighten away the evil spirits. In the year 600 A.D. a festival, known as Candlemas, evolved to carry on the tradition. Some traditions still linger in Ireland from those days. One of which I carry out myself, and that is to place a cloth outside on January 31. This cloth is to be a cherished piece of clothing…from a child or something special that you wear. For me, I put out my favorite shawl. I tied it around my evening bench. Okay, I know this is just for fun, but why not? Nothing changed for me that night, or did it?

Yesterday was Groundhog Day. I always love this day and try to watch the movie every year! Years ago…many years ago…it was the badger, not the groundhog. Folks watched for the badger to emerge from the den of roots and tubers underground. Would the badger come out or not? Of course, we know the answer to that! If the badger saw his (or her) shadow, winter would linger on! When the German immigrants settled here, they brought that tradition with them. It then became the groundhog. We all watch closely…will he…won’t he? I am laughing because no matter what happens with the lovely groundhog winter is just half over.

Yes, Groundhog Day is the cross-quarter day meaning the halfway point between winter and spring. Wait! We are halfway there already? I mean, I had a lot of projects planned for this winter, and yet they are still waiting for me. Of course, all my own activities keep me going so there never is lots of time for those projects. Why do I even think I could get them done in the winter months? Hopefully, you have had better luck by reading more books or cleaning closets!

If I am not cleaning closets, then what am I doing? I guess the usual…teaching classes, directing theatre, and my favorite February hobby? I love the seed catalogues. Nothing says February better than the seed catalogues. Hopefully you are as excited about your gardens as I am. No, I am not wishing winter to be over, but I am having a great time planning the gardens as I drool over photos of cottage gardens. I save these photos, especially the ones for cottage gardens.

So, my friends, I love sharing folklore and traditions with you. It is okay if you did not put out a scarf for St. Brigid’s Night (maybe next year), and it is okay if you aren’t cleaning closets or even planning your garden. But what is important during this beginning of February is that you spend some time outside. The sunsets are amazing during the winter months. Pokagon offers trails for hiking and skiing. The air is so much cleaner and crisper in the winter months. And no matter what the lovely Punxsutawney Phil has to say, there will be six more weeks of winter whether we like it or not!

 Next week we will be talking about starting seeds and bringing in the pussy willows. Stay tuned! And now a word from Thomas Chatterton.

“Come, February, lend thy darkest sky,

There teach the winter’s muse with clouds to soar…”

 

 

A celebration of Burns Night in my small town!

 

Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Scotland on January 25^th in1759. His father was a tenant farmer in Alloway but moved his family around as he purchased larger farms. Robert’s educational upbringing took him to Dalrymple School and was also taught by John Murdoch and his own father.

Burns was a voracious reader and was able to learn about language and vocabulary and thoughts of the day by reading Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden. He loved the Scottish folk tales along with the songs and ballads.  His tutor, Murdoch, introduced him to the poetry of Alexander Pope and he became versed in Latin and French as well. Burns, in turn, became a tenant farmer like his father without having plans to become the national bard of Scotland. However, his love of poetry and his writing of poetry was so strong that he could not stop writing. His first poem, Handsome Nell, was published in 1774.

Times were difficult in Scotland then, and it was hard to make a living. In 1792 he took a job with the Dumfries Port Division making 70 pounds per year.  Even though he had to earn a living for his family, he kept writing. In all, Robert Burns wrote more than 550 poems and ballads within his short life. He died on July 21,1796  in Scotland.

He is known as the national bard of Scotland. Some scholars feel he has preserved the language and dialect. They still love him in Scotland. Once, when I was in Scotland, I took a Robert Burns tour. The tour guide was great as we walked around Edinburgh. As we meandered through the streets, our tour guide would stop and recite poetry of Burns. My favorite was when we walked into a cathedral, and we were treated to the poem, My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose. I still remember his beautiful red silk lined cape flinging about as he recited this piece. It was a moment I will never forget.

On Thursday evening, at our newly established Cork and Barrel, we will be celebrating Burns Night. The event will begin at 6:00 and conclude at 8:00 with the singing of Auld Lang Syne, which was written by Burns. April, from Cork and Barrel, has made a special whiskey drink in his honor so we may toast the Bard. In other cities, the celebration includes haggis and tatties!  (We will just enjoy the whiskey!) To make the evening even more special, my good friend and piper, Mark Gropp, will be sharing tunes on the pipe. In full regalia, he will fill the corners of Cork and Barrel with traditional Scottish tunes, In between his songs, members of the Steuben County Theatre will be reading his poetry. Jacob McNeal will be emceeing the event. You will be treated to many of his poems and even a place in the evening for you! If you have a favorite Burns poem, please bring it along to read. We welcome you. By the way, there is no cost to this event.

It is anticipated that 9.5 million folks will be celebrating Burns Night across the world. It began on July 21, 1801 to honor the poem on the 5^th anniversary of his death. The first event was actually held in his Burns cottage. The celebration eventually moved to celebrate his birth.

As you know, I am a great lover of poetry and song. My bookshelves are full of poetry books and notes and my own scribblings. I love knowing that we can be part of a bigger celebration held around the world. I mean, how many small towns like ours celebrate in such a big way? If you have never attended a Burns Night, you will have a chance to participate and learn something along the way. (As I write the script for Jacob, I learn something new in every sentence!)

Bring your singing voices for the final song of Auld Lang Syne, and if you own a kilt, please wear it. This is your opportunity! Can’t wait to see you on Thursday evening!

And now, let me share some of the words of My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose.

O my Luve is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

 

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,

Though it were ten thousand mile.

 

Robert Burns

 

The Business of Art with Eric Rhoads.

 Eric Rhoads doing what he does best, PleinAir painting!

Growing up I had five younger siblings. As with most kids, when we are young, we always prefer other families. In my case it was my Uncle Dean’s family. We spent most of our holidays, including birthdays and summer excursions to my grandparents’ lake cottage, with Uncle Dean’s family. His boys weren’t just our cousins, but quite frankly, mischief makers. And who doesn’t love that? What trouble can we get into as kids with all of us and the three boy cousins? They were all close in age to me, and each one brought something different to our group.

They were fun in so many ways. One Halloween my Aunt Jeannie brought in a make-up artist to do our make-up, and since I was going trick-or-treating with my cousins, I was there for my make-up too. I wasn’t allowed to look in the mirror until I was all made up and finished and ready to go out. I was so excited to look. I was usually a witch so I knew it might be a little scary. I was absolutely not prepared for what I saw in the mirror. It scared me so much that I called my mom to come get me. I never did go trick-or-treating that year.

As always, kids grow up. We did, and in our case, everyone moved far away. Only one of the nine of us stayed in Fort Wayne. We are scattered across the United States. But just because we are far away from each other doesn’t mean that we don’t check in and, of course, funerals bring us all together.

Out of all the three boys, I was the closest to the youngest, Rick. He followed his dreams all through his life reaching one goal after another. He worked in radio for a long time until he realized his real passion was in art. Oh, not just any art, his vision was to revive the PleinAir movement. For those of you who are not sure of what that means, let me tell you. PleinAir, according to the Oxford dictionary, means “Denoting or in the manner of a 19^th-century style of painting outdoors with a strong sense of the open air, that became a central feature of French impressionism.”

Rick was already a painter so taking the next step, pursuing his next dream was natural. He began attending workshops and connecting with artists in the field. He began with publishing a PleinAir magazine which eventually morphed into the Fine Art Connoisseur.

Not only does Rick paint and publish magazines, he hosts a daily (yes, I said daily) lesson in art on his Facebook page. He has guests every day who share their love and techniques for art. Once in a while I tune in, but his talent and mine live in different corners. As hard as I try (okay, maybe not that hard), I am awful. I can’t even make a gingerbread house! I do, however, find these lessons fascinating. He also takes groups across the United States and around the world just to paint. I often ask him, “Don’t you need a storyteller for your group?”

It is with great pleasure and fun that Rick will be here on Saturday as the keynote speaker for the conference on Business of Art sponsored by Steuben Arts Scene. It was months ago that Vicki Thompson, president of the Steuben Arts Scene, told me about the conference at the T. Furth Center for the Performing Arts on Saturday, January 17. Eric was asked to be the keynote speaker, but they needed a bit of a nudge from me. I did that, of course. His schedule is very tight with his own work, workshops, traveling so he had to make sure all was clear. Well, my friends, coming to Angola is exactly what is happening on Saturday. I am still amazed that he made that happen, and I am thrilled.

The conference begins at 8:30 on Saturday. Teachers and students get in free. Seriously? This is going to be splendid, and I have the privilege of introducing Rick, known in the art world as Eric, on Saturday. Put this on your calendar! I will be so happy to see you on Saturday and introduce you to an outstanding man!

I want to leave you with a quote from Rick, “Never give up on something in which you are passionate about, and committed in doing. I love art. I love doing PleinAir Magazine.”  See you on Saturday!

New Year's Eve Wedding

 

It was a rainy and foggy night to the airport. I wore my Christmas lights strung around my neck beckoning Rudolph to join us, but alas, alas. When we reached the airport, Aaron dropped us all off as he went to park and we quickly went into the warm, well-lit airport in South Bend. Even with the late-night hour and the dark and the fog, I could not  have been happier. Seven of us were traveling together to attend Adam’s wedding in St. Pete. Our seats were all close together on the plane so I could turn around and wave and smile and just be happy we were all together.

Those of you who travel in family groups know how difficult it is to plan these kinds of trips working around everyone’s schedule. However, we knew well in advance so we could all clear our schedules for the week after Christmas and make our plans. And really, what fun is a New Year’s Eve wedding?

We arrived in St. Pete in the wee hours of the morning with our GPS set on our Airbnb. Of course, I am always a bit nervous about booking an Airbnb without seeing it first, but it looked great in the photos, and it was big enough for all of us plus Abe! I never should have feared as it was terrific with rooms for everyone! By morning, with the Florida sunshine pouring into the kitchen, we could see the blue water of the Gulf. Rachel was the first to investigate as she took her early morning run to check out little boutiques and coffee shops. The kids all spent their morning touring around the town. The guys all went fishing! By afternoon we were over by the beaches, and even though the water was chilly, they all took a dive and went swimming. I just filmed the event!!

Lunch was long and lazy by the water, and then it was time to head over to Adam and Lisa’s house. They had spent long weekends getting the yard ready with lots of string lights and perfecting the lawn areas. Adam has a sweet bungalow right on the path of the SunRunner, the local bus which travels all over St. Pete. We sat outside telling stories until the sky turned inky black and the late December night sky was our canopy. I guess you could say that I really could not have been happier to have my family all together at the table.

We left before midnight as we meandered back to our Airbnb. We hollered good night to each other before closing our own doors. Sleep came easily after the long night before, and once again, sunshine spilled all over the kitchen floor. We spent the next two days getting ready. The kids were great at moving furniture, setting up tables, washing down the rented chairs. We were doing all the cooking, so we started in on that. By late night on New Year’s Eve Eve, we were heading downtown for the bachelorette party. Again, we took the bus, and it was quite the adventure. Lisa was beautiful and everyone wished her congratulations and wanted to hear the love story everywhere we went. It was a great time, and a great party.

New Year’s Eve brought a cold front to Florida. We really did have to laugh about it as it was to reach a record low. We were prepared with heaters and a campfire in the corner at the s’mores bar. Nothing, but nothing could deter our happiness. By 8:00, the twinkle lights were on, the food was ready, the fireworks (yes, Abe brought fireworks) were ready, and so were we. Folks began to arrive coming from everywhere…some flew in and some drove. We had to search for more chairs. The wedding was just lovely and completely magical. Aaron and Abe stood up with him as did Rachel and a family friend. We laughed, we cried, we celebrated until the wee hours. At the stroke of midnight, it was as if all St. Pete began to celebrate with us as the fireworks went off all around us.

The next day was clean up, and a late farewell. It was hard to leave as it had all been magical. I didn’t want it to end. When we arrived back home it was snowing

It was late when I finally arrived at my old purple house, I went to bed and simply whispered, “Good night, family.”

"It's Almost Christmas," said my dad.

On Christmas night the six of us children lined up on the staircase ready to go to bed. Some carried new books or dolls, or trucks and trains. We were always allowed to take one present to bed with us. Of course, I always took my new book. As happy as we were to have Christmas, we were absolutely forlorn, at least I was. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy because I wasn’t. We were saddened that it was all over. I feel the same way now. Oh, not the presents, but the music, the lights, the concerts, the planning, the dinners, the celebrations and the pure joy. I recognized those feelings as a kid. As we stood there on the stairsteps, my dad stood at the bottom and with one hand in the air, he always said, “It’s almost Christmas,” and snapped his fingers. I guess that made us feel better as we clamored off to bed.

“It’s almost Christmas.” So many years later, those words come back to me on Christmas night. I came home from Aaron and Rachel’s to a quiet house with a beautiful tree in my pine-scented house. My dad’s words echoed as I sat down with a hot cup of tea to think about the season. It was a wonderful Christmas season and exactly how I wanted to spend it with friends and family. But I feel differently about his words now. Truthfully, Dad, I don’t want it to be almost Christmas. I want this very moment, and I want Valentine’s Day and Memorial Day. I want gardening season, and a lovely birthday in the heat of July. I want Autumn leaves to fall and spend two months loving Halloween, but mostly I just want this rainy, soggy almost New Year’s Eve Day.

This is a different last week of vacation for me. Along with Aaron and Rachel’s family, we are taking a flight to a special location for a special event. Intrigued? I thought so. I will chat more about this next week, but for now, let me just say I do not often get to spend New Year’s Eve with my three sons. We will all be together this year, and that is so wonderful.

New Year’s Eve has always been fun for me. As a kid, we could stay up until midnight! For a child, that alone is magical. At the stroke of midnight we took out the pots and pans and banged them for all the world to hear. I don’t remember any parties on New Year’s Eve as a kid. When my own boys were teenagers, they always had New Year’s Eve parties at the farm. The house was full of young people. I loved those times. We played cards all night and celebrated Abe’s birthday.

The past few years I spent the evening with the Charleston Children. One year, when the parents were traveling, we all stayed at the beach house and providing each child with a flashlight we went down to the beach at dusk to look for crabs and see the last sunset of the year. Some years we just made lava cakes and always watch the ball drop.

A new year conjures up thoughts of resolutions. Oh, how many resolutions have we all made over the years? It is always to lose the last ten pounds. Every year the same. It is always to eat less chocolate, workout more, write more, be a better friend, be a better neighbor, be a better person. We all make these long lists. Some are easy, and we keep them for a day, a week, maybe a month? Others fall by the wayside before the end of New Year’s Day. (Seriously, I will lose ten pounds after the holidays!)

It is a time of reflection, at least it is for me. What were my joys and accomplishments this year and what do I hope to accomplish this coming year? I, once again, have a full list…some personal, some professional.

As the year ends, take some time to think about your own joys for the year. I hope you have a list of them. Today I will clean my studio, send thank you notes, pay the last of the December bills and make my final donations for the year.

Even with the wise words of my dad, let’s remember today is our favorite day.

Happy New Year to all of you, my lovely readers, from my family to yours.

Stille Nacht...

 

Once a month Carolyn and I go to Fort Wayne to play with the ukulele folks there. Their group is called Tru Ukes and meets at the Jefferson Point Pizza Hut. A bit unusual? Yes, it is. The group has been meeting there for years. They play for an hour and a half and then order pizza, of course. We really like playing with them, although their chords seem a little bit harder than the ones we rehearse here in town. I mean, how often do I need a F#7? So, going to their group makes us play a little better, and we sure work a little harder.

The group is led by a lovely couple, Mike and Susan. This past weekend was our meet up! Mike handed out bells for our wrists so that when we played Jingle Bells or any other lively song, we would have fun bells accompanying our uke. We play, on average, 17 songs per session. That is a lot of uke playing. On Saturday, before our last song, Mike told the story of Christmas in the trenches. I was so happy about that. I know that story. I love that story. It was made quite famous by my friend and musician, John McCutcheon, who wrote a ballad about the event. Mike told the story and then we played Silent Night and sang the last verse in German, as it was written.

Since Saturday I just can’t get the song or the story out of my head. I know I have written about it before, maybe even more than once, but if you are a new reader or have forgotten, here is the story.

The year was 1914. It was Christmas Eve on the Western Front. The war was raging. The men were tired, hungry, lonely, homesick, but there they were. On one small part of the front, German soldiers began to sing. They sang songs from their homeland and then they sang Christmas carols. Many Christmas carols are German in origin, so they had plenty to sing. One the other side of the trench was The British Expeditionary Force known as the BEF. The German troops also put up small fir trees along the trenches and small lanterns. I assume they got the trees from the forest. The British men were quite amazed and really didn’t know what to do with this. They had been trained in warfare, but not in this.

The next day, which was Christmas, they joined up together in no man’s land. They exchanged chocolates, cigarettes, and other gifts from back home. In 1914 Britain’s Princess Mary wanted each man to have a gift for Christmas so she sent small packages to each soldier. In the packet were cigarettes and tobacco. These packets were shared. It was said they shared photos of loved ones…many of their sweethearts. They play football. The soldiers did not speak each other’s language, but that did not matter. For two days they celebrated. They helped each other work on the trenches and they gathered their dead from either side and buried them together.

Not everyone was happy about this event. Some officers were worried they would not be able to go back into battle after Christmas. I ask the same question. How can you go back into battle once you know a person…once you see their sweetheart’s picture they keep close in their pocket…once you shared your chocolates and cigarettes?

After this wonderful event, it never happened again. John McCutcheon wrote a song about it and memorialized the event. Perhaps we would never have known the story without McCutcheon.

Sitting with all my friendly uke players, each one in red or green for the holidays, I looked around at them as Mike told the story. Most did not know it, so I was very grateful Mike talked about it. As we turned over our song sheets, there was the last song for us to play. Silent Night with the last verse in German. We played and sang with all our voices and our ukes blending together in harmony. When we got to the last verse, I took a deep breath. I love this song, and I love singing it in German. I sang with all my heart letting tears drip down thinking about Christmas in the trenches in 1914.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Winter Solstice

 

Newgrange in Ireland.

Two cups of lovely hot coffee are required this December morning. Peaks of pale sunshine try to warm up the house, but the rays are covered in winter gray. As you know, I do love these winter days full of cold and snow mingling with the early darkness. I am not a fan of driving in the snow, and I do worry about the folks on the roads including those young drivers, but I have the current luxury of spending time at home. School is out, travel will be coming soon, but for a week or so, I get to spend my mornings with coffee and lit candles. It is a sweet and peaceful existence.

I have always been the one who loved these dark mornings and early evening darkness even when I was too young to understand the Solstice. I don’t remember folks, even my dad referring to it as the Solstice, but instead the first day of winter which are one in the same. The Solstice has a much lovelier ring to it, and, for me, a great opportunity to really spend time thinking about the ancients. It completely amazes me. How did they know, and what did they know?

The winter solstice has been celebrated since the Neolithic Period since around 10,200 B.C. The celebrations since that date have been filled with bonfires to appease the sun hoping it would return for warmth. It is hard to imagine not knowing if the sun would come back, and what a joy to watch it return! Most of us just go about our day on the Solstice not even wondering if the sun will return. We know it will, but imagine not knowing?? Maybe the same is true with the Summer Solstice wondering if the heat will subside, and winter will once again return. Even if you are not a fan of winter, we need it for the land and for our crops. I have been thinking we may have a bumper crop of vegetables this year due to the early cold!

The Summer Solstice is the longest period of daylight and is celebrated for those lucky enough to attend in Stonehenge. I must admit I was never there to see it in person. How oddly strange it must have been to build such a large human sundial to be able to pinpoint the moment of the longest period of daylight.

In contrast to Stonehenge, Newgrange was built to celebrate the Winter Solstice, the shortest day (daylight) of the year. It is estimated to have been built in 3,200 B.C. in Boyne Valley, Ireland. It encompasses an acre of land, and was built for astrological reasons and for the ancient tombs. During the winter solstice, the sun’s rays peak through the roof-box just for a few moments. There is even a lottery held to see who the lucky ones will be to attend each year. There is a long list, by the way! The sky is often dark or cloudy during the winter months in Ireland. Nonetheless, the feeling is magical.

I was only at Newgrange during the summer months. It was the year Ellen and I traveled to Ireland and met up with a wonderful Irish man who took us there. Only a few tourists per day are allowed to see it. I guess he knew someone who knew someone because we got in. Even in the middle of summer, it was magical. We passed by the ancient tombs on our way into the center. Once inside our guide had us lie down on the dirt floor and a simulation was done showing us what it would be like on the Winter Solstice. I know I caught my breath while watching. Someday, maybe, I will get to have my name drawn for the lottery.

There are so many holidays during this season. Truly I love them all. Some I watch from afar and others, I am able to join right in. The Winter Solstice holds magic for everyone, even if only your own rejoicing in the daylight to increase. We are the lucky ones knowing summer will return.

Until then, light a candle, and say a prayer into the holy darkness.

As Carrie Newcomer wrote in her Solstice song, “All is not dark, even in the darkest nights. There is still something whole and sacred in the world - there is still a light in the window - and it is all still completely possible.”

Happy Winter Solstice

Baubles and Bangles

 

Candle on my Christmas tree.

With baubles and bangles pulled out of the attic, I sat in the quiet of this old house just waiting and thinking about decorating my tree. The tree that spoke to me, or should I say whispered to me on Saturday while stomping through the snow at Bud and Deb’s Christmas tree farm. We all gathered to find the perfect Christmas tree. Jonah and Graham trudged ahead throwing snowballs at each other as if they were ten, and I was delighted in that. Every few steps they would holler out, “Hey, Nannie, come check this one out!” So, I found my way out to them. I listened carefully for those sacred words, “Take me home with you.” I was looking for a tall, skinny tree this year with lots of space for my candles.

The trees were all beautiful, but it takes just the right one. Finally, as I listened carefully to the sound of wind in the forest, I heard the words. Actually, I think they sang to me this year. The boys took turns cutting the tree down and then went in search of their With the baubles and bangles pulled from the closet, I begin the task of decorating the family Christmas tree. As we were walking over to their tree, Rachel said, “We are building such traditions for the boys. Someday they will do this with their families.” Yes, they will, I thought.

Once home, they set my tree up in the front window of my old house. How many trees have graced this old house in the past 120 years? Wouldn’t it be nice to know? Luckily, they shook the tree well at Bud and Deb’s so that no squirrel would come charging out at me when it finally came home. The moment it was placed in the stand, the scent of pine filled every corner of this house.

Off I went to the wagon rides and then to meet Elten and Carolyn at Cork and Barrel which has become our Saturday night hang out in my neighborhood! Arriving home I sat and just looked at my bare tree and not knowing where to start. By morning I had a plan, and with tubs of decorations surrounding me, I started the joyful…and tearful…task of decorating my tree. I put the strands of lights on three times, but by the third try I decided to just let it go. Of course, as I worked, I thought of all the trees in my lifetime. I am glad I still believe in the magic and festive fun. As I worked, I put on “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I love that movie from beginning to end. One of the very last lines is spoken by George’s brother. He said as he made a toast, “To my brother, George Bailiey, the richest man I know.”

I sat down at the end and thought of my dad. My dad died years ago the day after Christmas. Before his death, he called us all in one at a time. I don’t know what he said to the others, I really don’t, but in that raspy voice he said to me, “You are my richest daughter.” Of course, he didn’t mean in a monetary sense. Listening to the end of the movie, and the loving words, I thought of what my dad said to me. One thought leads to another as I remember as a child helping my dad untangle all the strands of lights. Once he had them all working, he unplugged them and wound them around the tree artistically. It always took my dad just one time. He then stood back and let us do all the rest of the work, except for the high places. Tinsel came last, and we always threw it by the handfuls. (Does anyone do tinsel any longer?) Once it was decorated, we held hands as my dad plugged in the tree. Magic.

It is different now as I decorate my own tree. Of course, I thought of all those trees at the farm with my boys. They remember, and yes, we pass the magic on to them along with other traditions.

I place the German pickle in a good hiding place. The first to find it gets the first gift of Christmas, but whom am I kidding? The boys will find it in a heartbeat.

I plug in my tree and sing my own songs around my own tree.

Little tree, little silent Christmas tree

 when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

 

e.e. cummings

The beauty of November...

Pumpkins still adorn the outside of this old house of mine. Not just pumpkins, but orange twinkling lights and long-decayed corn stalks still lean up against trees and old siding as we maneuver between Halloween and Christmas. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays (yes, I said that about Halloween!) and it seems as if it often gets slighted. We go from costumes and carved pumpkins to holiday trees and lights with just nary a thought of the beauty within.

I am not sure I have always loved the beauty of November. Maybe as a kid I was a bit remorseful at the end of summer and the bleakness of the drab landscape. Now, as an adult, I find the beauty of November completely stunning. The night sky is clearer, the leaves crispier, the fires burn brighter. What, I ask, are the colors of November? They are not drab as colorful leaves still cling to the branches waiting their turn to take their final bow and tumble into the pile for jumping or walking or raking. What are the scents of November? I think I could open my back door and the scents of apple pie and hot chocolate and a pot of simmering chili would welcome you any day or evening.

Thanksgiving is our holiday, our American holiday. How did we get here? Let’s look back to the Autumn of 1621 and find ourselves breaking bread at Plymouth, Massachusetts. This is known as the “First Thanksgiving” as 90 Wampanoag joined 52 English folks. We do know by now that the Pilgrims did not land on unoccupied land. It was first settled by Wampanoag. It sounds so wonderful to think of sharing bread and meals and ideas together, but within a generation, the Wampanoag lost most of the territory. We really don’t think of that as we ponder prices, buy our turkeys, put fresh cranberries in our shopping cart, visit with neighbors who are doing the same and go home to fill our kitchens with the best we could find.

Even though it is 400 years later, we do think about that first Thanksgiving. I think all first-grade classrooms make turkeys and Pilgrim hats! Isn’t that where you first learned of it? How is it we are still celebrating all these years later the bountiful harvest?

On October 3, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation about observing a day of Thanksgiving. Of course, this came right in the middle of the Civil War. Maybe his thoughts were to unite the country? He made the proclamation as the last Thursday in November following the harvest. Move ahead to the year 1939 to the last Thursday in November. The country was deep into a depression and President Franklin D. Roosevelt decided to move the date of Thanksgiving. He chose the second to last Thursday to move this day to extend the shopping season to help out with the economy.

Sixteen states decided not to change so for two years Thanksgiving was held on two different dates! I am sure that must have been very confusing! Finally in 1941, Congress did pass a law stating that Thanksgiving would be celebrated throughout the land on the fourth Thursday in November.

Even though Thanksgiving gets slighted, we celebrate in big ways! The Macy Day parade is my absolute favorite, football games, and tables laden with once-a-year specialties! Traditions change, as does everything. When we were kids, we were always at Uncle Dean’s house…always. The men went hunting, the women did the cooking. As a young bride, I celebrated in my first house in Pennsylvania. No one ever told me about the insides of the turkey, and I roasted it all. I was horrified when the time came to carve the turkey and all the insides fell out. Thanksgiving on the farm was always a blessed event. Most everything on our table came from our farm. Again, everything changes.

I surrendered my Thanksgiving table to Aaron and Rachel as they are now the host and hostess for our family gatherings. Oh, not to worry, my kitchen participates to the fullest. I just load up Lola, my Jeep, and off I go over the rivers and through the woods, kind of.

Whatever you do this year or whoever you spend the day with, be grateful. As my friend and colleague, Norbert Krapf, writes, “Give thanks for the wealth of the ordinary rolling in from cloudy gray across prairie green.”

Happy Thanksgiving from my family to yours.

 

 

Blending Thanksgiving into Christmas...

Rachel and Graham working as Santa's Elves!

We don’t need a calendar to tell us it is December, although we do need a snow shovel. Lucky for me I pulled it out of the garage a few weeks ago. I even tied a red ribbon around it to make it more festive for winter and in case I dropped it in the snow.

Thanksgiving, as folks say, is in the books. I am not sure I like that expression. I guess it is true though. It was a whirlwind for us…so much so that now it is over, I just contemplate the beauty and fun of Thanksgiving. This year, once again, Aaron and Rachel hosted Thanksgiving with the blending of both families. With so much food (from such good cooks), there was barely room for all of us, but their house is big so we did have room to spread out. There was food and merriment and frivolity with so much talking and conversations taking place in every corner of the house. The food was so delicious, including a bonus jar of perfectly simmered broth for the gravy. This was due to the generosity of my editor, Mike. I stopped by the office to pick it up and I had to open the lid to let out the scent. It was marvelous. The turkey was a hit although my cranberry sauce came back home with me, never touched! However, nothing else came back including my fabulous apple pie, mashed potatoes and corn casserole. I only filled my plate once as, well, the plates were giant and that was all I could handle on that day. The Charleston family stayed home so we were minus the six of them, and I missed them so much, but I understand.

Santa came to Angola and lots of other small towns this weekend, and lucky for him there was plenty of snow to make his escape back to the North Pole as he tries to keep up with the elves in the toy making department. I love being part of that night in my sweet town. It really is a family affair as Rachel and Graham make their once-a-year appearance as elves and kept the line moving. It was a cold night, but no one seemed to complain as the night itself was completely magical. Mayor Martin did the countdown and threw the magic fairy dust upon the square, and all the lights came on. The crowds cheered and clapped. I stood back to watch, as I often do. I love watching the joy spread throughout. I love watching parents and grandparents doting on their children.

As quickly as the square filled up, it became silent when Santa left for the North Pole, the elves quietly going back to work, and everyone going home to hot cocoa and Christmas movies. I guess I was almost the last to leave. With one last look, I too went home for heat and cocoa.

With the impending weather, my Florida family, Adam and Lisa, headed out a day early. It was the right call for them. With the pumpkins still adorning my front steps, and a shovel with a red ribbon, the snow began in the night and through all the next day. I can say it was lovely as I could just stay home and, yes, drink the hot cocoa and watch those movies.

Late on Sunday night the magical Christmas fairies came to plow and shovel me out. Melissa and Colt Farnham arrived with Cody to do the work. When everything was perfect, they drove off as if in a sleigh and to their team gave a whistle, “Merry Christmas to all,” I hollered out after them. It was almost dark when they left. Time to light the candles and heat up the leftovers. It is not lonely or quiet in this old house. The floors creak and the furnace hums gently into the night. The sound of all their voices echo through each room from Thanksgivings past, present and even on into the future.

December is here. With it comes the last full moon of the year. You can see it tomorrow night…known as the cold moon of winter. Time to settle in as the story goes, “Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap…” by Clement C. Moore.

We welcome sparkling, lovely December with open arms, and even though I am holding tight to those pumpkins, I am ready!

 

Ken Burns and a Big Surprise!

 

I waited with much anticipation for Ken Burns’ documentary, “The American Revolution.” I didn’t need to set my alarm clock, as darkness prevails early, and with all the chores done (and no rehearsals!), my evening was free to cozy up and watch.

My Uncle Jerry sent me a note wondering if we will learn anything new as we have studied this time period repeatedly. I assured him that we will indeed learn new things.

As the music started, I found myself already wrapped up in our history, and I couldn’t help but cry. Maybe the music. Maybe not. It has always been my favorite time in history. I think it all started with my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Finch. Not only did he love history, but he was also a great storyteller. On Monday mornings he would share stories about his weekend job at a local pizza place in Fort Wayne. Once we got him started, it was hard to get him to stop until it came to history class. I don’t remember if he used a book. I just remember he made it a living, breathing subject…like Ken Burns. By the time I went to get my first grown up book (and I have written about this before), I knew I wanted to read “Those Who Love” by Irving Stone.

History brings us together. On Sunday night I was thinking so much about the brave young and old men who dropped everything to protect and save a democracy that wasn’t even known or was possible yet. I can’t imagine.

The documentary has many voices, most of them are historians and writers who specialize in this time period. I love listening to the knowledge they know and share during this PBS special. I wanted to make a list of everything I learned, but I was so wrapped up in watching, that my paper was blank. But I can tell you, even though I studied in Abigail and John’s private library, even though I spent lots of time in Boston, in Philadelphia, in Braintree that I, indeed, learned so much.

There is still time to catch this series as it is on every night this week from 8-10. It is also available on the PBS app. (Isn’t everything on an app these days?)

Now, after my going on and on about this series, I want to share something wonderful with you. Last week I wrote about my grandfather, Walter F. Rhoads, and the empty trunk in my garage.

The day after the column appeared, I had an email from a long-lost (or never even knew about?) relative. She is the granddaughter of my grandfather’s sister, Mabelle. I knew Mabelle, of course. She was old like my grandfather. Of course, all grandparents seem old to children! Renae googled my grandfather’s name the day that my article came out and she wrote to me.  Renae’s mother, who is now 94, kept her mother’s scrapbooks all these years. She said she could share them with me if she ever found me, and because of the column last week, she found me. I was thrilled to hear from her. She sent me digital photos of Walter. She also promised to send me some of the postcards he sent home. This is what she wrote to me: “…when Mabelle was 16, she received a scrapbook for her birthday. In the book there are photographs of Walter in his uniform. She also has postcards which I am willing to send to you, so you have something to put into the empty trunk. My sister, Judy, and I always remember Walter on Veterans Day, so I googled him and found your story. Thank you for reminding all of us to remember our soldier’s past and present.”

When I received this note from her, I literally cried. I have nothing with my grandfather’s handwriting…no notes, no postcards, no letters. It was my grandmother, Luella, who always wrote, sending notes and recipes and family news. When these postcards arrive, I will have something to hold, and yes, to put inside the trunk. Hopefully we can also meet and share stories about our own lives.

So, this week my life has been ensconced in history. My history. My country’s history. Isn’t it amazing how we can connect in this digital age? Thank you, Renae, for finding me. Thank you for filling in some of the gaps in my own history, and above all, thank you for putting something into the empty trunk.

In Flanders Fields

Poppies

Yesterday was Veterans Day. I started the day by reading In Flanders Fields to my students. Most of them heard the poem in high school, although not all. I know my voice choked up as I read this beautiful poem which is read all over Great Britain on this day.

As a kid, I remember making paper poppies and wearing them. Of course, I doubt I knew much about the remembrance, but I loved making those poppies. There are groups that still make them and hand them out. Most folks in Britain wear the poppies on this day.

Lieutenant John McCrae was a Canadian doctor who decided he should be serving in WW1. He left his own practice and worked at a hospital on the front lines in Belgium. After the huge losses on the battlefield, McCrae wrote the poem. There were 150,000 known dead on Flanders Field.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly.”

McCrae was moved greatly by the battle and all the dead, but it was his own friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer who was the recipient of the poem. He wrote the poem on a scrap of paper in the back of a medical field ambulance at his funeral.

“Scarce heard amid the guns below, we are the dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders Fields.”

Later on, McCrae was not happy with the poem and he threw it away. Luckily a fellow soldier saw him do that and retrieved it. Eventually it was first published in London’s Punch Magazine in December, 1915. It was published anonymously. After it was published, it was soon known to be McCrae’s work and has been read on Veteran’s Day ever since. I had to learn the poem when I was in elementary school, and as I said, I don’t think I really knew what it meant. Do I now understand? I don’t think so.

“Take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high.”

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae continued to care for the wounded and bury the dead until he became ill himself in 1918. He died of pneumonia in line of duty. I would imagine his own poem was read at his funeral.

Flanders Fields is a tourist attraction now as with so many other historical battlefields. It is important that we travel and go see where history took place. While there you can visit the War Museum, American Cemetery, and the John McCrae Dressing Station WW1 and honor him, and read his poem where it was written.

My own grandfather, Walter F. Rhoads, was stationed overseas during the first World War. After his death at 94 in 1989, my mother sent me his army trunk. I was thrilled that she was sending it to me.

After the death of my grandmother and grandfather, my mom gifted the quilts that were lovingly made by my grandmother and great-grandmother. These quilts are so precious to me, and I treasure them.

The trunk from my grandfather is different. I was so looking forward to opening it when it arrived. It is large and drab olive. My grandfather’s name, Walter F. Rhoads, is stenciled on the front. I could only imagine the treasures I would find in the trunk: his helmet, his work papers, a jacket, a book, a magazine, a letter from back home. When I opened the trunk, it was empty. I was so disappointed, until much later. I began to think about that empty trunk. Was there actually a gift in the emptiness?

Throughout his life, he never spoke of the war…not ever. I wanted to know the stories, but he ignored those conversations. Perhaps leaving me an empty trunk was his gift to me of not wanting me to know the horrors of war.

The trunk sits neatly in the back of my garage. It is never disturbed, much like a tomb itself. It is always there when I get tools or paint cans out of the garage. It is then I remember him, not just on this day. Wear the poppies, read the poem, say a prayer of thankfulness in the holy darkness.

“If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.”

 

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