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Coming Home

STL from the Arch It is no secret that I love to stay busy. I love to hike and bike and travel. When I leave the house, I enjoy anticipating what each new day may bring. Perhaps it is innate in me, this sense of adventure. Perhaps it was cultivated by my elders, who made each step outside the house seem full of promise. Perhaps it stems from all the reading I’ve done in my life. Whatever the cause, the wanderlust is strong. I often feel that I am at my best when I am tackling the unknown. But the crazy thing is, no matter where I am and what I am doing nothing ever beats the feeling of coming home.
Home, to me, is not a physical location. Although, I do love to return to my Sleep Number bed and my whirlpool tub. Home is where a person feels loved, accepted, comfortable, and safe. Home is a place where you can be vulnerable and free to be however you want to be. Home is wherever those strong bonds of connection exist. Certainly, my husband and I have tried to make sure our permanent address is truly “Home”, but we can feel at home in lots of locations.

My whirlpool hideaway My husband jokes that I am “leaving him” again and again, when I take a trip with my friends or my parents or when I go on a work trip. My standard response is that I will always come home. What I mean is that I will return to him. When I am out and about, I enjoy my independence, but I often wish he was with me to share in a new experience. Where he is, is home.
This week, I traveled with my parents on our annual Christmas shopping excursion. I have been “Helping” my Dad shop since I was a little girl. I am actually, pretty good at spending his money after years of practice. We shop. We eat. We find Christmas lights. It is so easy to settle into the bonds of family and togetherness. I am 56 years old and when I am with mom and dad, I am a child. I am loved. Wherever they are is home.

Scenes from the annual Christmas trip Sadly and wonderfully, our children turned out to be the independent and capable adults we raised them to be. It is wonderful that they are highly functional, successful humans. It is sad for us, because they have flown far from the nest. They are far enough that visits are infrequent. I cherish the sporadic group texts with photos of their lives and sarcastic commentary. A phone call is a gift. If both children are in a house at the same time, I am giddy with delight. Wherever they are is home.
This month, I had lunch with the woman who hired me for my first administrative job. I also had a meet up with a group of women that I hired and mentored. I had dinner with my current work colleagues and a new friend who had flown in from California to speak at a training that I had arranged. I met my high school bestie for dinner and a concert. Bonds of friendship and sisterhood run deep. Strong women, supporting each other. My tribe. Home . . . different than my family, but shelter none the less.
It has taken me awhile to catch on. When I was younger, I used to feel out of step. I tried to fit in only to find that I didn’t. I tried to be content with the normalcy of small town life. I once had a fight with a high school friend, when I told her that I wanted to leave our town and see the world. She became angry and told me that I was an ungrateful person who didn’t appreciate home. It got so heated that my bestie made her get out of the car and walk home. I still don’t really understand what the fight was about, but I remember feeling like maybe something was wrong with me, that the feeling of always wanting more and expecting more of myself was unnatural. I did not feel at home, despite my best friend’s effort to back me up. Teenage angst and feelings of being out place are difficult. Trying to find your center in a world that can be hostile is challenging. Being true to yourself in a world that seemingly tries to force conformity is exhausting.

Girls Trip Cabin It was only later that I began to understand that I can adventure and be myself and at home anywhere, because of the love and support I have experienced. I feel at home when I in my house and when I am 1,000’s of miles way. My husband, children, parents, grandparents, and friends not only put up with my authentic self…they nutured me. They accepted me. They encouraged me. Not always in ways I recognized or even appreciated, but always shaping and challenging me.
I know what it is like to be an outsider and unwelcome. I have experienced discomfort, loneliness, and alienation. But in all of those moments, I have been blessed to think of home. To know that I am loved. To know that I have people who see me. Best of all, I know that God also sees me. He hears me. He nurtures me. He accepts me and encourages me. I can feel at home anywhere on Earth because of the amazing love I have experienced in my life. And because of God’s amazing love, when my adventure is over in this life, heaven will be my home.

Coming home- returning to a place of safety, security, comfort, and love. I try to make a daily homecoming, by mentally reviewing my blessings. I appreciate the creature comforts of my surroundings. Enjoying the feel of the carpet on my bare feet. Noticing the trees in the yard. But I also choose to remember those who have and will continue to make me feel at home. Smiling at the way my husband’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he says something funny. Appreciating the phone call from my son, who just called to pass the time. Home is not a place that you purchase…it is a thing that you make. Coming home is also a deliberate action. It is a choice to find and cherish safety, love, comfort, and your authentic self. Nothing ever beats the feeling of coming home.
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Christmas Whispers

What is it about Christmas preparations that create such divided feelings? For some, it is (to borrow a cliche) the most wonderful time of the year. For others it is a chore that produces anxiety and depression. Perhaps Christmas magic as an ideal is hard to achieve, but Christmas magic as a simple daily experience is possible. What does that mean, you ask? For me Christmas decoration is a ritual, an act of remembrance, an important connection to my past and an act of love in the present.

My husband helps me bring all the boxes out of storage as I begin to unpack. I take my time unwrapping the decorations. He grumbles that we have too many things. I smile. He asks where we are going to put all the things. I smile. He says we will need to build a new storage shed at this rate. I smile. Each crate holds the ghost of Christmas past, and each year we get to become reaquainted. To him it is a box of junk….at least at first glance. To me, it is family treasure that has been buried and just needs to be rediscovered.

I like the Christmas trees best. At present we have four in the house. The original tree holds the ornaments from our early marriage and travel. I buy one special ornament a year to mark our years together. At some point, I began to buy the annual tree decoration while on our travels together. At the top of the tree is a hallmark ornament that says, “Our first Christmas together.” I smile when I unwrap it. It is the first ornament that goes on the tree, always at the top. There is the silver rattle that announces our son’s first year and the gold filagree baby carriage that was purchased for our daughter’s birth. Among the branches, there is also a surfing Santa from Hawaii, a window peeping elf from Iceland, an evil eye charm from Athens, and an Irish Santa. Every unwrapping is a gift of memory, as I remove the tissue and find the spot to hang the trinket.



A less formal tree … full of family togetherness, sits in the sun room. There are stuffed dogs and ornaments purchased at McDonald’s. There is a set of cardboard cut outs from Alice in Wonderland and a set of pre-school creations. Every item on the tree reminds me of time spent with the children and their excitement at the smallest of Christmas adventures. Dinosaurs and ballerina shoes. Teddy Bears sewn by my mother. Ornaments painted by aunts given in love.


The family room is home to the friendship tree. It is full of sports memorabilia and ornaments given by students and colleagues. There are several “world’s best teacher” ornaments etched in gold, and a strange handmade ornament in the shape of a lightbulb holding a photo of my husband in his classroom. The tree also hosts ornaments that have enormous sentimental value, but aren’t much to look at. A tweety bird from my aunt who died of cancer is now almost featherless. A cardinal from my maternal grandmother’s tree has chips and dings. Jingle bells with foil ribbons and fading felt stockings from my paternal grandmother’s tree have seen better days. I am sure that each year may be their last, but they endure. Each new sign of decay somehow makes them more precious. Christmas magic.



In our bedroom, a small tree sits on a base that is ceramic representation of Bethlehem. The city scene centers on the nativity. There are dozens of ceramic figures going about their daily lives without seeming to notice the figures in the manger. People drawing water, fishing, tending crops and livestock. The tree itself is full of ceramic angels, proclaiming peace and joy. The tree also plays a haunting violin solo, “Silent night” at the push of the button. It is not a tree I would ever buy, even if it does have a collectible certificate of authenticity. It belonged to my uncle, who gave it to my mother and now somehow, it belongs to me. I sometimes look at that tree before I go to bed and wonder if, like to people in the diorama, I would have been so busy that I would have missed the world’s greatest gift. I wonder if that is true of me now. That in the rush to get things done, I miss the many blessings set before me. I pray to be more present and thankful.

And so, I love Christmas, because it is the one time of year that I force myself to slow down and remember. I revel in it. I sit in my living room and I remember the trip to Yellowstone when I see a silver bear on the tree. I see a liberty bell and I remember the smiles on the kids faces as they talked with “Ben Franklin” in Philadelphia. I look at the Christmas village on the mantel and remember my grandma and grandpa’s Christmas village that they named “Marquand” after a nearby village. I see the nutcrackers and remember our son, excited to add each to his collection. This year, I incorporated some glassware from our daughter’s wedding. I look at the glass vases and I remember that happiest of days and our wonderful new son-in-law.

I suppose that some people may rush out to buy the most elaborate decorations and that Christmas is a financial strain on many. But in this house, I rarely buy any decoration (other than the annual ornament). I prefer the decades old candle holders handed down through generations. I delight in the white ceramic nativity set, given as a first Christmas gift by my in-laws. I faithfully hang the ornaments made with toilet paper tubes and dime store string. I happily accept hand me down decor. Because Christmas to me is about family. I am not sad, when I see the frayed items left by loved ones who are no longer here to celebrate with me. I am not discouraged that our children are grown and flown. Instead, I smile as enter each room. Every corner of the house confirms their presence and influence in my life. I am surrounded by visible reminders of love. I turn on the lights and deliberately take time to remember. My husband described it as being wrapped in a “Christmas hug”. He is not wrong, it is a tangible feeling of belonging. Whispers of love.

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Friendship
If you’re ever in a jam, here I am
If you’re ever in a mess, S.O.S.
If you ever feel so happy you land in jail, I’m your bail
It’s friendship, friendship
Just a perfect blendship
When other friendships have been forgot
Ours will still be hot. (Noel Coward)
Noel Coward wrote some catchy tunes. You can’t help humming along. This week I’ve done that a lot as I’ve reflected on friendship. Defined as bond of mutual affection and personal regard, friendships are hard to capture in words. The sparks of pleasure that come when you hear from a friend and the blanket of warmth that envelopes you when you spend time with friends are hard to describe. The instant recognition of a kindred spirit and the remembrance of shared experiences are rich gifts.
This past week, my husband and I went to dinner with individuals we worked with thirty years ago. I hadn’t seen some of the individuals in at least that long. It was as if time stood still. Smiles and jokes. Stories of times past and current adventures. I could remember the smell of the chalkboards and the laughter we shared the day that someone had the principal’s very old car towed off the lot as a prank. Once we were home, my husband remarked that it was good for him to sit with friends. He shared that he had needed the connections and the laughter. We all do. Belonging is a basic human need that yearns to be filled.
If you’re ever down a well, ring my bell
And if you’re ever up a tree just phone to me
A-yes-sir-ee
If you ever lose your teeth and you’re out to dine, borrow mine
It’s friendship, friendship
Just a perfect blendship
When other friendships have been forgat,
Gate?
Ours will still be great. (Noel Coward)
Friendships don’t just happen. They take effort. That is evident by several text messages in progress, between me and a group of friends who have been trying to arrange a time to meet for several weeks. We can’t seem to find a place and a time that works for everyone. Even through the texts I can see the various personalities at play. It would be so easy to just give up. But the bonds that tie, become weak without attention. Busy with life, people neglect connections with family and friends. Isolation creeps up on you, if you let it.
Isolation can also occur in a crowd of people, without friends around. This past week, I went to a fundraising event. As I walked into the room alone, I took a deep breath. As an introvert, I am not good at small talk. I scanned the room. A smile crept on my face as I realized that several people that I knew from other times and walks of life were at the party. Hugs and smiles were exchanged. Funny stories were shared and just like that I was meeting new friends who were drawn to our laughter.
If they ever black your eyes, put me wise
If they ever cook your goose, turn me loose
And if they ever put a bullet through your brain, I’ll complain
It’s friendship, friendship
Just a perfect blendship
When other friendships have been forgit
Ours will still be it. (Noel Coward)
This week, I have also been arranging a dinner meet up with my best friend from high school. She has recently retired, as have I. In some twist of fate, while she was texting me about when and where we should have dinner, she ran into my mother who was out to lunch with her old high school friends. The circle of friendship continues. Women lunching and laughing, giving each other strength, telling stories. Bonds that were formed decades ago during sleep overs and school dances continue. Hugs and happiness prevail.
If you ever lose your mind, I’ll be kind
And if you ever lose your shirt, I’ll be hurt
If you’re ever in a mill and get sawed in half, I won’t laugh
It’s friendship, friendship
Just a perfect blendship
When other friendships are up the crick
Ours will still be slick. (Noel Coward)
Mid-week, I went on an adventure with two friends. I admire and adore these women. Their work ethic and tenacity are unrivaled. Their joy and love of life is self-evident despite hardships. We met through work and we were forged together through trials and common goals. We make a jolly threesome of strong women with a sense of adventure. I’m not sure how it started really, but we decided that we would read a book together periodically and then take a themed trip to celebrate. The best ideas have dubious origins.
Our first book adventure was to read a murder mystery and then see “Clue” the stage play. We had a fabulous time over the weekend playing “Clue” the board game and exploring a new town. This week, we visited the Churchill Museum in Fulton Missouri. Our book choice was The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson, a wonderful memoir of Churchill and the Battle of Britain. Picture three mostly retired women, traipsing through a museum for hours, trading Churchill quotes and taking pictures with the fake cigars. We ate pizza and talked about our children. After a slight mishap where we drove off without one of us being all the way in the car (don’t worry, no one was injured) and a drive down dirt roads with railroad crossings, we found our lovely cabin in the woods. After a Churchill inspired picnic and WW II trivia and lots of giggles, there was a peaceful silence. You can do that among friends. The silliest ideas are often the most fun.

When it is time to return home, I know that my best friend will be waiting with affection. I am the most fortunate of women. My husband teases me about leaving him, but also knows that I will always return willingly. As he will for me. Our regard for each other is genuine and cultivated. In fact, we are looking forward to spending the day together. I’m not sure what we will be doing, but it doesn’t really matter. I am unconditionally accepted and free to be fully me. I hope I am all that for him. Friendship. Kinship. When other friends have long been gone….ours will still be strong. (RM)

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Passing The Time

Today I am thinking about time. How quickly the years go and how slow the hours. I am sitting in a tiny coffee shop in a small Indiana Town. A fun find in the middle of nowhere. . . or somewhere, depending on your view. It is quirky and artsy, and best of all, it serves Bananas Foster Latte. I didn’t intend to be here. I have no reason to be here, except that my daughter asked me to come with her on a road trip. She called from Los Angeles and asked if she could fly home and stay a few days. Her college friend decided to have an impromptu wedding, and my beautiful girl is a bridesmaid. So yesterday I chauffeured her from St. Louis to Indiana. Today I am sitting in a coffee shop while she attends to her friend’s big day.
Time is a funny thing. It seems like just yesterday I was running around like a crazy person putting the finishing touches on my own wedding. Curling irons heating, slips, dresses, makeup bags and high heels scattered throughout the house…anticipation in the air…friends’ laughter. Sometime in the fuzzy waves of time, I also remember dressing my daughter as a flower girl for my brother’s wedding. Her little satin dress and classic updo were adorable. The smiles, the hairspray, the rush to be ready in time to leave for the church all ethereal memories. And in a blink, she is standing in blue at her high school friend’s wedding. Long dark hair curled to perfection, big laughing eyes, tummy rumbling because there was no time to eat lunch, a look of horror when the girl standing next her passed out during the ceremony. At some point before or after, she and I coordinated an outdoor family wedding. An early morning gathering to set up tables, decorations of wood and burlap. She. . . in my dress taking pictures. Me. . . filling the air with song. A cool breeze and sunshine on the lake. In a moment, it was her own wedding day. Lighted make-up tables, white satin and tulle hanging behind a dressing screen, sunset on the river, the soft light falling on the vineyard, three generations of women singing with the wedding band. The memories are so vivid.

Time passes so quickly and yet my current challenge is how to spend the next few hours. I have a whole morning to fill and nothing to do. What does an actual chauffeur do to pass the time? I have no idea, and it has been a while since I was a carpool mom. I am a veteran of sitting in the bleachers and in parking lots waiting to retrieve my children. Even time can’t make me forget the years of shuttling to practices and events. I can almost smell the fresh cut grass and the dirt. The lawn chairs and the car seats were hot and sticky in the summer and freezing cold in winter. I was the master of multi-tasking. My Blackberry in hand (if you are under 40, perhaps you should google it)….or a project….or a book and I was ready to wait. Of course I did get come complaints. “Why can’t you just sit there like the other moms?” “Why do you always have to be doing things?” “You say you watch me, but every time I look over you are reading something.” Guilty as charged. Juggling a career and family was a constant race against time. A race that I couldn’t really win. A race I sometimes didn’t want to run. A race that I was determined to conquer. It seems like just a few days ago.

I confess, I am not very good at just sitting. In truth, I could be sitting here just sipping my coffee. Instead, I am doing battle with words to pass the time. I eye the shops along main street and wonder how soon they will open so that I can take a stroll. I will likely check my email and answer a few inquiries from work first, even though I am mostly retired. I guess some things don’t change with time. I no longer feel like I am sprinting, but I will likely always be in motion. To experience new places, new ideas, new challenges is to be alive. Time has no meaning when I am moving forward. Time goes very slowly when I am at rest. I am learning to live in the moment. To appreciate the time that I am in. To look forward with hope and to look back with gratitude.
This day will eventually end. The minutes will turn into hours and the hours into a day. I will collect my beautiful child and drive her home. In a few days I will put her on a plane back to Los Angeles and will count the weeks and months until I can see her again. It will seem forever, and yet when she or her brother appear or I think of them, time will bend. It is the same when I return to my parents’ house, or I spend time with my extended family and love ones. Old bonds hold strong. Time is suspended. It is as if we have never left. A familiar blanket of love wraps us together. We have stories to tell of the time we have spent apart, but the memories take us back to yesterday. The minutes we have together are too few, the time we spend apart is too long, and the love we share is eternal. Time is funny that way.

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In Praise of Trees

I love trees. They speak to me in ways that I can’t adequately describe. The sturdiness of their limbs, the roots reaching deep into the ground, the delicate leaves; all contribute to their timeless beauty. Of course, trees are also practical. Trees keep the air clean by filtering carbon dioxide and giving off oxygen. One acre of trees removes almost 3 tons of carbon dioxide and other pollutants from the air annually. I know these things, yet it is the smell of the forest that impresses me most. The woody smell of bark, leaves, and dirt instantly calms me. If I have been away for a while and I make it home to the national forest area near where I grew up, the first thing I do is roll the windows down. The earthy smell of the oak and pine mixed forest brings an instant smile to my face. For a brief moment in time, I am the woods and the woods are mine.

Deep in the forest, the sunlight peeks through a canopy of leaves as I walk. It is shady and cool. I feel protected and caressed. Trees shield me from the wind, they insulate me from the weather. To walk in the woods on a rainy day is a delight. I can hear the rain falling on the leaves in a gentle patter. I smell the rain and the trees mingled together. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the trees soaking up the water through their gnarled roots.

It is quiet in the woods. Trees reduce noise through something called attenuation. This means that they absorb and deflect sound waves. To walk in silence with only the song of birds is a joyful experience. In daily life, we are confronted with noise. Buzzes, beeps, hums, an endless cacophony. In the woods noise often melts away. The trees filter the sounds of the outside world, leaving only the gentle whisper of their leaves. I can close my eyes and hear their rustling song, a lullaby.

I am drawn to trees. I run my hands down their scarred bark and wonder what made the cuts and knots. I touch the roots and marvel that a massive organism can be held in place by such small tentacles. I feel the moss on the trees surface and run my hands along the carpet of green. My grandfather taught me to navigate my way in the woods using the positioning of the moss as a guide, and how use moss to treat wounds. But the beauty of moss in an old growth forest still takes my breath away. The textures of the trees surface in my hand provides connection with the Earth.

There are over 60,000 species of trees on the planet. Many of them I will never see. But each time I encounter a new species, I am drawn to it. My husband calls me a tree-hugger. I’ll own that title proudly. In Hawaii, I encountered a bamboo forest for the first time. The mature plants were so tall I could not see the sun. They swayed back and forth in the wind, creating a natural wind chime and I was mesmerized. There, I also encountered an ancient rainbow eucalyptus tree. Its bark was smooth and cool. As I laid my cheek on the colorful trunk, the crisp clean scent of the tree washed over me. It is this way each time I encounter a new species of tree.

Trees are alive. Scientists now know that they communicate with each other through their root system and the chemicals that they emit when they are under attack by insects. Scientists describe it as an underground internet that connects the entire forest. Perhaps we are more connected to trees than we realize. I know that I feel deeply when I see trees that have been cut down for no obvious reason. I cringe when forest and mountainside are destroyed to create a quarry. When electric companies and highway departments conduct their annual “raping of the trees” in order to make sure that limbs don’t fall on power lines or roadways, I want to cry. I know the trimming is necessary, but the machines they use leave the trees twisted and lopsided, and bare. The birds and small animals that call the trees home are displaced. The sight leaves me saddened and diminished. I am genuinely sorrowful, the way you might feel when something horrible happens to a friend.

Perhaps I sound foolish. Perhaps I am. I only know that trees speak to my soul. Science tells us that trees are good for our mental wellbeing. They release chemicals called phytoncides. They can help us reduce blood pressure, lower anxiety levels, and increase pain thresholds. I don’t really know how all that works. I only know that trees are fascinating. They are timeless and beautiful. They calm and protect. They are a shelter and a blessing. I am thankful for the gift of trees.

Sometime soon, walk in the forest alone. Use your senses to smell, see, hear, and feel. Perhaps the trees will speak to you as they do to me, if you take the time to notice.

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May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: Travel Goals

“Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Don’t overdrive your abilities.” I’ve had plenty of driving under my belt, and yet I still remember my parents advice from when I was learning to drive. (This is because Dad still gives advice from the passenger seat when I drive him anywhere, even though I have been driving successfully for decades. He’s even convinced my husband to join in the fun.) Despite years of a lengthy daily commute, I still like to drive. In fact, I love a good road trip. The call of the open road and the thrill of what lies around the corner is exciting to me. I can spend hours in a car just watching the world go by. Sometimes when I get behind the wheel, I get the sudden urge to just keep driving to see where the road will take me.

Last month, we rented a car in Ireland. Driving in Ireland is not for the faint of heart. For the uninitiated, it can be overwhelming. Let me explain. The Irish drive on the opposite side of the road to the one we drive on in the USA. This can be slightly disorienting to those of us that spent our whole lives driving on the right, making right-hand turns on red, and looking right before crossing the road. They drive mostly manual transmissions. (I grew up driving a stick-shift so this is generally not a problem; except that they shift with their left hand.) The driver’s seat is on the right and the passenger sits on the left. Many days we circled the vehicle like a clown circus before the driver and passengers could decide on the appropriate doors to enter the vehicle.

The Irish roadways themselves present numerous challenges. The roads are very narrow, with many roads simply built in the ancient trackways of roads long forgotten. The centuries old cities were not designed with automobiles in mind. In many places, the road is only wide enough for one car despite it being open to two-way traffic. There are generally no shoulders. This is compounded by hedgerows that grow up to the very edge of the road. They lean into the road, and must be trimmed back continuously to keep branches from protruding into traffic. The walls are alive and ever-changing.

The roads are constantly curving. Straight stretches are rare. Intersections are generally roundabouts, leaving the driver to make endless circles as you make your way through towns and villages. Highway intersections are never straight four way stops. Either you connect by round about or you make a right hand turn onto the crossroad, only to make a quick left hand turn onto the road you just left (crossroads generally do not connect straight across, you must be alert and find where the road resumes).

Road signs are helpful when they are present. But often, there are no signs. No matter what road you take, the sign tells you that the largest city in the county is accessible by the road you are on. This is endlessly confusing and also mostly true. Numerous small county and local roads connect in weird and wonderful ways. So, if you are in county Carlow you can be going East and see a sign saying the road west is to Carlow. You can turn West and see a sign saying the road headed east goes to Carlow. You could turn South or North on different roads and see the same signs promising the route to Carlow. However, when you come to a three way stop in the middle of trees and sheep there will likely be no sign telling which of the roads really will help you get to Carlow. And I’m convinced that every road in Ireland has a sign somewhere promising to take you to Dublin. There is also a slight language barrier. We once found out the hard way that a sign promising a ramp, really meant that you are about to hit a rather large speed bump. Go Mall means slow. (It is not a signal that shopping is in your future.)

Speed limits are determined by the type of road you are on. Motorways (M roads) are generally 120 kilometers per hour. National roads (N) are generally 100. Regional roads (R) are about 80. Local roads (L) are between 30 and 50 depending on whether you are in a town. Posted speed limits ( when you can find them) often do not take into consideration actual road conditions. It was common to see a sign with 100 kilometers per hour signaled just before a tight curve or a stop sign. It is assumed that the driver will be smart and alert enough to know not to drive at a higher rate of speed than conditions warrant. It is also assumed that you will know the limits by the road designation, so signs are fewer and farther between than Americans are used to.

The Irish have a loving relationship with rock walls. Roads are often built right up to the edge of the walls. This is problematic at intersections. You must pull your car far enough out into the road to see around the wall, however if you are far enough out in the road to see, you are likely far enough out to be hit. Irish driver’s know how far they can go to put their car right up to the edge of the road and often approach the intersections at high rates of speed only to stop at the last minute. They also pop out into the road and then back up immediately when they see an approaching car. This can be surprising to drivers traveling at high rates of speed on the main road.

Houses are built with walls surrounding the front of the house and very narrow gates. To park your car at the house, you must make a 90 degree turn through the gate that is only slightly wider than your car. Our cottage had a rock wall, a narrow gate and a hedgerow. It also sat on a sharp turn. Just getting onto the roadway was an adventure. Public parking spaces are also narrow and often require you to find the nearest pay booth, to buy a ticket, and to display said ticket in your car. Parking anywhere requires some thought and effort.

In the unlikely event that there is extra space between the edge of the road and dirt, rock, or botanical walls, the Irish build obstacles for your car to navigate. Large rocks are placed at the edge of the road to keep you from using the gravel shoulders in front of buildings. Metal poles are driven into the ground at the edge of the roadway to keep you from using the extra three feet of pavement that inexplicably exists beyond the width of a car. Curbs are poured six inches high so that you can be reminded that even thought there isn’t a rock wall, you are still on a narrow and curvy road. In the unexpected occasions where there were no barriers at the edge of the road, I found myself taking deep breaths of relief and freedom (the closest experience I can describe is when you emerge from a long stretch of construction that requires you to drive in tight lanes between concrete barriers). However, the relief didn’t last long, because the next curve would always bring a new obstacle.

Once a driver has mastered avoiding the stationery obstacles, they are ready to advance to moving obstacles. The most common obstacle is people. I know there are plenty of parks, gardens, hiking trails, and endless fields in Ireland. So, I’m unsure why people feel they must walk their dogs, their babies in carriages, their elderly grandparents, and their grocery buggies down the middle of the roads. Since there are no shoulders and there are endless hedgerows and rock walls; encountering humans in the road may require a full stop. In the event of on-coming traffic, that stop may be abrupt. Since people are often jogging or walking on roads with just barely room for two cars to pass and speed limits of up to 100 kilometres per hour, you must be hyper alert for pedestrians. Bicyclists are also common amongst the hedgerows. And I can’t forgot to mention that people standing in the road trimming their hedgerows is also a common sight. You may also encounter a very large vehicle with massive hedge trimming blades.

Once drivers are comfortable with people, they are ready to move on to the animal obstacles. Sheep roam freely on the mountain roads and often can be seen crossing roads as a herd. Sometimes they have a shepherd or dog in sight, sometimes they are seemingly on their own. They usually are not in a hurry. Cows can also be in the road as they cross from pasture to dairy barn. Driving down the motorway (think interstate multi-lane highway), I looked up to see a lone cow crossing the overpass. Less common are goats, donkeys, and foxes. You may also be dodging ravens, hawks, owls, and endless varieties of water birds. Drivers must be alert for dogs and horses.

Last but not least, drivers must also watch for other moving vehicles. These can range from the standard compact cars to large trailers with beds full of logs. Giant tractors are on the roads moving at highway speed or crawling along the roads as they make their way between fields. They often are pulling large trailers. But the real nemesis of the casual driver is the endless parade of white service vans. Where they are going are coming from is anyone’s guess, but they pop up out of nowhere. They must be in a hurry, because they pass in places that a sane person would deem unpassable. You must make sure that you are in your lane at all times and that you are watching ahead to make sure that it is possible for two cars to be in their lane and still manage to pass. If the road is too narrow, you must stop in the place that is wide enough for two cars and wait until they pass. Or if they stop first, you must proceed to pass them. It is almost like learning to dance.

Why, you might ask yourself, would anyone want to drive in Ireland? Because it is a beautiful country that can only be properly explored on the backroads and in the small towns. Because the Irish people are kind and generous and funny. In the countryside, Irish drivers are generally patient and courteous. I heard no honking of horns or signs of road rage. If the road was narrow, drivers looked out for one another, pulling over when necessary. There is a magical quality when you top an Irish mountain, and you see the green fields dotted with sheep. It is glorious.

So if you are going to Ireland, may the road rise up to meet you. May the hedgerows be trimmed. May the cows stay in the pasture, and may your eyes be not dimmed. May you never drive in Dublin. May you sail through round abouts. May your car be automatic and may you give no one cause to shout.

Happy Traveling!
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Fly the Friendly Skies?: Travel Goals

Travel is a passion. The anticipation makes me giddy. New places and new faces call to me. There is very little about travel that I do not enjoy….except airlines. Airlines make me miserable. If there is a way to make humans more inconvenienced, more anxious, and more impoverished; they have incorporated it. I don’t fault the individuals working for the airlines. Generally, the employees we have encountered have been overworked yet courteous. It is the policies themselves that are grossly misaligned to the human experience. It seems that all policies are aligned to squeeze the most profit for the airlines, humans be damned.
I will admit this post is curmudgeonly and somewhat out of character for me to be so completely disenchanted. Perhaps I am older and long for simpler times. Remember when you used to go to the airline counter and they did all the work for your check in, handed you tickets and said “Have a wonderful flight”? Those days are no more.
To be sure that you have a seat assignment, you often have to pay extra for the privilege. To be sure they don’t give your seat away, you need to check in for your flight. Even that process is not for the faint of heart. When we booked the tickets, we completed the requisite information screens. Carefully transcribing the passport numbers and personal information, we once again made sure that everything was in order several weeks prior to the flight. On the day of the flight, I got a text telling me I could check in. Once I logged into the account (it took several minutes as the American Airlines website was having difficulties), I was notified that the airlines needed more information. I checked all the screens and each had been filled out correctly. To double check, I went to the iphone app. On my iphone, I was able to take a photo of our passports and submit. Suddenly, I was checked in! Success! Victory!
I now had digital tickets in my Apple wallet. Perhaps because we are of a certain age…..perhaps because we have had our phone batteries dies while we are in line to board…..perhaps because we don’t fully understand how an Apple wallet works… we also like paper tickets. Twenty minutes later after waiting for the American Airlines website to load and find my checked in flight, I was able to print tickets. I was finally feeling calm and happy about our flight. No long wait at the airline counter in my future. I texted my husband to let him know that I had wrestled the airline dragon and immerged victorious.
With check in complete, I looked at our tickets. Since there are no direct flights out of St. Louis to Ireland, we always try to book at least a two hour layover to ensure that we have plenty of time to eat, stretch, and get to the boarding area for an international flight. Inevitably, there are flight delays and baggage issues. A two hour cushion makes for less stress when things don’t go as planned. For this trip, we booked a 2.5 hour layover in Charlotte. About two months prior to the trip, we were notified that our 11:20 flight out of STL had been changed without notice to a 12:50 flight. Our 2.5 hour layover was now just 1 hour. This was not ideal and certainly not the peaceful travel experience I purchased. Hoping for the best, I set out my bags and went to sleep.
The next morning, we took our time to dress and complete our pre-travel check list. At 8:30 am, my husband came out of the bedroom and said that he had just got a notice from American Airlines that we were confirmed on our 11:20 flight. We live about 1 hour from the airport, so it was still possible to make an 11:20 flight. I checked our tickets and our check-in on the American Airlines app. It said our flight was at 12:50 and on time. Now we did’t know what to do. Should we rush to the airport in case we needed to be on the 11:20 flight? Should we show up with our 12:50 tickets and hope for the best? I went online and searched flight information for the day. There was no flight leaving Lambert at 11:20. So we relaxed and continued as planned.
Upon arrival at the airport, we needed to check a bag. We went to the self-service queue. There, I had to scan our mobile boarding passes. There was no information about how to complete the scan. After trying several different ways to scan from my phone, a fellow traveler showed me what they had finally found worked for themselves after several failed attempts. There was no American Airline attendant in sight. The system took us through all the check in questions again and then proceeded to print our boarding passes again. For whatever reason, it printed two tickets for me to Dublin. Now in possession of nine printed boarding passes, we waited for the printed baggage tag that I had requested. A tag finally appeared. The directions asked us to follow a five step process to tag our own bags. My husband started the process and then realized that we weren’t sure how to finish the process, because the directions were not clear. We approached the baggage drop and asked the agent to help us. Her directions were to “just stick it together”. He did and then she said, not there, you need to put it on the other handle. He carefully detached the tag and tried again. Thankfully we didn’t have to reprint a tag. Another hurdle of self-service airlines completed.

Because we would no longer have time to eat during our layover, we sat down for some lunch before boarding. My husband had just taken a bite of his sandwich when he got a text from American Airlines saying that his 11:20 flight was boarding and that we needed to be in the gate area. I got up and went to check the flight board. There was no 11:20 flight leaving Lambert. I checked our tickets…which still read 12:50. By now, my blood pressure was on the rise. Check yourself in, check your own bags, and catch a flight that doesn’t exist. Deep breathing helps. So did lunch.
By noon, we approached our gate. Our 12:50 flight was on the board and on time. We sat down to wait. Seven minutes until boarding and no plane in sight. Time to board comes and goes. Two minutes later, a plane appears. As the plane is emptying, the gate agent announces that all carry on luggage that won’t fit under a seat must be gate checked. She announced that it would put under the plane and brought up to the passengers once we reached Charlotte. I felt the stress return. We have a one hour layover (international flights begin boarding 1 hour before departure) and our carryon luggage has been taken out of our hands and placed under the plane. Normally when that happens, they just offer to send it to your final destination. In this case, we would have to wait until someone brought it to us. I breathed deep and hoped for the best.
We entered the plane quickly and they were able to push off to the runway only 4 minutes late (which was a miracle as the incoming plane was over 25 minutes late). I was feeling confident of making our flight…..until we parked on the holding area of the runway. We sat for what felt like forever. Finally, the pilot told us we were waiting on cargo data. I felt sure we would miss our flight. Suddenly we were in the air and I tried to nap. The wifi didn’t work on the flight, so options were limited. Next thing I knew, the pilot announced that we would at our gate in Charlotte 5 to 10 minutes early! I was suddenly hopeful again. We landed and got in the parade of American airlines aircraft trying to make our way to a gate. We departed the plane on time, we had one hour to walk the six minutes to our flight to Ireland. Yes!!!
Except…. The entire plane was waiting for their “gate checked” bags. Baggage handlers began bringing luggage to the jetway. After about 10 bags, he disappeared. That left about 50 people standing in the line wondering what happened. Several minutes later, he came back and said, “Do you all need luggage?” At this point, I was asking myself what would happen if I just went to get on my flight to Ireland without my bag. I could hear the men yelling to each other to check the back of the plane. I mentioned to the attendant most of us need to catch an international flight. After several minutes, I looked out to see that the suitcases had been lined up near the back of the plane on the ground. I could see my bags. I mentioned to the attendant that I could see the bags and asked if anyone was bringing them. I thought I used a nice voice, my husband thinks I sounded like a shrew. The answer I received was “I don’t know”. That’s it, a shrug and he walked away. Our bags are 15 feet from the door of the jetway. 50 people are waiting on bags in order to make their connection. His response is “I don’t know, not my job.” At this point, I know I turned into Attila the Hun. My bags were sitting on the ground outside an airplane. I was filming grown men telling each other that it wasn’t their job to walk them from the back of the plane to the jetway. Meanwhile our flight, just down the terminal was boarding. I could feel my blood pressure climbing.

After another few minutes of arguing, the man on the jet way walked down and began to bring up the bags. We grabbed ours as fast as we could and power walked to our gate. We made the boarding call with just minutes to spare. So much for planning ahead for a stress free flight.
As those of us caught waiting for our luggage were rushing through the line, a gate attendant told a family that they couldn’t walk on the left side of the line that was for “elite” customers and that they would need to come through the other side of the line. Since the line of mere peons like us, had virtually no one in it, I wasn’t sure what the issue was. We were all running late and just trying to make the plane. I suppose when people pay to be the elite, the like to see their lines enforced. Pondering the excesses of capitalism and the demise of the airline industry, I got on the plane and released a huge sigh. I felt like I had run a marathon. Flying shouldn’t be that hard or that stressful.
In fairness, the flight to Dublin was relaxing and had great service. I was able to relax and watch a few movies that I’d wanted to see. Other than the person sitting next to me spending a lot of time with their arms and legs in my seat, it was a great flight. The flight attendants were friendly and helpful.
We landed, de-planed, and made it through security stops in record time. We followed our signs to the baggage carousel and began to wait…and wait…and wait. At one point the flight was cleared from the board and the carousel sign turned off. Fellow passengers found a representative of another airline. He asked if the whole plane was still waiting on luggage. We answered yes. We waited some more and then some more. We made friends with another couple and shared travel stories. Finally, over an hour after we cleared passport control, I spotted our bag and ran to get it. Shortly after that the carousel stopped and our friends were notified that they could expect another 30 minutes of wait time while they unloaded the remaining bags. We were lucky and went straight to a coffee shop to regroup.

In summary, I understand staff shortages. I understand cost projections. However, I’m not sure the airline understands customer service any longer. The system as it currently operates requires the passenger to navigate numerous systems, some of which do not function properly. When the passenger asks for assistance they are directed to self-service kiosks. When the kiosk doesn’t work, the passenger is told to wait in another line. After navigating the myriad of directions for check in and arriving at the gate, passengers are then not so subtly reminded that money defines us. Some passengers with valid tickets are turned away from the flight because the airline oversold seats. If you were lucky enough to get to your destination, you are left to wonder if you will ever be reunited with your bag. You seek help in finding the best course to be reunited with your belongings and find no one on duty. It seems the friendly skies have turned stormy. I’m not sure what the answer is. Flying in 2022 requires patience and perseverance from the traveler. We will just have to keep navigating as best we can and I’ll try to keep my inner Attila the traveler in check. The destination is worth it.

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Transported

Last evening, I happened upon a program I had never before encountered. The set was cheesy, a tiny theater set up to look like the interior of a barn. The host looked as if he had just been picked up out of rural 1970 on his way to work at a bank. As a matter of fact, he resembled a former pastor I remember with thick glasses and televangelist hair. I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying due to a heavy accent. We almost flipped to a different channel. My husband was seconds away from clicking the remote as he continued flipping through the endless lists of “nothing on TV”.
But then the host introduced a singer I’d never heard of. At least I think he did. I’m not sure he was speaking English. The band (that I really hadn’t noticed due to a long closeup of the host’s hair) appeared on screen. Two notes in and I am hooked. Transfixed. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound indeed. It is amazing how a simple melody can captivate and stir the inner being. A beautiful alto voice climbing and falling, proclaiming her salvation. Simple piano chords chased by violins moved me to the edge of my seat.
Next up, a tenor that also was unknown to me. He looked like he should be named Patrick Murphy and walk the streets as a New York beat cop in 1840. I’ve always loved Irish tenors, so I smiled with anticipation. I was not disappointed. He sang of the “Holy City”. I’d never heard the song, but with each chorus of Jerusalem his voice became stronger and higher until he was pushing out notes of which Pavarotti would have been jealous. Goose bumps and tingles on my skin. Who are these people, singing in a small theater, in a corner of the world where music is valued and offered up like gold?
I was dismayed to see that the program was almost over. Only one more song. The host began to sing. He not only looked like an 80’s televangelist, he sang like one. Passable, maybe even above average. I was more than a little disappointed. He was flanked by superhuman musicians and he definitely was not in their league. The finale was underwhelming. May be it was time to turn the channel after all. And then, two women’s voice soared in perfect harmony. How Great Thou Art! My body broke out in goose flesh. My mind struggled to take in the beauty of what I was hearing. I was transported and transfixed. One brief verse of perfection. Like a scratched record, I came crashing back to Earth as the host took the lead on the song and closed the show.
I am left reflecting how simple melodies and harmonies have power. Just a few notes, sung with sincerity can strip away all my defenses and leave me raw. Old gospel songs whisper to me of grace and redemption. They remind me of my good fortune. That I am loved. That I am saved. They root me in the past and give hope for a future. So as I sit in a small room, on the edge of my seat, watching the credits of the bargain basement, Grand Ole Opry knockoff roll on the television screen. I give thanks for music, for talent in the most unexpected of places, and I give thanks for amazing grace.

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Flower Power

Flowers from a friend Flowers inspire emotion. This past week, we invited our neighbors for dinner on the patio. He came in carrying a pie and she came carrying a beautiful arrangement of dahlias that she had grown in the back yard. I love pie, but my heart went immediately to the flowers. They are stunning and they sing of friendship and thoughtfulness.



Garden treasures Earlier in the week, I had the good fortune to host a meeting at the Missouri Botanical Garden. As a bonus, I was introduced to the therapeutic horticulture department. I was fascinated to find out that the team works across the city with hospitals and social services to provide plant therapy. Working with plants by planting, arranging, smelling, and preparing is proven to release stress and promote good health benefits.

Garden flower arrangement As we toured the sensory garden, I was introduced a plant that smelled like popcorn and other that smelled just like pancakes smothered in maple syrup. Rubbing my fingers over the lemon verbena, made me smile as I remembered the many Christmas mornings that I have opened lemon verbena soap and bath salts (my favorite). The smell of plants or the sight of a flower can bring a flood of memories.

Morning Glory Plants are involved in the most important moments of our lives. I can recall in great detail bridal bouquets from family weddings. Mine were made of stargazer lilies. Glorious white blooms on a background of dark green leaves. Simple daisies wrapped in lace. Cascading roses. Tulips in pink and yellow.

Wedding Bouquet The wonderful blanket of peonies on my grandmother’s casket would have made her smile. She always grew them in her garden and we would laugh as we shook out the ants. As I’m writing this, I am looking at a very large pot of shamrocks co-existing with a peace lily. The shamrocks were from my grandmother’s back porch. I thought I killed them and put the pot in a storage room. When I got married, my husband had a peace lily that someone had given him at the death of a friend. It needed to be replanted, so I used the dirt I found in the old clay pot in storage. Much to our surprise, the lily grew and the shamrocks began to appear. Thirty years later they are still co-existing, still blooming, still growing.

Silverswords on Haleakala In the wild, the flowers are symbols of beauty, tenacity and hope. Consider the wildflowers blooming on the rocks. Hardy blooms fight the wind and the cold for their moment in the sun. Blooming trees, and bushes, and even weeds. Bursts of color in an otherwise subdued landscape. Reminders that there is beauty in the world if we only look. Harbingers of friendship, peace, and happiness.

Flowers at Blarney Castle 


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Wild Horses: Travel Goals

I’ve heard the saying, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” A few weeks ago, I heard an old song that proclaimed that the secret to life was, “faster horses, younger women, and more money.” This week I had several encounters with the wild horses of the Ozark Scenic Riverways.
As we were arriving at Echo Bluff campground, the herd appeared on the roadway in front of us. There were about ten beautiful horses and a few colts. They took up most of the road as they made their leisurely way down the winding road toward the campground. We followed slowly in the RV, pleased to catch a glimpse of the elusive creatures. About halfway down the hill, a large and noisy truck approached from the opposite direction and in a moment they were gone. The lead stallion quickly lead the herd into the woods.
The next afternoon, we decided to head into Eminence for food. As we were leaving the park, the horses were standing in a sunken meadow grazing. Partially hidden, they were enjoying the afternoon in a shady spot next to a cool, spring fed stream with sweet grass. They were living their best life. I was grateful to catch yet another glimpse, because a single sighting is rare.

The following morning, I woke up early and went out to build my fire for coffee. Usually, I have early mornings to myself and my campfire, but there seemed to be an unusual amount of people up and about. After I got the fire blazing, I decided to walk to the bath house. All the people walking by had congregated in front of the bathhouse where the herd was grazing. A silver horse was eating the grass outside the nearest campsite. A half dozen white horses were down the hill with the foals. A large black stallion was standing guard in the road. And all the while, campers were standing in wonder at this unusual encounter with wild horses. People were whispering in excitement.
After watching the horses for a long while, I finally returned to camp. In the misty morning, the encounter seemed surreal. I filled my cup with heavenly coffee fresh off the fire and began to hum the tune to “faster horses” when I heard hooves pounding on the ground. Stampede. The horses came running through my campsite and on down the road between trailers. I sat stunned with a smile on my face.

The following morning, I got up early to make coffee (did I mention I make campfire coffee every day I am near a fire pit?). It was very foggy and misty. I heard a whinny, then a snort. I heard a stomp and a neigh. The horses were close. I sat down and slowly started looking around. They were standing on the other side of our RV by our truck. They were roaming around the area between our campsite and that of my sister/brother in law’s camper. The horses were talking to each other…. or maybe to me. A snort, a whinny, a neigh. I closed my eyes and just listened, wondering what they were saying. I whinny, a stomp, a snort. Endless munching of grass. Finally a scream and a stomp from the lead stallion came. The other horses fell silent. The black tossed his head and they began to walk down the hill. He stopped and they resumed grazing at the next nearest neighbor’s camper. After several minutes, the black screamed again and they began to run back into the forest.
That was the last I saw of the horses. The next morning, I could hear them far off in the valley. I knew their calls. The sounds of a herd of horses echoed through the hills. Sounds by no horses. We saw several piles of manure throughout the week to let us know they were around. Remnants of the herd on the move. Like ghosts of the forest, they were near but never sighted. A whisper on the wind. A memory to savor, beautiful and majestic.

Apparently, wild horses can keep me away. They kept me from making coffee, visiting the bathhouse, and from doing the work I had brought with me. I was too interested in watching them. They seemed docile from afar, but the lead horses were on guard and protective of the herd. No one was getting too close unless they wanted you to. Wild horses can keep you away. And upon further reflection, I think the country song was also wrong. The secret to life is not faster horses. It is watching wilder horses along a river. And of course it is never younger women. Older, wiser, outdoor sitting, campfire making, cast iron cooking women are obviously preferable. However, more money could fund more adventures with wild horses. So my song is now, “wilder horses, older and wiser women, and enough money to have adventures.”