Author: Nancy Malcolm

I am a photographer, writer, mother, grandmother, wife, retired educator, friend, aunt, sister, and believer. I am a motherless daughter.
Posted in #Confessions, Mothers

Not My Usual Mother’s Day Post

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I’ve always had to share my birthday month with some pretty well-known festivities:  the end of school, graduations, and Mother’s Day.  Usually at this time of year I become melancholy  at the thought of Mother’s Day and not having my mother to honor.

            I have spent years dreading Mother’s Day.  I’ve slighted my own celebration of being a mother in lieu of loathing all the reminders of what I don’t have and all I have missed.

            I have spent hours smirking at Hallmark commercials and sneering at florist bouquets that I have never gotten to send.

            I have spent an endless amount of time missing my mother and feeling the huge depth of loneliness from having to grow up without her.

            But, what I meant to say is that I still miss her sixty-six years later.

            I still wish I had known her for myself, and not just through my brother and fathers’ memories.

            I still dread the Hallmark commercials and influx of florist bouquets to buy or nightgowns to gift.

            I still wish my daughters could have had a grandmother.

            I still look at her pictures and marvel at her forever youth and beauty.  She never grew old, and as I age, I wonder…do I look like she would have?

            Lately, I have been thinking of all the ways my daddy tried to be a mother to my brother and me.  I’ve spent lots of time being angry at what he didn’t do or say.  I have written volumes about his temper and harsh ways he disciplined us.  But, lately, ever so softly, I have felt the call to see the good.

            Every Saturday night was bath night when I was a little girl.  My daddy would try to curl my hair on pink spongy rollers so I would look presentable for church the next day.

            He bought me an Easter dress and patent leather shoes every spring, complete with a hat and purse.

            In elementary school he planned and executed backyard birthday parties for me and my friends.  We played games, had cake and punch, opened gifts and he always took pictures.

            Daddy made sure I joined Girl Scouts and got to go to camp during the summer.  He let me borrow his Brownie Camera and made sure I had a fresh roll of film for my scouting escapades.

            In 8th grade he paid for me to join Cotillion so I could learn manners, how to dance, and the social rules about dating boys.

            He took us to church and made sure we were baptized.  As I got older, he encouraged me to go to MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) and took me every Sunday evening. (even though my friends and I sometimes left to smoke cigarettes in the park behind the Church!)

            After I got my driver’s license he let me take the family car, a ’63 Chevy Impala, to high school, complete with bench seating, no power steering, and a secret cigarette burn on the floor board I never confessed to.

            Even though my father was a frugal man and pinched every penny he ever had, I always had a winter coat, a formal dress when I needed it, and new school shoes every year.

            He instilled in my brother and me a strong work ethic and a knowledge and appreciation for saving money.  He worked as an electrical engineer for forty years at the same company.  Being a company man, with a pension, was especially important to him.

            Daddy paid for me to attend four years at Baylor University and my brother to go to The University of Texas.  He used the money my mother inherited from her father and saved it all those years, just for our college education.

            My father did a lot of things for my brother and me in the name of: ‘Your mother would have wanted you to…’

            ‘Your mother would have made sure you…’

            Daddy was strict in a lot of ways and had rules he wanted us to follow come hell or high water.  He was practical and pragmatic, and sometimes critical to a fault, but his love and devotion to our mother guided many things he tried to do for us.  Nurturing didn’t come easy for him, nor did saying ‘I love you,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’ But sometimes we knew it, just by the way he would look at us with tender eyes.

            I was four and my brother was eight when our mother died.  I don’t know if Daddy made a death bed promise to our mother that he would take care of us the way she would have wanted, but he did take care of us and loved us the best he knew how.  I think she both smiled and cringed as she watched us from above.  As a parent, I can imagine how hard it must have been for him, and how much dedication it took to get up every day with a determination to do his best. I appreciate all he did for us and the many ways he showed up as our only parent.

Recently, my brother and I were talking about Daddy and lamenting about something he did when we were kids.  In a moment of compassion, my brother said, “He really did do the best he knew how.  Remember, he was young.  He was only thirty-three years old and had two small children without a mother.”  I was struck by that loving thought.  What thirty-year-old is prepared to go through a spouse’s long illness and subsequent death, much less be left with two young kids?  It is something no one can be prepared for.

Because of my brother’s words, I have more grace toward Daddy, and a deeper understanding of his situation, not just ours.

And, if I could just say one last thing to my father, one thing that might bring a smile to his face and a warmth to his heart, I think it would be this…

Happy Mother’s Day, Daddy.

Posted in #Confessions, Aging, Gratitude

The Sadness of Getting Older

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

There’s a sadness to getting older. An underlying cloud of hazy gray covers the days and at night there is worry or maybe remorse at misspent opportunities.  Not every day is seen through this heaviness, of course, but there is a realization that hits, and I begin to know, really know that my days are numbered.

            Time is whizzing by at an alarming rate. I recall the birth of my children as if it were yesterday, yet my baby will be forty-six this year.  It is April and I feel as though I was just putting out my fall decorations and enjoying pumpkin spice coffee creamer.  Fourteen years ago, my first grandchild was born and soon he will be a sophomore in high school.  It all seems to go so fast now, and yet some things never change, like the need to be loved and accepted, the awe of watching a sunset, or the joy of warm chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. 

Sometimes I forget that I am older until I pass the mirror and look into the droopy eyes of someone I don’t recognize at first.  “Oh, hi love,” I say to myself. “I see you. It’s ok.  You’re doing ok.”  As reluctant as I am to share my self-talk, I appreciate the encouragement and realize that in most situations my own support and nurturing is much more important than the words of others. (A realization that has taken me years to learn.)

            I’m feeling sad lately at the adversities and misfortunes that are befalling my dearest friends.  All of us, if we live long enough, will pass through the valley of the shadow of death.  All of us will have hard times, and I have had my share of these seasons, but seeing my sweetest friends go through sorrow and suffering puts a heavy pit in my stomach.  I want to help. I want to change the inevitable outcome of diseases and grief.  I want to do anything other than accept the unacceptable.  But, as my Sittin’ Ugly Sistah Ginger says, sometimes all you can do is just show up.

            My dear friend of fifty years has Alzheimer’s.  It has been a slow dissent for her, but things are speeding up. I show up but it rarely seems enough.  I send prayers and good thoughts, but it hasn’t changed the course of this barreling freight train.  My tears have done nothing to soften the harsh reality for her children and yet the tears keep coming and somewhere in there is my own self-pity at being left behind, without my friend.  Aptly named the long goodbye, Alzheimer’s is a cruel and heartless disease that robs the very life from its victims and tortures the family and friends left to watch.

            That is part of the sadness of getting older.  We are either leaving behind or getting left behind.  It’s a constant hello and goodbye.  Things are ever changing and mostly when you least expect it.  Like our bodies, and their predictable, but often unwanted revisions. Our hair, skin, and nails become shapeshifters, morphing into entities that do not resemble their former selves.  Our limbs betray us, and our inner organs are like an old pair of tennis shoes, scuffed, tattered, and worn completely out.

            There is a nursing home with memory care near our neighborhood.  I used to find it humorous that its name was Autumn Leaves.  But it is no coincidence that many homes are named according to this time in life and what that brings.  Serene Meadows, Tranquil Oaks, Sunrise Senior Care all names meant to bring peace to this time in life.  A rose by any other name…

            When my dear friend Randy passed away two years ago, I became mute with sadness.  What I wanted to say to her children and sister, I somehow couldn’t.  I was overcome with this feeling of disbelief and such a deep sense of permanence.  If the unimaginable could happen to her, a vibrant, loving, generous spirit, what could become of us lesser beings? 

There is a sadness to getting older.  The time for do-overs has passed us by.  There will be no more children to try and get it right with.  Our best hope are the grandchildren who we can love with abandon and try not to interfere with their lives.

This year Boo and I bought a new car.  “We need to hurry and buy one before they all become electric.  I’m too old to learn about electric cars,” he said. 

“You know this will probably be your last car, babe,” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we kept the last one for eight years.  Do the math.  Do you really see yourself car shopping at seventy-eight or seventy-nine?”

“I suppose you may be right, but I’d like to keep my options open, just in case.”

Last new car.  Last colonoscopy.  Last driver’s license. And I probably will not start a rock band or learn to snow ski.  However, even with the sadness of lasts, nevers, and goodbyes, there is an open opportunity for gratitude and appreciation that somehow makes everything more palatable, if I can let it. 

Gratitude for having one day at a time, so the sadness and frailties of life don’t overwhelm me.  Thankfulness for the health and wealth I do have, not what I wish I had.  And compassion for this old body who has served me well all these years.  Aging is not for the faint of heart.  It takes courage to walk through this life with all of its highs and lows, and even though there is sadness around every corner, I will choose to keep walking toward the light.

Posted in #Confessions, Whispers

Whisper #1 Stop Smoking

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I heard it years ago, that faint whisper of suggestion, “Stop smoking.”   I had never wanted to quit my closet smoking habit and never thought about it until the whisper.  If no one knew I smoked, did it really matter?  If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  If I didn’t smoke in front of people, was I really a smoker?

            My husband (my accomplice) and I vowed never to smoke inside the house, so we relegated our habit to the garage and backyard deck.  He, of course, smoked when and wherever he pleased, but I hid, out of shame.  When my daughters were young they never saw me smoke. I pretended to be very self-righteous about my hidden vices.  In fact, my daughters still laugh, “Mom of course we knew you smoked!  We also knew you hid your cigarettes in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee pot.”

            “You did?”  I genuinely asked.  “How did you know?”

            “M o t h e r  please, we might have been young, but we knew you were being shady.”

All those years of slinking around trying to hide my habit, spraying cologne, and chewing gum were all for naught.

    When Boo and I decided we would not smoke in the new house, I was really ok with it.  We set up two chairs in the garage with a table and ashtray.  I was comfortable until I wasn’t.

   I became increasingly irritated by the garage surroundings:  dust, clutter, and bugs.  Once, while having an early morning puff out in the garage, a raccoon wandered in through the half-opened garage door and scared me half to death.  We had a stare-off while I debated how I could defend myself if he were to get closer.  Still in my bathrobe before work, I envisioned the raccoon attacking me and me being found hours later near death, in the garage.  I gradually reached over to put my cigarette out, and in my fear, I knocked over my last bit of coffee. “Sh!*”  I stood up, preparing to bolt toward the door into the house, when the raccoon slowly turned and sauntered out into the dawn.  He was probably bored with my commotion or more likely, repelled by the smoke.

            “Stop smoking.” whispered to me at surprising times.  I would be mid-drag, huddled in the garage on a cold night or a one-hundred-degree summer day, wiping the sweat from my face, and I would hear, “Stop smoking.”  And then, two life-changing events altered my universe:  my father passed away and my first grandchild was born.

            Nursing homes usually don’t have a smoking section for a reason.  In 2009, as my father’s heart disease was progressing, I noticed that very few eighty-five-year-olds still smoked.  And the ones who hadn’t stopped in time were battling oxygen masks and horrible rattling coughs.  Already I was lying on my doctor’s questionnaires where it asked, ‘Have you ever smoked?’  I was lying, sneaking, and in total denial.  My father’s life was ending, and I was still smoking, although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide.

            I frequently drove to Amarillo to visit my dad in the nursing home, and when I did, I stayed in their senior living apartment with my stepmother.  Christine, God rest her soul, had a nose like a bloodhound so I had to be extremely cautious about covering up any smoke smell.  Plus, I was never alone, so I was definitely not smoking as much as I thought I wanted to. 

            “Stop Smoking.”

            I began to pray, “God, help me to stop smoking.”  I prayed for months, all the while continuing my secret habit, sucking on breath mints, and spraying Febreze on my clothing.

   Allen Carr wrote a book entitled “The Easy Way To Quit Smoking,” and in it, he refers to nicotine as The Green-eyed Monster.  This monster lies to you and tells you he is your best friend.  He makes you believe you are cool, social, and in control like you could quit any time you wanted, except the truth is that each time you smoke, you want to smoke more.  The Green-eyed Monster has his own whisper, “Just smoke one more.”

            The Green-eyed Monster says, “You’re so cool!” But, how often have you seen smokers hiding in back alleyways or standing alone on a corner?  Not cool.

            I read the book.  I prayed and I smoked until June 2009, two months before my father died.  I was traveling to visit my dad, maybe for the last time and I wanted to go without my ‘friend.’  I was exhausted by hiding and isolating myself from the scrutiny of the non-smokers.  I felt disgusted with myself.  I was ready to lay it down, yet I wanted to make sure I had a fresh pack and lighter handy.  I was balancing between two worlds.

            But, on June 13, 2009, in Amarillo, Texas, without fanfare or even a plan, I suddenly stopped smoking.  One day turned into another and another, all smoke-free.  I thought I would be shouting it from the rooftops, but as a closet smoker, I really didn’t have that many people to tell.  When I got home, back to Austin, I had to change my habits.  For a while, I couldn’t go out on the patio with Boo because it was so triggering, but eventually his smoking did not bother me.  I was not going back to The Green-eyed Monster.

August 22, two months later, my father passed away, and then on September 21, almost one month to the day,  my grandson was born.  I knew I never wanted to be a smoking granny, stopping to cough up a lung on the playground.  I wanted to be the fun grandma, able to participate in hikes, trips, and parties.  I never wanted him to smell smoke on me, only Jergens lotion or freshly baked cookies.  With his birth, I saw my future, and it was monster-free.

    Days turned into weeks and weeks into years until I realized I had been fourteen years as a non-smoker.  Fourteen years, the same age as my grandson.  My whisper probably saved my life; I know it has improved my life and brought me peace.   My whisper finally drowned out those empty promises from The Green-eyed Monster who skulked away like a wounded animal and will never come back.  Never.  

    Often in life, we do hear a whisper that is trying to tell us something important.  It’s our job to be quiet enough to listen, and perhaps heed a warning.  I like to think we can whisper back, and it will be heard.

    I am grateful, I whisper, I am so incredibly grateful.

Posted in Relationships, Truth

I Walk Tall; I Got a Tall Attitude

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

   Four years ago, we took a summer vacation to The Great Smoky Mountains.  To date, it still remains one of my favorite destinations, topping the charts in scenic views, lush mountainsides, and rivers.  We saw so many black bears that it seemed they were making an appearance just for us.  And then there was Dolly.  Dolly’s childhood home, Dolly’s theme park, Dolly’s statues, and Dolly’s Stampede.  As much as we intended to stay strictly in the wilds of nature, we were drawn to Dolly Parton like a pat of butter to a piping hot square of cornbread.

            Gatlinburg, Tennessee is one of the entrances to The Smoky Mountains, and you can’t drive through Gatlinburg without seeing, hearing, and feeling Dolly Parton.  Dollywood, Dolly Parton’s Appalachian-themed park is located in Pigeon Forge which is a hop, skip and a jump from Gatlinburg.  Dolly and Dolly-type things to do are everywhere, and well…when in Rome.

Boo

            I could go on and on about Dolly’s Stampede, where we ate a four-course feast followed by a show featuring music, comedy, animals, and pyrotechnics.  I could tell you about the horseback riders who did tricks, and how patriotic the show was, but what we mostly came away with is the absolute magnetism of Dolly as a country singer, songwriter, actress, and philanthropist.  She gives money for scholarships and donates books to inner-city schools so that all children can have a book of their own to read.  Her talent, charm, and grace are undeniable.  And by the way, she is a Capricorn.  Her birthday was January 19th, the last day to be a Capricorn.

            Capricorns are known to be hard workers.  They are often overachievers, persistent, practical, and sensitive.  They make success look effortless even though they do put a lot of energy and time into their careers and relationships.  And while Dolly Parton is an extravagant example of zodiac energy and creative entrepreneurship, she has a soul twin who shares so many common denominators and the same birthday,  my little Auntie Sue.

            Dolly and Sue, both short in stature and big on attitude, have an unstoppable will to survive and thrive.  Both are givers and have never known a stranger.  Both can kick ass and take names later and both love to love others.   Although Dolly is obviously living life to the fullest, Auntie Sue has gone on to Glory, both are excelling and exhilarating in their respective spaces.

            Dolly and Sue were faithful to their belief in God.  In fact, there is a Bible verse that reminds me of them both.  Proverbs 27:17,  “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”  Anyone who ever spent time with Auntie Sue knew she was special.  Her confidence, endearing humor, magnetism, and compassion for mankind was a force that attracted others, drew them in, and encouraged them to be better people.  What a legacy, what a quality to have.  Both of these tiny dynamos obviously lived by Dolly’s quote:  I walk tall: I got a tall attitude.

            I was always one of the tallest girls in my class all through elementary school, perpetually on the back row, center on picture day.  I was taller than every boy in my class until seventh grade.  I was always scouring the pant rack for tall, not regulars, and tried endlessly to find stylish flat shoes with not too much heel. 

            I never wanted to be tall.

            You should be glad you’re tall.

            The growth of my arms and legs was the source of many tears and angst.

            I wish I was tall like you.

It didn’t matter what anyone said, my inner self could not manage a tall attitude.

            Growing up, I would occasionally forget that I was a full head taller than everyone else until I saw myself in photographs or looked down to see my pants fit as though they were ready for a flood.  I was tall, but I never walked tall.  As I gradually grew into my own in high school, I was glad the boys were taller but painfully aware that when standing with a group of girls, I could see the top of everyone’s head.

            In college sorority pictures, I tried to casually slump, scrunching my shoulders to be more ‘right-sized.’  Unsure of myself, holding back and trying to fit my tall peg into a short hole left me never feeling good enough.  It’s the kind of thing self-help books are made of.  Shrinking back, making myself small, so others could be tall.

            Enter Auntie Sue.  Tiny like Dolly.  Big hair, like Dolly, and outspoken, like Dolly,  Auntie Sue believed in me with a force as strong as the Oklahoma wind.  Growing up without my mother, I never had that approval and acceptance that many might take for granted.  I simply bluffed my way to adulthood where Auntie Sue finally reentered my life with a new perspective;  Walk tall and have a tall attitude.

            I have written volumes about Auntie Sue.  Stories about her humor, her sacred sittin’ ugly time, her glory hole, and her fierce loyalty to those she loved.  I will never tire of singing her praises.  I’ll never forget her hysterical Sue-isms, and I’ll forever be grateful for her love.  Her walk-tall attitude encompassed me and lifted my slouchy frame from a wanna-be 5’6” to a real 5’8 ½”.  Unconditional love has the power to make even the shakiest walk tall.

            Maybe some might think it a  s t r e t c h  to compare Auntie Sue with the big as life, Dolly Parton, but I think it’s just right.  As iron sharpens iron, a tall attitude encourages the same.

    Dolly’s living the dream and embracing her tall attitude.  She’s singing her songs, selling her cornbread, and bringing the world together with her podcast, Dolly Parton’s America.  And Auntie Sue?  My little Auntie Sue is still sending her love and guidance to me, and she’s still walking tall….walking tall on the streets of gold.

Posted in Grandmother

Grandma’s Banana Bread

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Every November my thoughts turn to family gatherings, beautiful, crisp fall days, pumpkin pie spice, and my grandmother, Martha Margaretha Claughton, born on November 20, 1891.

My grandmother always went by ‘Grandma’.  If you really know me, you know about my grandma.  She was such an important part of my life growing up and even though she was a no-nonsense kind of gal, she influenced my very essence of being a woman, mother, and now, grandmother.  She was strong-minded, and willful, yet gentle when she needed to be.

Grandma lived in Duplex A on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas

Today, one of the greatest blessings of my life is being a grandmother.  I never could have imagined the sweetness, the absolute heart-breaking tenderness of holding a grandchild.  It feels holy, like a sacred trust ordained from above, and ever since Boo and I embarked on our journey as grandparents, our lives have changed for the very best.  Being a grandparent suits Boo like a custom-fit Giorgio Armani in midnight blue.  Perfection.

As for me, the transformation has been more subtle.  My heart feels bigger, my spirit is gentler, and my patience is sometimes like the Energizer Bunny, which is a surprise to my daughters who definitely didn’t get a patient mom.  My grandkids call me Nannie, and I swear it is the sweetest sound on earth to hear one of them call me by that name. 

When my girls were younger and I worked full time, I felt a certain hurriedness to our days.  Panic at not getting ‘it’ all accomplished, and not quite good enough according to Better Homes and Gardens.  I secretly envied all of my friends who were stay-at-home moms.  I compared myself to them, like apples to oranges. And when my single mom days were upon us, I even felt more inept at the perfection I saw in others.  I was judging my insides by other people’s outsides.

Losing my own mother at a very young age, I longed for a momma like a lone, train whistle carries on the wind, winsome and low.  Through it all, Grandma was there.  Steady, true, and happily scooping me up in her soft, capable arms.  I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t had my grandma.

 Grandma stepped in with her homemade quilts and flapjacks made in the cast iron skillet.  She cooked our lunch every Sunday after Church.  She made my clothes and when I was old enough, she taught me to use the old Singer sewing machine.  She taught me to play Canasta, plant Zinnia’s in the garden, and make homemade banana bread.  She loved me the very best she could.  Always.

And today, all these years later, I’m standing in my kitchen mixing up the banana bread to bake and chopping the pecans for Grandma’s pecan pie that I’ll take to my brother’s for Thanksgiving.  I always wear her pearls on Thanksgiving day and I know how proud she would be that we think of her and remember her special recipes and her love.

I’m sharing Grandma’s Banana Bread recipe in hopes that you will try it someday, and if you do, think about my grandma.  She always baked this bread in coffee cans (Folger’s) only because she never owned a loaf pan, so coffee cans are the original and preferred way.  I don’t use pecans in ours because some of our grandkids have nut allergies, but if you can have the pecans, please do!

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all and Happy Birthday, Grandma!! 

Grandma’s Banana Nut Bread

1 cup sugar

½ cup shortening (I use vegetable oil)

2 eggs

1 ½ cup mashed bananas

2 cups flour

Pinch salt

1 tsp. baking soda

½ cup chopped pecans

Bake in greased coffee cans (or loaf pan)

350 degrees for 55-60 min.

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude

Easing Into Woo-woo

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
Yosemite 2023

            It didn’t happen until much later in life, for me. 

Being born in Amarillo didn’t really prepare me to be open-minded or New-Agey, but I’ve lived in Austin for twenty-five years now, and I’ve discovered a thing or two about being woo-woo.  According to the Oxford Dictionary, Woo-woo is relating to or holding unconventional beliefs regarded as having little or no scientific basis, especially those relating to spirituality, mysticism, or alternative medicine.

            My friends and family are done with me posting pictures of the cardinals that visit our backyard.  My captions always refer to my mother popping in to let me know she’s thinking about me.  It’s not that I really believe my mother is reincarnate as a cardinal; it’s that I think her spirit is giving me a sign that she’s near and sending her love.

            In general, I think there are no coincidences.  Everything has a purpose and meaning, and I can see the ‘extra’ in this world and appreciate the nod that the universe sends me.  The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous talks about it on page 449:  “And I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.  Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake.”  Woo-woo? I don’t think so.

            I have two crystals hanging near the window in my office, not only because of the beautiful colors they reflect but also because of their energy.  A clear quartz crystal is called a ‘stone of the mind.’  It is supposed to help you focus and concentrate.  It harmonizes and balances.  It unblocks universal energy.  Woo-woo!

            “It’s a rock,” Boo says.

            “You just have to believe,” I say back.

            “I believe it’s a rock,” he said with a smile.

            Even though I embrace the woo-woo in life, I have to admit I’m a little conflicted about Psychics, Fortune Tellers, and Mediums.  I want to believe in it, and while I am drawn to their supposed superpowers, there is a part of me (that old Southern Baptist part) that thinks only God knows the future.

            Once, my daughter Lee and I went to see Teresa Caputo, The Long Island Medium.  Her show was in a convention center with hundreds of other people, all hoping to connect with a departed loved one.  The air was electric with anticipation and possibly spirits hoping their families were in attendance.  “I need a glass of wine,” I said, as the lights dimmed, and Teresa took the stage.  But, after her brief introduction, she left the stage and began to walk through the audience.  I started to get nervous thinking, what if she stops at us? Or What if no spirits want to connect with us, or what if they do and I ugly cry while on the jumbotron?

            As you can see, perhaps my mind was not in the calm, receptive state it should have been, and Teresa did not stop for us.  We were disappointed, but there were ten other lucky people who connected to their loved ones on the other side.  Woo-woo? Possibly.

            Through the years I have tried my hand at meditation.  I’ve always heard that prayer is talking to God and meditation is listening to what God has to say.  In the beginning, I read a few books about how to meditate.  I found a calm, quiet place to sit, set a timer, and started my slow deep breaths.  At first, all I could manage was three to four minutes, but eventually, I got up to ten.

            Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Thien Buddhist monk, lived his whole life in mindfulness and peace.  He wrote many books, hoping to bring others to peace, serenity, love, and compassion.  One of his more famous quotes is used in all forms of meditation: “Breathing in, I calm my body and mind.  Breathing out, I smile.  Dwelling in the present moment I know this is the only moment.”  And while I know I’m nowhere near monk meditation status, I can feel the settling peace even five minutes can bring.  Woo-woo?  Maybe.

            Unfortunately, Boo doesn’t quite share my affinity for Woo-Woo.

            “You OK, Boo?” he says as he pops his head in my closed office door. (Yes, he calls me Boo, too.)

            Without opening my eyes, I whisper, “I’m meditating.”

            “I thought you were asleep or something.  Hey, really quick, do we have any scotch tape?”

            “It’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen,” I whisper.

            “OK, thanks.  Sorry to bother you,” he whispers back.

Japanese Tea Garden, Golden Gate Park

            This summer on our fabulous trip to Yosemite, we often took moments to ponder the beauty of this glorious park. We would sit upon a fallen tree, or perch on a rock near a river, and just soak in the peace and the beauty.  I could actually feel something magical and healing from the mountains and waterfalls of Yosemite. It’s a spiritual experience.  While on the trip, I found a book that truly explains the glory of being in nature.  The book is entitled “Forest Bathing.”

            Forest bathing is the Japanese mindfulness practice, Shinrin-yoku.  The emotional, physical, and spiritual benefits of slowing down and taking in the natural world.  It helps you reconnect with nature’s tempo and serene beauty.  It has nothing to do with wallowing in water surrounded by trees.  In reality, it’s the act of being among trees, absorbing the ambiance of a forest.  Escaping to the outdoors is nature’s antidote to being too busy and hectic.  It is the epitome of self-care.  It is scientifically proven to help us think more clearly and to improve our overall well-being.  Aristotle said, “Nature does nothing uselessly.”  Nature is perfection.  Woo-woo?  I don’t care if it is.

            I have a dear friend who is going through a terribly rough time.  As we talk, I try to be more of a listener.   I want to be the ‘easy friend,’ a good listener, never wagging a finger with you should’s, or you better.  Occasionally, I can’t stop myself and I’ll offer up something that works for me.  “Have you ever thought about keeping a journal?  Sometimes it helps me to write down my feelings,” I share.

            “I did buy a journal.  I’m writing things down as they happen,” she said.

            “Maybe you could go back to yoga or try meditating.  Have you ever tried counseling?” I offer at another time.

            “I’ll start with the journal, Nan.  I’m easing into Woo-woo,” she smiled.

            And that, my friends, is the sum of all I wanted to say.  Ease into whatever you believe is leading you to be a better, calmer version of yourself.   Prayer, meditation, journaling, or mediums…Cardinals that remind you of family, or a long, peaceful walk among the trees. All that matters is the connection to peace and compassion for yourself and others.     Open your mind and embrace the wonderful world of Woo-woo.

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown,

For going out, I found, was really going in.

John Muir, (The Father of our National Park System)

Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias, Yosemite National Park 2023 (Me & Boo)

Posted in #Confessions, Boo

I Don’t Have To Stay At The Ritz

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I didn’t grow up fancy.  I wasn’t spoiled with extravagant gifts and toys, in fact my father was always saying, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.  If you want something you have to earn it.” And I would.

            I landed my first job at fifteen working at the YMCA as a lifeguard.  Luckily, this did not turn out to be my life’s vocation, but it was enough to make me realize I needed to find a better job and one that didn’t require me getting my hair wet every day.

            Soon I progressed to my part-time job at Montgomery Wards working in the TV, Stereo, and Record Department, and there I stayed until college.  I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I wanted one.  And when I got to Baylor University on a sunny August day in 1971, I was quickly struck by the differences in those with money and those without.  I wasn’t smart enough to be on a scholarship, but I needed one.  I was somewhere South of high falootin’ and North of broke.

            Fast forward to spring break 2006 when Boo and I were thinking of a little trip to the beach.  With a nostalgic look on his face, he said, “I know the perfect place.”

            “Florida?” I asked.

            “No, The Flagship Hotel in Galveston.  It’s iconic.  It’s one of a kind.  Magical. It’s the only hotel built right over the water.”

            “Sounds divine,” I said, and by Friday we were driving to Galveston. 

            I was looking for a large, seven-story type mansion hotel, and when we pulled into the parking lot, I said, “This can’t be it.”

            There was a huge FEMA sign strung across the Flagship sign and the parking lot was full of cars and campers.  I’m not going to lie, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Boo, ever the optimist, said, “Isn’t that cool that The Flagship is helping FEMA and the poor people displaced after Hurricane Katrina?  It looks a little run down, but it used to be the place to stay in Galveston.  I bet it’s still nice inside.”

            Turns out we had one of the few rooms still available for hotel reservations.  The hotel was mainly full of families from the hurricane.  As we cautiously got into the elevator, there in the corner, was a dirty diaper and three chicken bones with a KFC wrapper.

            “Don’t worry, our room will be nice,” Boo whispered.

            But, as we turned the corner from the elevator, I could hear loud music as three doors were wide open, and people were wandering from room to room with beer, babies, and biscuits (from KFC).

            “It’s only for two nights,” Boo said, “We’ll hit the beach in the morning.”

            As we were getting ready for bed that night, the musty smell of bay water, cigarettes, fast food, and marijuana wafted in and out of our room, and as I went to turn out the light, I saw a roach walking across the top of the dresser.

            “I can’t do it,” I told Boo, but it was late and by the next morning before 10:00 a.m., we were checking out.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but this was the Ritz Cracker, an old Ritz cracker that was found under a couch cushion.

            Later, in July of 2006, Boo’s mother, Jean, God rest her soul, paid for a trip to Yosemite National Park for our anniversary.  Although Boo and I are not poor, we are educators, which puts us in a certain bracket, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, Jean also got us first-class tickets to California on United.  Boo and I were surprised and yes, neither one of us had ever been in first class before this glorious trip.

            Once upon a time, before my Nikon 3500 digital camera, I sported a disposable camera everywhere I went, and first-class was no exception.  As Dorothy Parker once said, “I’ve never been a millionaire, but I know I’d be just darling at it.” I knew I was meant for first-class the minute we sat down.

            “Get your camera!”  Boo whispered.

            “Let me wait until we take off.  I don’t want to look like we don’t know how to act in first class,” I whispered back.

            Even before all the other passengers were on the plane, the stewardess asked if we would care for a glass of champagne, and we, as casually as possible, said yes!  Then she came back by with a silver tray filled with rolled up, hot, moistened hand towels for us to wipe our hands free of the dredges of travel.  “Ahhhh,” we sighed.

            Since we had no cell phone and our disposable camera had no selfie function, we took turns taking each other’s pictures at various stages of our first-class experience.  Wiping our hands, toasting the air with our glass of champagne, savoring each bite of our hot cashew nuts, and our lunch tray with a choice of red or white wine. We enjoyed every second of our flight!

            Looking back now, I’m sure our first-class neighbors thought we were the Beverly Hillbillies coming home from the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, but at the time we were living the high life.  Fancy to the max.

            The only other time Boo and I surpassed our fanciness was one weekend in New Orleans.  As luck would have it, rain pelted our car as we drove from Houston to New Orleans.  It was raining so hard we could barely see the road.  About twenty minutes outside of New Orleans, a car in the lane to our right hydroplaned in front of us, missing our car by barely an inch, and went across the line into the oncoming lane of traffic.  The only sound in our car was us sucking in our breath for what seemed like an eternity. Boo glanced into the rearview mirror as we slowed and saw that the car missed all traffic and spun around to be back in the right lane.  We were shaken.  It was like a dream.  “Shouldn’t we stop?” I asked.  But we couldn’t and neither could anyone else.  We all slowed down and tried to recover. “Thank you, Jesus,” was all we could say. 

            Still shaken up, we pulled into the Marriott parking lot an hour and a half later than check-in.  When we walked inside and gave them our names, the desk clerk said, “Malcolm?  We weren’t able to keep your reservation due to the weather.”

            “Are you sure?  What are we supposed to do now?”

            The clerk excused himself and returned a few moments later.

            “We’re sorry for the inconvenience.  Although we do not have your room tonight, our sister hotel, right next door does have a room.  Are you interested?”

            “Sure.” We said.

            We drove our car 300 feet to the hotel next door and when we pulled up a doorman greeted us.  “Welcome to the Ritz Carlton,” he said.

            Boo and I just looked at him and then at each other.  It really didn’t sink in until we arrived at our king-bed room and turned on the lights. 

            “Wow,” we said collectively.

            “Hurry and unpack,” Boo said, “So they can’t make us leave.”

            After our stressful drive to NOLA, we showered, donned the fabulous white, fluffy Ritz Carlton robes and slippers, and ordered room service.

            “We’re really fancy, now,”  I said, and with a mouth full of delicious club sandwich Boo nodded a resounding yes.

            Oh sure, I could go into the philosophy of fancy.  The definition, the descriptions, but maybe fancy is in the eye of the beholder.  Maybe fancy is a glittery term I have held in the highest esteem for too long.

            The hummingbirds in my backyard, fancy.  The gorgeous butterflies flitting from flower to flower, fancy.  Huge fluffy snowflakes falling from the sky, while your grandchild tries to catch them on his tongue. Beyond fancy.  And while I value this kind of ‘fanciness’ over the things money can buy, I still like a good hotel.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but I know I’d be darling at it.

Posted in #Confessions, Contemplations

Home on The Range or My Life As A Rolling Stone

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Boo and I have lived in our home for almost nineteen years.  This is the longest I have ever lived in the same house.  I mean ever.  We have seen our aging neighbor through the death of his wife.  We’ve seen the young couples on our street have babies and now I see those babies waiting for the school bus in front of our house.  We share our over-the-top holiday decorations with the thousands of twinkling lights, and life-size blowups of Olaf, dancing penguins, Santa, and his reindeer. We invite young mothers with fussy toddlers in strollers to pet our black cat, Emmy.  It feels like home.  I don’t think God will ever ask me if I lived in a good neighborhood, but He might ask me if I was a good neighbor, and I hope to answer a resounding yes!   I feel a part of life, here.  I feel safe.

When I was born, my parents, brother, and I lived on Crockett Street in Amarillo, Texas.  It was a small, stucco starter home, with a detached garage that my dad and grandpa built.   My brother had a gang of boys to play with and luckily there was a little girl next door for me.  However, when I was four, as my mother’s illness progressed, it became necessary to sell our home to help with medical bills. Thus, we moved to a rent house across from Amarillo Junior College.  My mother died shortly after that, and we moved again because my father could not bear to live where my mother had died.  Luckily, a Methodist preacher and his family were moving to Chicago, so we rented their modest home right down the street and there we stayed for about five years.

When I was ten we moved across town to an upgraded neighborhood, and I started sixth grade as the ‘new girl.’  We did live there for nine years and after that, I went to college.  Even at Baylor, I bounced around to two different dorms my freshman year.  My sophomore and Junior years were stable, and then I got married and moved to an apartment in Waco, and the next year we moved to  Killeen, Texas to start a new life and teaching career.

I will not bore you with the gory details of each one of my moves, but within that marriage we did move twice.  Then there was a devastating divorce and that’s really when my moves escalated.  As a single mom on a schoolteacher’s salary, I had exactly $525 to spend on housing.  No more.  I was constantly on the lookout for a newer, bigger rent house for the same amount of money in the same school zone.  There were two moves before I remarried, then a huge uprooting to North Carolina.  To simplify matters, let’s just say within the next ten years there were four moves, another unsightly divorce, and a plan to move to Austin.

Obviously, one could argue that I am unstable, a rolling stone, or an excitement junkie.  But I plead irreconcilable circumstances and bouts of insanity.  I became the queen of creativity. I could unpack boxes, set up beds and hang all the pictures in two days flat. I would use my rent deposit refund to pay my next rent deposit, and I always left each house a little better than I found it.  I was resourceful, frugal, and as Blanche DuBois said in A Streetcar Named Desire, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Now, all this to say there have been downsides to my gypsy ways.  My family has never written my address in anything but pencil.  My youngest daughter blames me for her trust issues, the U.S. Postal Service still sends me change of address cards each summer, and it is hard for me to pass up a “good moving box.”

Perhaps I have been a wanderer.  It wasn’t my objective; I just fell into it.  Each move, each house meant something special to me, and I pinky swear that I never meant to harm my children or anyone else by moving.  I know I did the best I could.

With every new house, my intentions were pure.  I made it a home because by my definition, home is where the heart is and as long as I was there, my children would be safe and could be happy.  My modest meals like baked chicken in Italian salad dressing with a plain iceberg salad and lots of Ranch were the alternative to fish sticks and mac n’ cheese.  I wouldn’t say boring, but I might say dependable.  There was nothing fancy about our lifestyle, yet the girls were afforded new curtains and bedspreads to spruce up even the dreariest of shag carpets.  We survived and more.  We’re strong women, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and make a home from the barest of frames.

But now… Now that I have this home with Boo, and we have made it ours, I have roots.  Settled in ways I never knew I needed.  Anchored with a firm foundation of faith and family.  Grounded with grandchildren that each consider our guest room as ‘their room,’ and brick by brick we have built beautiful memories with years of love and laughter.  I feel so lucky.

When my time here on earth has ended, I fully believe God will not ask the square footage of my home or the brand of hardwood floors or granite counters, but He may ask how many people I welcomed in with open arms.  He may ask me if I offered those without some of what I had, and He will probably ask if I loved others well.  I hope my answers will be satisfactory, as that has always been my aim. 

For you know what I say is true, a house is not a home unless it’s full of the good stuff, like love, laughter, and respect, and that is all anyone could ever want.

Posted in #Confessions, Boo, technology

The High Cost of Low-Tech Living

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            About ten years ago we accidentally let it slip that we were paying for AOL service.

It just came out in conversation when one of our daughters asked, “Why don’t you have a Gmail account?”

            “I do.”

            “Why don’t you use it?”

            “We’re happy with AOL.  We pay them every month, so why change?”

            “WHAT?  MOM!!  You can get AOL for free, Mom.  You didn’t know that?  How long have you been paying?

            “Since dial-up?”  I sheepishly answered.

            “M O T H E R!!!”

            “Are you sure it’s free?”  Boo asked.  “Cause I don’t think so.” 

            That was just the beginning of our walk of shame through life. 

            “What else are you paying for that’s free?”

            “How should we know?”  I said.

            When we have guests or our grandkids come over, there is always the dreaded question:

“Nannie, what’s your Wi-Fi password?  Is it still in the..”

“It’s in the drawer of the little…”

“We know.”

“Bring it here and I’ll read it to you.  Ready?  X?2php54%7*79Ux3Pr8!2xG.”

“Nannie, why don’t you change this so you can remember it?”

“I don’t know how, and besides, this way no one can steal the password.”

“Who wants to?” they asked.

I admit, I don’t know who would want to steal our Wi-Fi password, but you never know.

Boo and I are intelligent people.  We have master’s degrees and we both worked at large high schools, so we like to think that we still have a certain amount of street cred.  Or at least we used to.  But it’s one thing to know gang signs and another to deposit a check from your phone.  It’s one thing to catch kids smoking in the bathrooms, and another to connect a phone to your car.  We have slipped into the uncool category.

Not long ago we had a business transaction with one of our daughters.

“I’ll VENMO you the money, Dad.”

“I don’t VEN-MAIL.” Boo answered.

“VENMO.  OK, how about ZELLE?”

“Nope.”

“Never mind, I’ll VENMO Mom and she can write you a check.”

“That’s better,” he said.

Is it even bragging if I say I am more high-tech than Boo just because I have a VENMO account?  It sort of feels lowish on the tech scale.  For heaven’s sake, I just now ordered my groceries online.  I know I’m late to the party, but I love it.  However, I have no idea what Instacart is or how it works, but if TARGET can come to my house, then it might be worth exploring.

When I told one of our other daughters how much I had to pay for my XM Radio, she said, “I never pay full price.”

“What do you mean?  I get an annual renewal fee,” I said.

“I just call and tell them I can’t pay that amount and I want to cancel.  Then we haggle back and forth for a minute, and they end up telling me I qualify for a special deal.  It usually saves me $100.  I do it every year.”

How do our kids know all of these ins and outs?  And when did EVERYTHING become technical?  Our doctors are on ‘my chart,’ which means we can make appointments and see our test results online, at least some of us.  Boo still does not know how to access his chart.  He always ends up somewhere on the site he doesn’t want to be or with an appointment in some obscure clinic across town.  I usually schedule his doctor’s appointments, but when he asks me to send them a message or question, I take the liberty to ask what I want to and then sign his name.

By the way, is it considered low-tech if you still print out driving instructions from map-quest?  I’m asking for a friend.

I recently bought a new car.   I thought I was all Bluetoothed and ready to go.

“I can’t hear you,” my callers say.

I have disconnected, reconnected, sync’d, read the manual, googled, and asked a friend.  I cannot for the life of me get my phone properly connected through my car.  I can hear callers, but they can’t hear me, and to make matters worse, I now have an obnoxious buzzer ringtone that plays when someone calls, and I cannot change it.

My blood pressure is going up just mentioning our technical difficulties.  I wish I could brag about some other things we are really great at in spite of our low-tech ways, but nothing is coming to mind.  We do have a Keurig coffeemaker, does that count?

Even saying that makes me cringe.  Perhaps we’re ‘cutting edge’ in ways the world does not promote.  We could use words like digital, cyber, and state-of-the-art, but being flashy is just not our style.  We prefer to fly under the radar and keep our techie-ness to ourselves.

Let’s face it, Boo and I will never be truly high-tech.  The best we can hope for is somewhere in the middle and not paying for internet mail services.  It’s the high cost of our low-tech living. 

Posted in Aging, Death and Dying

FORGOTTEN

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

When people ask me, “What are you doing with yourself these days?” They never expect me to say that I volunteer for hospice.  The response is predictable:  “Oh, I could never do that.” Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could either, but I wanted to, and in the last twelve years I have not looked back. 

            Ever since my father passed away thirteen years ago, I have been drawn to hospice care.  My dad did not want to go on hospice, thinking that it would be like giving in.  Giving in to death.  But, as time went on, he prayed to die and yet, according to him, that didn’t work either. “Why won’t God let me die and get out of this mess?”  The praying for death went on for months, but it was not until he gave in and decided to go on hospice care that a change occurred. He gave in to the inevitable, yet as we all know, our timing is not necessarily God’s timing.  I happen to believe that we all have a beginning and ending date that we are not privy to knowing ahead of time.

            What brought my dad to the praying for death was his inability to accept reality.  The nursing home and all that it entails was not what he had in mind for his end of life.  He wanted to be at home, his home, and not among the forgotten.  My stepmother was unable to care for him, and daddy did not want to pay for nursing care around the clock at home.  He did not want to live with my brother or me, he wanted to live and die at home without any hassle or extra expense.  He had a plan, but it simply could not be executed.  He was too sick and a little too stubborn.

Daddy

            “They’ll park me in the hallway with the rest of the wheelchair people and forget about me.  I’ll just be lost with all the others, drooling in our bibs.”  His attitude and gloomy description of how it would be did not help him acclimate to his elder-care facility.  And so, for a long while he refused to leave his private room, preferring his own company to anyone else’s.  He would prop up in bed and pretend to read the newspaper for hours.  He would religiously watch Wheel of Fortune and reluctantly participate in physical therapy.  When my brother or I visited we would bring him a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, as per his request.  “Nothing tastes good except ice cream,” he would say, but after a few bites, he would tell me to put it in the freezer in the nurse’s station for later.  “Be sure to put my name on it so no one will eat it,” he’d say.  And I would walk down the hall to the freezer knowing that when I opened it, there would be at least five uneaten Blizzards with his name on them, waiting in line to be thrown away.

            When I have had hospice patients in the nursing home, my visits become routine.  My last patient, Eunice, I visited every Tuesday at 9:30 a.m.  After her breakfast, which she liked to sleep through, I would arrive and we would ‘get to doing,’ as she would say.  I painted her nails, we talked about her husband and daughters, and when she was feeling feisty, we would join the group for bingo in the recreation room.  Sometimes we would sit on the patio and just feel the breeze on our faces and hear the faint sounds of traffic or children playing down the street.  And sometimes, when she was feeling brave, I would record her inner thoughts about life and love in a spiral notebook her girls would read one day after she was gone.

            But Daddy had a point about being forgotten.  Even though I was there for Eunice, and my brother and I were there for my dad, there are a number of people who have no visitors.  There are forgotten mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles.  The forgotten who are parked in a wheelchair by the big screen T.V. playing old black and white movies all day long or lined up in the hallway waiting for lunch.  The forgotten who slowly morph into the invisible.

Eunice

            When I would visit Eunice every Tuesday, there were other residents that looked forward to my smile and cheerful banter.   I could feel the stares and see the usual neighbors wheeling by us, just to say hello.  “Is this your daughter, Eunice?”  They would ask every week.  They watched me, hoping I would come over to where they were, and oftentimes, Eunice would tell them to go away because we were trying to visit.  She was jealous of our time and wanted it all to herself.  I could see the rejection in their faces and the deep longing to be remembered.

            Being invisible doesn’t happen overnight, it is a slow process of being over-looked, being put on a shelf, or being sat down, both metaphorically and physically.  There are mirrors over the sink in nursing homes, but if you’re in a wheelchair you might not be able to fully see yourself.  Sometimes our invisible ones have not looked into their own eyes in a very long time.  To see yourself as you once were and as you are now, is a reminder that you are still here.  Still the same on the inside, even though the outer shell is changing.

  We are who we are, until the end. 

There are still mean girls and want-to-be jocks in the nursing home.  Another of my former hospice patients, Marilyn, was scorned at the ‘popular girls’ lunch table.  “We already have four sitting here.  This is our table,” they said, so Marilyn was going to wheel herself back to her room for lunch alone.  On the way to the door, she passed a table of three men who stopped her and said, “Don’t let those old biddies get to you, sit with us!  We’re much more fun and twice as nice.”  And so, she did.  Marilyn became the darling of the men’s table and gave ‘the old biddies’ something to talk about.

There are still women with daddy issues and men who are suffering from PTSD. There are still grateful and happy people and there are plenty of people preferring to be bitter and resentful, angry at life.  Even the invisible have issues like my dad did, but if you’re lucky, one day it will change.

            I guess we may never know what the true catalyst of change was for Daddy, and truthfully it doesn’t matter.  One morning he told my stepmother and brother that he would sign up for hospice, that he wanted to look into getting a motorized wheelchair, and that he put his name on the list to play Bridge.  “I guess if I’m not going to die, I better get busy living,” he said. And we all celebrated the victory with a big sigh of relief. 

            Twenty-four hours later, my daddy died.

            Daddy was never forgotten, but it was something he feared.  He had been an officer in the Navy, and an electrical engineer by trade, strong and capable all of his life.  He did not want to be invisible. No one does.

Why do I volunteer for hospice?  If you had met my little friend Eunice, or Ms. Marilyn, you would need no further explanation.  You would have raised your hand high and said, “Pick me!  Pick me!”  As much as I know my visits brightened their days, those visits taught me to ‘get to doing,’ be grateful, and love life until the end.                                           

  It truly is a blessing to walk beside someone whose end of life is near.  It is an honor to share the sacred space of spirit and to be able to provide comfort and companionship.  It is a privilege to help grieving families or simply to listen.

Not everyone who is on hospice care is elderly, but everyone who has lived long enough will face a certain truth, death.  The road traveled will be different for all, yet with the same outcome.  We all have to go sometime, but how we live out our years depends on attitudes, beliefs, family, circumstances, and how we are treated as well as how we treat others. 

Keep your eyes open this week and look for someone who needs to be seen, who needs a hug or even a smile.  Watch out for those mean girls and invite someone to sit at your table, and above all else, ‘get to doing!’

Eunice