What’s in your Garden?

    

Image: Oregano from my garden. 

 

 

 

 

 My hands smell of fresh oregano, and I like it. I’ve been harvesting my abundance of oregano, cutting sprigs, tying twine around the lanky bundles, and hanging them in the shed to dry.   

        Last summer, the rosemary, tall, proud, and plentiful, was the star. However, the rosemary didn’t winter over well, so I replanted. Every season surprises me. 

      

 "Drying herbs is so simple and so satisfying." 

 

         The reward comes in winter when I open the airtight jar and inhale the savory scent before sprinkling the muddy green oregano in a sauce or stew. It’s brighter than its ugly brown store-bought cousin. 

         I grow hardier herbs like rosemary, chives, and oregano. Sometimes mint. Always basil, which I plant in pots near the house. Basil is popular, and any surplus becomes pesto. For drying herbs, I follow these steps.  

        Cut the herbs before they flower or “go to seed.”  Divide the cuttings into small batches for better air circulation and faster drying. Tie one end together, making a loop for easy handling. Hang the herbs in a cool, dark space for a couple of weeks. Drying times vary depending on the weather. Be patient.  

When leaves feel brittle to the touch and easily crumble, theyyyyyy’re ready. 

        I enjoy working outside for the last steps. * I work one bundle at a time, cutting the string, stripping the leaves from the stems onto wax paper. I have all my airtight bottles lined up, and the labels are handy. Wax paper makes it easier to scoop and bottle the herbs. Clean-up is easier too.   

            

"For a finer oregano, I employ the mortar and pestle, one of my favorite kitchen tools. This brown marble set is one family heirloom that I’m not worried about breaking. It’s a sturdy workhorse."

Image: Mortar & pestle with oregano. 

        Oh, the best part about my homegrown herbs is sharing them with friends and family. Recipes not included! 

*Pro tip: Pick a day that’s not windy to jar your herbs. 

 

My reading life transported me to an adventure in the Middle Ages. I enjoyed being immersed in the culture, customs, and lives of peasants and nobility during this era. 

I felt the fear of being chased by bandits in the forest. I savored the elaborate meals served during the holiday season. And, I experienced the hunger and abandonment of being locked in a dungeon. 

Now freed from the pages, I'll share key warning signs that you may be trapped in a Medieval novel. 

Ten Signs you may be a Female Character in a Medieval Novel

Your home is your castle—literally.

You never leave home without your sword.

Your horse is your most loyal friend.

You worry about bandits when riding in the woods. (That’s why you carry a sword.)

You believe in faeries (fairies).   

Your cousins are getting married to one another.

You worry about your father sending you to the convent.   

You know dungeons are real, dragons are not.

You find reading and speaking Latin useful in everyday life.

Your last concert featured a trio of troubadours serenading you outside the castle.

Summer: Time to Work or
Time to Play?  

    What was your first real paying job as a teen? Did you work during your summer vacation? Or did you play, watching your days melt away as fast as the soft-serve ice cream cone on a July day?

    My mother was certain I would not find a summer job.

    First off, summer had started, as defined by the last day of school, which meant all the cushy, decent-paying positions were taken.

    In my hometown, unless you knew someone who owned a family business, choices were limited to toiling at the degrading, greasy fast-food chains or relentless waitressing at the truck stop. Apart from babysitting, I was out of luck. I had no farmhand experience and was scared of tractors, which ruled out earning good money bailing hay. 

    That’s why I walked into Hardee’s, filled out an application, and walked out excited to be employed. I had a minimum-wage job behind the counter. Easy-peasy. 

    I proved I could find a job. That’s all I wanted. However, my first shift forced me to contend with bossy managers only a few years older than me, work weekend hours until closing, and smile at surly customers. I dealt with nicer, patient people than not. And I learned about Hardee’s unadvertised menu item— cheese sandwiches, ordered by the vegetarian patrons.    

    Employee perks included discounts on any menu item. My favorite meal was a fish fillet sandwich and fries. (I still like fillet-o-fish with yellow cheese on a soft bun.)   

    But there weren’t enough fish sandwiches or digits in my paycheck to compensate me for wearing the mandatory ugly uniform. A muddy brown polyester fabric, which always smelled like greasy fries, was the worst.  Although every Hardee’s employee looked as drab as their uniform.

    As miserable as I was, I worked weekends through the fall. I suppose I needed to prove to myself (and my parents) that I could keep this lousy job. An experience that taught me I had to start my job search earlier next time.  

    The following year, I was wiser in my quest to find summer work. My best friend and I got a gig serving three meals to rowdy campers at the college. No weekends! Afternoons off! Only hairnets, no goofy uniforms.   

    Funny, I can’t remember a supervisor. Perhaps she was out of sight doing important stuff while I was lifting heavy trays, weaving in-between long tables. Back and forth from the steamy kitchen to the dining hall and back. It was hard, sweaty labor.

    The day started at 6 a.m. and I didn’t mind because working alongside my best friend made every hour fly by. The joy and misery of a summer job forged our friendship deeper.

***

    My retired girl friends, and I were enjoying a gelato in a coffee shop this summer afternoon when in walked a smartly dressed teenager. He wore black pants, a white button-down shirt, and clean black shoes. Our table was close enough to eavesdrop on his job interview.

    “What experience do you have?” she asked.

    He told her he worked in food service, grocery stores, and restaurants. I didn’t hear her response, only his.

    “I’m a hard worker. I understand your loyalty to the people who worked here last summer,” he said.

    He didn’t sound upset, and I thought he had likely faced rejection a few times because it was already summer and job-hunting season had begun.

What can I write about roses that hasn’t already been said? Such exquisite beauty, fragrance, and thorny nature are well known to poets, writers, and gardeners around the world.   

 What does it mean to be lost in your art? 

    Morgan Fleming, a Kansas City jeweler, inspired by Peter Carl Faberge’s work, designed his own masterpiece titled “Morgan’s Egg in Renaissance Style.”

        “I didn’t know if I ever existed before the egg. It totally changed my life,” he told me when I interviewed him in the 1990s.

        He labored for six years on this million-dollar masterpiece. Fleming fit the profile of a mad scientist obsessed with his project who rarely left his lab. His family had tremendous faith in him, though he rarely saw him. Neither did his friends. Or customers. He hired out repairs to focus on finishing the regal egg.

        Every detail he painstakingly perfected for his Imperial Easter Egg. The stunning sterling silver egg features 18-carat gold lattice work dotted with 51 clusters, each featuring four diamonds accented with a ruby center. The gold base is trimmed with intricate white, red, and green enamel designs.

        Fleming thought he’d finish the egg in a year, but he estimated he devoted 4,500 hours. Other jewelers worked with him to replicate the design details. But he reminded me that Faberge employed around 400 craftsmen. His workforce produced one jeweled egg a year for the tsar, who presented the egg as an Easter gift for the tsarina. 

        Despite the setbacks and sacrifices, Fleming told me that he never contemplated failure. He was remarkable in his determination and imagination.

    (Footnote: I’ll work on this mystery to see where this extraordinary egg resides now.)

 

Have you heard about Stop the Sexualization of Children Act HR76661? The American Library Association its opposition to this recently introduced book banning legislation stressing that “parents, not politicians should guide their children’s reading.”   

Protect the Children, or How to Ban a Book in 5 Simple Steps

If you have a child, or know a child that you desperately want to protect, read on. Are you worried that books are corrupting young minds? And by corrupt, we mean ideas and beliefs unlike yours.  

Step 1: Pick a book that you have not read. Any book, genre, or target age. Do not worry if the book is not controversial; your job is to make it more controversial with a fact-finding expedition. It’s never been easier to make any book controversial without even reading it! The goal is to prevent an innocent child from learning something. Remember: Protect the children.

Step 2: Judge the book by its cover, the title, the awards it’s received. Does the title sound suspicious? Does the cover artwork make you anxious? All signs indicate that this book should remain closed. Remember, do not read the book, because this will inject positive bias. Pro tip: The literary award name usually appears in a gold circle stamped on the front.   

Step 3: Read the front flap to understand the book’s premise, setting, and characters. No matter how interesting it sounds, do not read the book. Studies show that if you read the book you cannot argue effectively against banning the book. Trust us.

Step 4: Read the author’s bio to figure out what offends your sensibilities. Maybe you don’t like their name (too foreign sounding), where they live, or that they have an awful haircut. It’s tempting to get bogged down in the writer’s confusing pronouns, religion, or ethnicity but you don’t need to conduct research. Yes, really. Pro tip: Pick one offense and don’t back down.

Step 5: Is this book “required reading” for school? If yes, then storm the school board, picket the library, or harass the parents and teachers who have failed to think of the children’s future. Remember, act outraged that reading books promotes a student’s ability to think for themselves are available at school libraries. Fiery eyes, fist in the air, and foaming at the mouth (kidding) draws more attention to you than the cause. Pro tip: Calmly declare that the book contradicts your family values, depicts real historical events, or uses inappropriate language. Don’t use foul language when giving your opinion.   

Finally, if you are concerned that the next generation will be duly influenced by what they read, expanding their knowledge and understanding about who they are and the world around them, it’s your duty to speak up. But we advise against telling your children about your ultimate book burning, banning plans. Teenagers, in particular, will want to read the very books you are protecting them from. Then, these ungrateful children will challenge you and publicly fight for their right to read all the books.   

Dreams of Winter 

When I greet winter,
I’m in Robert Frost’s poem pausing “between woods and frozen lake.”

❅❅❅

Where I see winter,
it’s a backyard of barren trees, showing off their naked shape,
the fleeting red flash at the feeder,
animal tracks in criss-cross patterns. 

❅❅❅  

What I sense
is calm wrapped in stillness,
an excuse to hibernate, tuck in, peer out.

❅❅❅

How do I dream of winter?
It’s gentle, well-behaved snow,
without the bullies wind, sleet, and ice.

❅❅❅

 

Image: Handwritten note by author. 

What do you think about cursive writing?

As a reporter, I relied heavily on my handwritten notes. Writing someone else’s words helped me better remember what they said. I invented my shorthand to capture key concepts. I starred passages that stuck out as ideal quotes because they explained a concept, described an experience, or made me laugh or cry.

    As a writer, I find my ideas flow easier with pen and paper rather than typing. Tapping on the keyboard or using dictation works too. But first, hand me a pen and let me balance a notebook in my lap.

+++

New Jersey dropped handwriting from its curriculum after the adoption of the Common Core State Standards in 2010, which didn’t require handwriting instruction. Many states said goodbye to cursive, but New Jersey reversed its decision.  In September, New Jersey public schools will start teaching cursive writing to third-through fifth-grade students.

Cursive is back! That's why I designed and typed (you’re welcome) a special cursive writing quiz in honor of cursive writing.  

How excited are you about the return of cursive writing to New Jersey school students?

A.     Woo-hoo! Everyone should know how to write in cursive and read it too.

B.     Every student in every state should learn longhand.

C.      I didn’t know they stopped teaching cursive.

D.     What a waste of time. What about Latin?    

What are the benefits of adding cursive to the curriculum?

A.     Improves spelling, motor skills, and hand-eye coordination  

B.     Signing legal documents and writing checks  

C.      Reading my parents’ love letters

D.     Students can write their own absentee excuses

What should our elementary students be learning besides cursive?

A.     Latin

B.     United States History

C.      Leonard Cohen’s musical catalogue  

D.     Writing with artificial intelligence

What careers are open to those who can read cursive?  

A.     Digital subscriber for the Smithsonian

B.     Teachers

C.      Historians

D.     Transcribing spells for wizards, witches, and magical beings.

What was the first instrument you used to write?    

A.     Pencil

B.     Leaky fountain pen

C.      Don’t ask. I was traumatized by the whole experience.

D.     Voice dictation

Have you ever had a pen pal?

A.     I still have pen pals.

B.      Sounds like fun. Sign me up.

C.      I’ve thought about writing to inmates.

D.     I exchange notes with my neighbor. She leaves a note on my car when I park in her spot, and I put a note when her dog does his business on my lawn.

How would you describe your signature?

A.     Big and bold like me.

B.     Tidy, tiny and unassuming  

C.      A cross between printing and writing

D.     Unruly, illegible, but hey, it’s unique.  

Do people compliment you on your signature?

A.     I’ve been told my handwriting is mesmerizing.

B.     Everyone says I have a doctor’s handwriting. Does that mean it’s awful?

C.      Sometimes. People who love loopy loops.  

D.     People ask: What language is that? Are you writing in code? Can you spell that for me?  

What is the most valuable or oldest handwritten document in your possession?

A.     I’m proud to own my great-great grandmother’s molasses cake recipe written in her own hand.

B.     A Girl Scout cookie order form (circa 1973) because it proves I could sell anything to anyone.

C.      My college essay.

D.     A postcard from the window installer looks like it’s handwritten.    

What historical documents would you like to see, read, or interpret?     

A.     Declaration of Independence

B.     Gettysburg Address

C.      Correspondence between Abigail and John Adams

D.     Give me the faint and fading documents

Key: For those with an abundance of As, buy yourself a journal. If your responses were mainly Bs, you understand the business and historical value of cursive writing. Readers who chose the C answers have good outlook on life.Write me a letter, please. If you circled more Ds, may this quiz inspire you to become a more well-rounded individual. But don’t fret if you had a few Bs, some Cs, and the rest As because it’s all for fun.

Did you know George Orwell was a pseudonym?

Orwell’s real name was Eric Blair. I learned this literary fact while hopscotch-reading through an anthology of essays. (1) 

This revelation about one of my favorite authors surprised me. I called my mother, who taught English for many years, to share the news while secretly hoping she didn’t it would be news to her. Mom didn’t know but noted it’s a common practice for authors to protect their privacy.    

Why did Blair use a pen name? Well, literary scholars have plenty of theories. A prominent one suggests that Blair didn’t want to embarrass his parents by publishing Down and Out in Paris and London (1933) under his own name. His nonfiction work is a portrayal of poverty based on working menial jobs in kitchens in Paris and living on the streets in England. An experiment to experience first-hand what poverty tasted like and felt like.

It reminds me of Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America (2001) by Barbara Ehrenreich. Ehrenreich worked undercover as a waitress, maid, and a chain retail store, to see if she could survive on minimum wage. Her work helped readers understand that living on minimum wage is not living but struggling.   

Back to Orwell, perhaps he chose the name in honor of a racehorse that had a reputation for losing races even though the odds were in its favor. “Naming himself after a loser with a disability might well have appealed to the writer’s dark sense of humour,” says Ronald Binns, author of Orwell in Southwold.

Or another guess: He wanted an English-sounding name.  

+++

A fiercely loved paperback of Orwell’s 1984 has a permanent home on the handmade pine bookshelf closest to my bed. It’s hard for me to read because of its physical state, not mine. Tiny typeface on dog-eared yellow pages. Plus, it smells musty and old, unlike the other crisper, younger books keeping it company. I imagine this edition has been with me since my high school days.    

Rarely do I reread books. However, 1984 has been the exception. I have returned to this classic, first assigned in school. My sense is that high school teachers dissected the meaning of the author’s satirical work, rather than the author, in this case. (2)

+++

Perhaps geography plays a role too when teaching literature. As a proud Missourian, I know that Mark Twain was Samuel L. Clemens’ pen name. It’s knowledge that I suspect they teach in school, but I believe it’s buried in the soil, or that it floats down the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River, a virtual character, in Twain’s work.

How did Clemens pick his pen name? Clemens claimed that his nom de plume was inspired by river boatmen. The boatmen called out Mark Twain, shorthand for two fathoms, helping navigate their craft. My mother also confirmed this legend. However, I found another story explaining that Clemens earned the nickname from ordering his usual drink, Mark Twain, which meant two shots of whiskey.  

Pick your story. How about another one? Twain was born on the same day Hally’s Comet shone in the sky in 1835 and died, as he predicted, when the comet appeared again in 1910.  

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t,” as quoted by Twain’s own character Pudd’nhead Wilson.

As a writer, I plan to take more care to learn and remember authors’ names and their life stories beyond what’s on the page.

Footnotes:

1    I was reading Orwell’s essay “Such, Such were the Joys,” in The Art of the Personal Essay An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present.   

2   Inside this book was George Orwell’s biography, which noted it was the pen name of Englishman Eric Blair, born in Bengal in 1903. I’m a better reader now, never skipping over introductions or avoiding afterwords.

AI Image: Snow falling in pine forest. 

Secrets of the Snow Spirits 

The Nordic cross-country ski club made a winter pilgrimage to the Adirondacks, finding solace in the snow. Every year, they escaped to worship nature’s snowy beauty.     

    But the snow spirits had cast a curse upon the region. The surrounding mountains, valleys, and forests were starved of snow. Fewer trails boasted a snow base deep enough to bury the jutting roots and hide the brown patches.

    The Nordics shared memories of swishing through the hard-packed snow glistening in the sunshine. They longed to hear the crunch, crunch of the snow again. The youngest among them shivered, imagining the bracing, frigid air welcoming them.

    Despite the bleak, sporadic snow forecast, the Nordics continued their traditional journey north. As was their custom, each skier brought gifts to honor the snow spirits. Presents including a rare poem written by Jack Frost, lush green velvet cloaks, a silver flask of aged whiskey, and an ice-blue sapphire tiara. They hoped these treasures, so rich and rare, would impress the spirits.

    Still, not a single snowflake fell.   

    Disappointed, the skiers shunned the spirits and instead put their faith in superstitions to bring snow. The younger snow spirits giggled as they watched each person place a spoon under the bed pillow. 

    But the elder spirits lashed out, unamused. “It’s absurd. Humans also believe wearing their pajamas to bed inside out will make it snow … or backwards and inside out.”

    The Nordics decided they must work together to repair their relationship with the divine deities. If they failed, they feared the snow drought curse would last forever.

    How could they show the spirits how much they loved a snowy winter wonderland?

    A thank-you party!

    As the spirits watched from above, each Nordic presented their gift. The club’s ski instructor recited his poem about snowflakes. Each stanza sang with the same praise he shared with skiers under his tutelage.

    Next, the musician played a bold, bright melody on his flugelhorn. He had mastered the fast tempo and performed fearlessly with speed and grace, just as he did while skate-skiing.

    The humble llama farmer knitted fuzzy honey-colored scarves from spun wool. She wove warmth and comfort into the scarves, wrapping the spirits in her loving touch and kind words.

    In the spirit of warming the icy hearts of the spirits, others chopped a cord of wood and built a roaring fire ablaze in blue and orange. The wood crackled and popped. The ski-house sommelier gave all a generous pour of vintage homemade vino to fete the spirits. Her heartfelt toast was as lively and robust as the wine itself.

    The Nordic leader who loved to cook served up an Italian feast. He sacrificed his time on the trails to cook for his friends and the spirits. Every course included his signature ingredient of fresh, sweet garlic. Chopped garlic topped the bruschetta. Roasted bulbs drenched in olive oil spread on crusty bread. Tomato garlic sauce served over a swirl of steaming pasta. The sweet aroma of garlic lingered and wafted into the woods, making for sweet dreams. 

    All slept well after the dinner and festivities, and they dreamed of waking up to a winter wonderland. The next morning, their dreams had come true. Rejoice!

The sky blushed pink-orange, and the land beamed with six inches of snow.

     Tree branches wore a brand-new winter coat. Birdhouses donned fluffy top hats. Paw prints zig-zagged across the landscape in this wildlife walkway. The woodland welcome committee had already arrived—a drilling woodpecker, a screeching hawk, and a jeering blue jay. 

    The Nordics ventured into the endless winter beauty. Every kilometer of trail beckoned them. They traversed the hills together before heading in different directions. Curious skiers stopped to study the terrain, animal tracks, and tree bark. While some raced across the frozen pond, others circled around it. A few shed their skis and slip-slid-walked across the solid ice.

    The Nordics never worried about snow droughts, for the Snow Spirits rewarded those who shared their talents. Maybe, the snow spirits loved garlic too. 

Did you know George Orwell was a pseudonym?

Orwell’s real name was Eric Blair. I picked up this literary fact while hopscotch-reading through an anthology of essays.¹   

 Last week’s revelation about one of my favorite authors surprised me. It also piqued my curiosity. Why did Blair use a pen name?² 

I called my mother, who taught English for many years, to share the news while secretly hoping this was news to her too. Turns out she didn’t know, but nor was she surprised. I also learned she didn’t teach Orwell’s work.   

+++

A fiercely loved paperback of George Orwell’s 1984 has a permanent home in the handmade pine bookshelf closest to my bed. It’s hard for me to read because of its physical state, not mine. Tiny typeface on dog-eared yellow pages. Plus, it smells musty and old, unlike the other crisper, younger books keeping it company. I imagine this edition has been with me since my high school days.    

Rarely do I reread books. However, 1984 has been the exception. I have returned to this classic, first assigned in school. My sense is that high school teachers dissected the meaning of the author’s satirical work, rather than the author.  

+++

Perhaps geography plays a role too when teaching literature. As a proud Missourian, I know that Mark Twain was Samuel L. Clemens’ pen name. It’s knowledge that I suspect they teach in school, but I believe it’s buried in the soil, or that it floats down the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River, a virtual character, in Twain’s work.

How did Clemens pick his pen name? Clemens claimed that his nom de plume was inspired by river boatmen. The boatmen called out Mark Twain, shorthand for two fathoms, helping navigate their craft. My mother also confirmed this legend. However, I found another story explaining that Clemens earned the nickname from ordering his usual drink, Mark Twain, which meant two shots of whiskey.  

Pick your story. How about another one? Twain was born on the same day Hally’s Comet shone in the sky in 1835 and died, as he predicted, when the comet appeared again in 1910.  

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t,” as quoted by Twain’s own character Pudd’nhead Wilson.

As a writer, I plan to take more care to learn and remember authors’ names and their life stories beyond what’s on the page.

^{1            I was reading Orwell’s essay “Such, Such were the Joys,” in The Art of the Personal Essay An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present.}   

^{2            Why did Eric Blair choose the name Orwell? Curious readers, I will write another blog on writers and their pen names.}  

What Can we Learn from Strangers? 

My mother and I settled into a shuttle hired to take us to a family dinner. Mom is comfortable in the back while I’m tucked into the passenger side that’s too close to the dash, even for a short-legged person like me. But it was a 15-minute trip and not worth adjusting the seat.

Our conversation with our driver started on cruise control, with the ordinary openers: How are you today? Where are you going? Where are you from? 

 We meandered through topics, and the effect was like approaching a cautionary yellow light where one relies on instinct: speed up or slow down.    

It started with my telling our affable driver that I was from Philadelphia visiting family in Columbia, Missouri, over the holidays.

“Philadelphia? They had a garbage workers’ strike this summer, right?” he said.

Did I want to talk trash? No, but I had empathy for the city workers and their families.

“It was awful,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined the stench in the July heat. I lived outside the city limits, far away from the smelly situation. However, I had friends who lived in the city who worried about the strike, especially after hauling their garbage to pickup sites with mounting piles.

Our driver, a man who probably juggled several jobs, sided with the union, believing Philadelphia’s mayor should have paid the workers, not let them go on strike. The strike lasted eight long days.

Philly is a union town. Unions thrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Last summer, the city’s Union 33, comprised of about 9,000 workers, went on strike before Independence Day, when tourists outnumber cheesesteaks. Besides sanitation workers, Union 33 members also include custodians, security guards, and others who work in the public library system, which meant many libraries, which serve as cooling centers in the summer, were closed. 

Closed due to staffing. Closed because of safety concerns. Closed in solidarity. (Because the librarians who belong to another union lent their support to their co-workers.)

We developed a rapport and continued talking. I learned our driver wasn’t a native Midwesterner. He grew up in North Carolina, far from the coast. He longed to visit the East Coast, see the Atlantic Ocean—from the shore, not a boat, thank you. Yes, he also wanted to see Philadelphia.

Did I recite the region’s historic sites, naming the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Valley Forge? Yes. Did I kick off bragging about the Eagles? No, that’s too serious. He wasn’t wearing a Chiefs hat, but why remind him of the bitter taste of defeat? Did I remember to mention the popular shows “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or “Abbott Elementary”? Yes, of course. Or pick an easy subject to chew on, like our famous food scene? We ran out of time.   

Without hesitating, he says he’d like to see the Rocky statue rather than the Liberty Bell. He’s not alone in his fandom. Rocky draws hordes of tourists who run up the art museum’s seventy-two steps like the character Rocky.  

Meanwhile, we were halfway to my brother’s house. It’s partly sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s. It’s the Friday after Christmas, and I assumed from the sparse traffic that the transport business had a light week.  

The transport business was not slow despite the holiday week, he said, explaining he drove dialysis patients to their appointments on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. These treatments are vital for those suffering from kidney failure or diagnosed with kidney disease.

“I admire their positive attitude,” he said, adding that they gave him inspiration.

Our silence suggested we agreed our worries were few and small in comparison. I stared out the window, sad but grateful. Gratitude is appreciating what we have in the present tense.

Over two million people worldwide treat kidney disease with dialysis or a kidney transplant, according to the Cleveland Clinic’s website. A staggering number.  

But I had met a stranger who drove a shuttle delivering compassion along with a ride.   

 

What happens when you talk, really talk with Strangers?

Although my casual exchanges with librarians, waiters, hotel receptionists, or museum staff, shuttle drivers, may feel random, I believe otherwise. Every conversation opens a door. Invites reflection. Raises a question. 

Bob the librarian told me he liked my I still read books button when I approached him for a favor. “Could you watch my box of books while I pull my car around to load up?” I asked.

Why guard a box of books in a library? My box contained three-volume sets of new, expensive encyclopedias, which were my responsibility to return to the bookstore. He agreed. I lugged the sagging box from the meeting room to the circulation desk.   

“Watch!” he called, pointing to the box, whose bottom had come apart without me realizing it. He looked for a sturdier box, and when he didn’t find one, offered to carry the books for me.

We talked as he followed me to my car parked in the back lot. He carried the heavy box with a straight back and a smile. Before the library, Bob considered himself the consummate businessman—he loved the energy that came from making deals. He spent long lunches closing deals, signing contracts, and celebrating with drinks. He called himself a functioning alcoholic — someone who manages working, parenting, and living their life without showing stereotypical outward signs of addiction.

It’s like a game of hide and seek that goes on too long when finally, the one hiding shows themselves and end the game. Or the seeker gives up searching and calls, “Olley, Olley, in free,” declaring a truce or a new round.

I listened and then shared a family story—with a stranger. A first for me. I stood there, in my memory.

He said, “I can tell you’re a worrier.”

I can confirm I know how to worry. But I strive to follow the Serenity Prayer — accepting the things I cannot change, having the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Today, Bob’s a recovering alcoholic. He told me his family checks on him, especially concerned after relaying bad news. “I don’t want a drink after hearing sad news. I crave a drink after hearing good news,” he explained.   

We shook hands. He walked back to the library, his refuge. As I drove home, I knew I’d walked through another door of understanding.  

(The librarian's name was changed at the writer's discretion.) 

Image of Santa in the Northern Lights. 

Boots Rides Again 

“Boots, why don’t you ride with me Christmas Eve?” Santa said as he scratched me behind the ears.      

I opened one eye and raised my head. I’d rather sleep by the fire.

“But you’ll miss the celestial show tonight—an epic experience,” Santa said.

Sleeping is an epic experience, I thought, stifling a yawn.    

“I’ll be back for you,” the jolly elf said with a wink I knew well.

“Where are my fur-lined gloves?” Santa called, rummaging through the closet, tossing mismatched gloves into the hallway with a thump, thump, thump.  

Mrs. Claus appeared holding his lost gloves. She handed him the gloves and wrapped a muffler around his neck in exchange for a kiss.

“You need a new muffler,” she said, poking her finger through a gapping hole. 

“I like this muffler because it’s warm. What’s wrong with it?” he said, frowning in mock protest.

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix. I'll ask the elves to mend it again,” she said, tsk-tsking as she walked away.

“What would I do without you? And my magic scarf?” he said chuckling. 

Santa saw me standing by the doorway. “Boots, you decided to ride again for old-time’s sake.”      

I’d matured at least three lifetimes since that first scary sleigh ride with Santa. What a memorable night.  

 +++

Long before Santa adopted me, my name was Midnight. My life was carefree. I lived in a barn content to share my home with horses.  

Oh, I can still smell the sweet scent of hay in my loft. But there wasn’t enough hay to keep me warm when temperatures dropped into the single digits. I still shiver remembering Missouri winters. The heartland is harsh in the winter, even though I have a fur coat.  

That night, I had snuggled into an old, smelly horse blanket. Sleep came easily. In my dreams, I pounced on grasshoppers, chased field mice in a maze of corn, and dozed in the sunshine surrounded by wildflowers. Suddenly, a blast of frigid air and the sound of jingling bells woke me. The barn door stood wide open, and a herd of deer stood in formation. The snorting bunch began eating from the trough like they hadn’t had a meal in weeks. The horses ignored them, but I couldn’t. A blinking red nose coming from the smallest deer made the barn glow. I burrowed under the blanket.

But curiosity beckoned me to investigate. I snuck outside while the herd noisily ate. Outside, I spied a funny-looking type of tractor without wheels.   

I heard heavy footsteps and jumped inside the bulging bag atop the tractor. The warmth enveloped me, coaxing me into a nap.  I awoke to a deep voice calling, “Time to fly!” followed by a slap of reins.

 Where was I? I pawed at the thick fabric with my claws. I howled, screeched, and scratched. My stomach felt like I’d eaten something rotten. Panic set in. The bag opened, and a long white beard tickled my whiskers.

“Where did you come from?” the voice asked.

The Murphy’s barn, I thought.

“I have toys to deliver, and I’m afraid you’ll stuck with me, little one,” the strange large man said as he pulled me out of the bag. He swaddled me in his worn but warm muffler.

“We’ll get you back safe. The Mrs. will know what to do,” he said.

Twinkling, blinking stars surrounded us as we whooshed through the air.

“This nice clear night makes for smooth traveling,” he said.  

Who are you?

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m Santa Claus,” he said, reading my mind.  

Where are we?   

“Don’t worry, Midnight, we know our way. Look straight ahead if you feel sick,” Santa answered in a reassuring voice that comforted me. How did he know my name?

 My nausea had passed. 

“We’re going through the Milky Way,” Santa said, gesturing with both hands.

“It’s dazzling,” I said, wishing he’d hold onto the reins.

“The skies are spectacular. We love surfing over the rainbow of Northern Lights, which is phenomenal. Rudolph took to dancing with the lights. Ho, ho, ho! I promise to show you someday,” he said.

Before I could ask who Rudolph was, I fell into a deep sleep.

Refreshed, I woke up to a symphony of snoring from a crew of Santa’s helpers. Elves. Elves are the loudest sleepers I’ve heard and remember; I’ve slept in a barn. Before I’d had time to explore, a short, smartly dressed woman with rosy cheeks and wire spectacles appeared.

“Bedraggled mess, but we’ll fix you up,” the woman said. I assumed this was the Mrs. She took my left paw in her hand. “Are your paws white? It looks like you’ve been walking in the snow.”

She pulled a brush from her apron, unknotting all the tangles until my coat glistened. She buried her face in my fur, which made her sneeze.

“Bless you,” I said.

“You need a bath, Boots,” she said. 

Didn’t she know I gave myself baths? I didn’t want a strange human touching me. But her kind eyes made me trust her.

She hummed “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” as she carried me into the house for a bath in the sink. She scrubbed and dried and fluffed my fur. She held a mirror for me to admire myself.

“Follow me Boots, I’ll conjure you up a nice dish of leftovers,” Mrs. Claus said.

She poured some cream into a bowl. It tasted like home, and I wasted no time lapping it up. She returned with a dish full of food. I inhaled the fishy goodness, not realizing how hungry I was.

Mrs. Claus invited me into their cozy cottage, where I made myself comfortable on the braided rug, where I lay now.

+++

“Boots. I promised to show you the Northern Lights. Tonight’s the night,” Santa said.

I supposed my TikTok dance video could wait until next year.

Mrs. Claus held up a cat-sized sweater and smiled. Before I could stop her, she dressed me in the hand-knit, fuzzy soft sweater. The deep red color flattered my raven-colored coat and matched Mr. Claus’ suit too.

“Perfect fit!” she beamed, clapping her hands together.

Rather snug for my taste. But I would never hurt her feelings. I paraded around the room jingling?   

“The bells are a safety feature so Santa can hear you,” Mrs. Claus said.

I rolled my eyes. She meant well, but I sounded like a miniature sleigh. Rudolph and the guys would tease me relentlessly.

“I should get a photo of you two in your matching suits before you leave,” she said.

“No time,” Mr. Claus bellowed.

“Come along then, Boots. Donner is giving his pep talk to the crew while the elves load the sleigh,” Mr. Claus said, opening the door. He scooped me up and headed for the barn.

“Fill Old Santa’s sleigh before us, ho, ho, ho, ho ho, ha, ha, ha, ha," sang the elves who were giddy with exhaustion, but as soon as we left, they would party. A drunken display that I’d unfortunately stumbled upon last Christmas Eve. I jumped from Santa’s arms into the sleigh whilst the elves sang softer now,

“Spike the nog, prepare the punch. We are a partying bunch. Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.

This party is on the down low; Old Santa mustn’t know.

Seriously, you got my gist? Santa still keeps a naughty list.”

The eldest elf's green eyes locked on mine, a warning. I nodded because these elves had a temper, especially after too much nog or grog or whatever nasty drink they brewed. I adored thick creamy milk — hold the rum.

A chorus of elves sang louder and faster, “Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Ho, ho, ho, let’s go!” Santa called, bursting into the barn.

All the reindeer followed his orders, pairing up in front of the sleigh. With a wave of Santa’s hand, a harness floated above the team. Donner bowed his head three times. Santa checked the radar and gave the signal for lift-off. Contrary to widely held belief, Santa planned his route based on the weather, with no time to stop for treats. In fact, he carried protein bars—but that’s our secret.

“Time to Fly!” he called.

I closed my eyes, preparing for the sleigh to rise off the ground. My ears popped. Slowly, I opened my eyes when we were at cruising altitude.

“How much further until we reach the Northern Lights?” I asked.  

To be continued.

Why not try a
Thrifty Christmas? 

Whether the motivation is economic or environmental, I applaud this trend. Recently, I struck up a conversation with a bookstore customer browsing the shelves.  

“You’re having a great day!” I said, marveling at the stack of brand-new looking books she juggled in her arms. She explained that her family had agreed to a thrifty Christmas this year, buying only used items. She smiled after she said she had finished shopping and was under budget.

Many of you may think that thrift store shopping is not as easy as online three-click shopping. But my friends, the reward comes from the thrill of treasure hunting. When I see the perfect present, it’s like spotting a shooting star in a twinkling night sky. Plus, I don’t spend more than I planned thanks to the low prices and avoiding the high-end and designer brand items locked in cases.

A parody of a tune in the spirit of the season. Here's to a thrifty holiday! 

 

Have Yourself A Thrifty Little Christmas

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Don’t you spend a grand!
From now on, we’ll only shop second hand.

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Join me in a song.
From now on, we’ll hunt for treasures all year long.

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Let your wallet rest.
From now on, we’ll put our unique gifts to the test.   

Pre-Chorus/Chorus  

Here we are watching prices soar.
No more spending days of yore.
Faithful to the budget this year.
Holiday debt no more.           

Through the years, we’ve found the truth.
It’s the thought that counts.
Give a gift that won’t be returned or exchanged.
And have yourself a merry, debt-free season now.    

Pre Chorus/Chorus 

Here we are wearing recycled sweaters,
spreading holiday cheer galore.  
Faithful friends follow us this year
proud to support their charity store.
  

Through the years, we’ve all grown wiser.
Let us make a vow.
Show our loving miser side to those so dear.
And have yourself a thrifty little Christmas now.  

*Co-written Marilyn & Rico Paolino

 

 

 

Image: Cardinals not at my new feeder!

Where are the birds?

It’s been three days! 

Our new smart bird feeder, overflowing with seeds is ready. We are waiting somewhat patiently to watch you eat–takeout or dine in. Swoop in and perch on the platform. Or grab some grub to go.

All birds staying over the winter are welcome. 

We see you–flashy red cardinals, tufted titmice hopping on the deck. We hear you—red-bellied woodpeckers drilling and sets of squawking jays.

Stop by our sturdy, tree-friendly feeder equipped with a camera hugging the most popular bird hangout in our front yard. The camera has alerted us to every school bus, garage truck, car, bicycle, and walker passing by the house. But no birds.

Aren’t birds always hungry? I suppose they are foraging tasty berries, worms, insects and have no time for free seed. Maybe I need to offer a better selection of seeds at the buffet.

While waiting, I’m musing why we have no bird visitors.  

3. The locals are not hungry after having a Thanksgiving feast at our neighbor’s house.

2. Some feathered friends are camera-shy uncomfortable with anyone watching them gobbling their meal, and coming back for seconds, thirds, etc.    

1. Certain birds are boycotting our feeder until I make my donation to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. 

That's it! I pledge a donation to protect the birds. 

Cookbook inscribed by my flat mate.    

Found Family for Thanksgiving  

My first “Friendsgiving” was one memorable potluck feast with a group of American students sharing a house during their study abroad semester in England.

I didn’t expect to celebrate my favorite holiday away from home. For the last 21 years, I’d spent Thanksgiving with my parents and brother. We hosted relatives who drove for days, happy to be among family. My parents also invited guests whom we affectionately called “strays,” because they didn’t have family nearby. We welcomed these individuals, who were my mother’s students, my father’s colleagues, or our friends from church.

Our traditional meal centered on roasted turkey. Garden vegetables, sweet potatoes, dressing, canned cranberry sauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie with Cool Whip completed the feast. We had plenty of servings of food and gratitude to go around.     

***

I was grateful for the chance to study abroad, a privilege bestowed by my parents. As a communications major, I was thrilled to meet people who produced radio and television programs for the British Broadcasting Corporation. I divided my time between studying and exploring Oxford by bicycle. The town was bustling with students on bikes. The river rippled with scullers.   

***

I kept busy writing essays and writing letters back home. Overseas phone calls were expensive back then, and reserved for emergencies. As Thanksgiving neared, so did my desire for familiar settings, food, and unconditional love.

Mary Houser, my Oxford roommate and new friend, also suffered from a similar bout of homesickness. Neither of us had been away from our families at Thanksgiving. But Mary wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity. And that’s what I adored about her.

She hosted Thanksgiving at our flat. Mary always lifted my spirits. I used to tease her by singing “Oh, it’s a jolly holiday with Mary,” from the Mary Poppins’ movie.

Mary negotiated with everyone so we wouldn’t have too many green bean casseroles. Everyone agreed to bring a different dish and contribute toward the turkey. I made apple pies and set off the smoke detector in the process. Our house mates, hearing the alarm, quickly came to check on Mary and me. 

Bad news: Our flat smelled of smoke that clung in the air all afternoon. Good news: I didn't burn the pies! 

We had a spectacular celebration that Thanksgiving, grateful for our blossoming friendships, belonging, and bounty of food.   

A Beginner's Dilemma 

“Why don’t you two beginners practice together?” 

Mr. Friendly’s question sounded more like a command than a suggestion to this newbie on her first night of open indoor pickleball at the local community center.   

Located less than a mile from my house, I joined this community center because it offered pickleball, along with yoga, spinning classes, and even a childhood favorite  —  badminton. Of course, I expected that a sense of community came with the membership. Now, I was dubious.

Players trickled in, claiming their courts and partners for the first round of doubles during the 90-minute session. Meanwhile, Teri and I, dubbed beginners, played together on the far court. Until more players arrived. Instead of the regulars asking us to play with them, they asked the manager to set up another net. Just for us.

Politely, we were banished to play behind the barrier in the gymnasium Isolated. No stray balls would roll onto our neighbor’s court. No rallying calls or screeching shoes. And no regular players dared rotate in and out of our game.

 “They are aggressive players,” Teri said, adding that she had experienced this brand of competitive behavior from them last week.

Although I felt hurt, I focused my anger on controlling my shots. Low pressure. No scorekeeping. She had taken pickleball lessons, and my good friends had taught me the ins and outs of the game.

Beginners? Our coordination, strategy, and court coverage surpassed any average beginner. 

Admittedly, I’m biased.

Teri, a left-handed player, recognized we had both played tennis. We got into a steady groove and started having fun.

Then, a player I’ll call Manny, who had paired Teri and I together, appeared. “Let’s hit. Keep the ball in play. Don’t worry about the score,” he said. He motioned for me to team up with Teri.

After we ran Manny from side to side, sweat started dripping from his forehead. He analyzed our returns, much like a sports commentator who points out every error your team made in real time. His coaching was useful, his intentions good, but I wanted to hit without the free lessons.

Obviously, he wasn’t winning any points with me. Before leaving us to resume practicing, Manny shared several key ways to win points: 1) hit the ball at the person’s feet, over their head, and anywhere they are not.

My new friend Teri and I said our farewells in the parking lot. I asked her if she had tried the open badminton, naively thinking the game didn’t draw the racquet warriors. Her story surprised me.

“The desk person looked me up and down before asking: When was the last time you played?”

Teri, who is an athlete with knee surgery to her credit, admitted she had not played the game for decades. Because of that, she was shunned. “We have professional badminton players here. Why don’t you play pickleball instead?”

Really? I thought. My community center is a training ground for badminton champions.

“I’ll stick to pickleball then. Do you play on other days?” I asked Teri. 

“Tuesday nights. But don’t come on weekday mornings for pickleball," she said, in a voice that warned me off.   

“Oh?” I asked.

"It’s all levels. We’d have to play with beginners!” Terri said.

We both laughed. I laughed all the way home. Because the truth is, nobody likes to play with beginners, even beginners. 

Footnote: I returned to the community center for open play night. Manny, a regular, told me he felt bad for how we were treated. 

 

My imagination on a bad day.

Photo by Rico 

Exclusive Interview: My Imagination in which Everything gets Real  

Because the idea of interviewing you came to me while I was cycling uphill, let’s start our conversation with the question: How do you keep fit?

Weeeee! Cycling, of course, is my favorite exercise. I walk every day. Sometimes I swim. Staying fit affects my level of creativity. But besides exercise, I also try to eat right and get enough rest.

Do children have better imaginations than adults?

            Children have more time to play with their imaginations. Children are more curious. Adults aren’t any less creative than children unless they believe they are. When people choose wonder over worry their imaginations return like a giddy five year old with an ice cream cone.

            Is ingenuity a nature versus nurture thing?

            Humans are natural inventors. Each individual must foster their own imagination. Embrace every idea.

            Do you believe it’s both nature and nurture then? Talk about how to nuture an imagination?

            Sensibility. Use all your senses — devour sights, sounds, smells. Try tasting, touching, and tackling some new skills. I read, listen to music, and work puzzles.

Sense and Sensibility, like Jane Austen’s novel. That’s easy to remember. Moving along, it must be gratifying to come from a long line of muses who have inspired artists, writers, musicians, and scientists.

Did you know that Albert Einstein’s famous quote, “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” was a tribute to my mother’s descendants? My family felt privileged to have played a role in scientific discoveries. But we served many chefs, stirred the souls of poets, motivated musicians, and nurtured writers over the centuries. Personally, I believe my influence on your work is meaningful. Together, we can make people laugh, care, and cry.

Thank you. I value our relationship.  

You named your sailboat Imagination. Remember how fond you were of saying, “With imagination, I’ll get there.” You meant that both literally and figuratively, speaking.

What are five words that describe you?

I’m going to turn that question on you. Here are five words that don’t describe me. Analytical. Conservative. Devilish. Measured. Practical. Impish.

Impish, that’s six words. And why impish?

Impish conjures up a playful image, which I like. But the word is associated with elves with round faces and pointy elf ears. It also sounds too mischievous.  

Who has the best imaginations?

I adore Sherlock Holmes, a fictional character that’s been a playmate since … well, since you were 12 years old. But as for humans, each individual imagination is the best after someone believes in them.

Let me rephrase the question: If we had a dinner party, who would you invite?

First, I’d invite a chef whose creations would be as exciting as the party. If I’m reading you question right, I can choose, correct? It doesn’t matter whether or not they are still alive?

Correct.

I’ll send you the guest list.  

            Let’s talk about AI. What’s your impression of AI?

I met Chat GPT. She has a keen sense of humor. Super funny. But I do not trust her.

You’re not alone; many humans don’t trust AI either.

In preparation for this interview, I prompted AI to invent a condition, symptoms, and treatment for humans suffering from a disorder that renders them creatively compromised. I’m eager to share it with your readers.

“Obscuritas Creativa” is as democratic as the imagination itself: it may visit anyone, at any stage of life, without warning. Those who have lived to long without wonder, or who have buried their inner child are especially vulnerable to the condition.”

Then I asked if this dreadful condition was contagious. Here’s the response: “While not contagious in the traditional, medical sense—no sneeze, handshake, or shared coffee cup transmits it. When creativity is dismissed, stifled, or ridiculed, the condition’s symptoms can seem to echo from person to person.”

Echo from person to person? Sounds weird.

            Wait, it gets weirder in a way that lets the reader question whether or not it’s artificial or authentic-human generated. (I even edited this for clarity.)

Mmm, go on.

“A workplace where innovation is punished or a classroom that values only conformity may foster an epidemic of colorless thinking.” But when I asked how to cure this malady, the answer surprised me.

“The cure is best pursued together: curiosity, encouragement, and collective wonder are powerful antidotes, more potent when embraced by a creative community.”

What is the lesson from this exercise? There’s got to be a lesson somewhere.

I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Collaborations with AI are the future, but conforming isn’t for every artist.

I for one, don’t want an epidemic of colorless thinking. Moving on, can imaginations work overtime? Or is that an expression?

If someone accuses your imagination of working overtime, the best thing you can do is say “thank you.”  All of us imaginations work tirelessly without the recognition we deserve.

Are you more active at night?

It depends. One cannot expect your imagination to behave in an unfamiliar place. Camping in the woods—that’s the worst for me.  

What does a figment of your imagination mean?   

An idea escaped before it matured. We call it a ghost idea because the figment hovers and floats around. My recommendation is to ignore figments rather than pursue them.   

Now, I have to ask: Is it okay to let your imagination run wild?

Absolutely. It’s more fun for you and me.

What are you working on now?

It’s a surprise. An astonishing story.

(Readers: AI generated the nonexistent condition of Obscuritas Creativa.)