I possess items that I have carried from place to place and have every intention to do so until I no longer know what they are, or why I have them, or die before those conditions. Some are from my childhood, and the rest have been accumulated during my adult years. They are my seventeen spirit keepsakes: A cheap ceramic white angel and a black and white photo. A ring and a pendant. A stone with a picture glued on it. A worn and torn piece of fabric and a signet ring. A marb

As a volunteer disc jockey at our local community college, I am free to choose whatever songs or arrangements I desire to play from the Blues genre for the Good Moanin’ Blues show. There are thousands upon thousands to select from our physical library as well as our online library. One would think that it would be easy to pick out tunes that are both fine examples and acceptable to put out over the airwaves. However, all the choices affect me the same way that sam

Oh, hello there! It’s been a while. I wondered when you’d return. Hello, Loneliness. Hello, Fear. Hello, Disgust. Come in! Come in! Yes, there have been some changes here. I’ve been feathering my nest and curating my possessions; out with the broken, the stained, the useless, the ugly, the weighty. I am clearing spaces, making room, and beautifying. You’re not so sure you like it? You like it the way it used to be. You don’t like how the light bounces around now. You wan

My first exposure to the F-word was from my brother, Roy. I think I was fifteen, so that would have been 1967, and he would have been twenty-eight. I don’t remember the circumstances that made him angry, but the single F-word spit out sounded nasty. Perhaps it made an impression because he was furious. But what did it mean? I was familiar with “shit” and “damn.” These were the curse words of choice in my childhood home. They were mostly employed by my mom who was often impat

Show Me Beautiful More years ago than I want to acknowledge, when I was 12, my oldest brother handed me a slim volume of poems. A cheap newsprint edition, the pages have turned golden with the edge of each page seemingly dyed buff; parts of the spine have fallen away. The cover is worn and the corners rounded. I’d never buy it at a yard sale. I can’t throw it out. When I pick it up, it opens to my favorite: Summons by Robert Francis “Keep me from going to sleep too soo

March 2022 "Do I have to do everything around here?" I huffed to myself. I live solo in an eleven-hundred-square-foot condo. No lawn upkeep, no snowplowing, no snow shoveling. My only responsibility is the space inside. A simple arrangement for a single, almost seventy-year-old woman. But in early winter, three overhead lights in three rooms burnt out. It wasn't necessary to replace them immediately because all the fixtures had at least one other bulb. It bothered me a li

Some might say I’m a packrat. I prefer “magpie.” A creative magpie. For decades I have added to a stash of glittery costume jewelry; bits of luxe fabrics such as lace and velvet; interesting paper stock from magazines, greeting cards and packaging; nicer store tags from clothing; fancy buttons; as well as other petite and interesting things hard to classify. Once, in a fit of decluttering, I donated a weighty small tin box with vintage watches, an antique rhinestone button,

I have a rare gift. Who else can create chaos in their home, where they alone abide, so effortlessly and thoroughly? The kind of chaos where, when I returned from a twelve-day Mexican vacation with family, I opened the door and thought: “I’ve been burgled!” Clothes and papers and suitcases and various bags and boxes had been left strewn on the living room and dining room furniture and floors. Collections of papercraft items teetered from horizontal surfaces; on

I have met the enemy. I originally hoped that this enemy might be a friend. I hoped the relationship would give me a little relaxation, a change of pace, an expanded view of the world. But no. This enemy skillfully exposes and exacerbates my worst qualities: lack of discipline, emotional numbing, over-eating, junk food consumption, procrastination, and sloth. I stay up late, get up later. My brain and my tongue feel fuzzy. My healthy routine, assiduously and mindfully develo

On a Wednesday in March, I exposed myself to four preschool classrooms, a thrift shop, and a convenience store. This is how I think of going into the world, post-pandemic. Exposing myself. Somewhere along the way I caught a cold. I didn’t admit that the runny nose was a cold until Friday, when I experienced the personal distress flag that my body sends out when something untoward is happening. Namely, I get the chills for a day when my body is fighting a virus or infection.

Here I am a couple of weeks after my new 55" TV was installed. My son offered to put up the full motion wall mount, saving me installation costs. It took a couple hours on a Friday night, and then a couple more Sunday when he returned with more tools needed. He also set me up with streaming services. I tried one evening to find a program that would catch my fancy on Prime, Hulu, or Netflix. I had to force myself to do so; interfacing with new technology requires a bit of c

Usually, I distract myself from melancholy. I’m afraid if I give it more than a cursory acknowledgement, I will fall into a pit of despair from which I will have a hard time climbing out. So - Turn on the radio! Text or call friends! Listen for the tone that indicates it is my turn on Words with Friends. Fix comfort foods and eat too much. Make plans. Or go out, into the world, to see what I can see. Anything to avoid feeling sad for more than a few minutes. Early on a recen

You, dear readers, may remember from my premier article that I do not subscribe to streaming services or otherwise watch TV. I do, by the way, have a television. It is small and old. Maybe four times a year I hook up the DVD player and watch something from my small stash of DVDs. Other than that, I just mess about in the evening. Sometimes it is fruitful, as with the fire starters. But often enough, around 6:30 or 8 or even 9, I will think it a good idea to start that new pr

"What are you doing tonight?" Linda asked late one November Saturday afternoon. "I'm going to organize the craft room," I said. "I've...