Love and Leicester School

I met my husband in the spring of 1991, because some teachers at the local elementary school thought he was an amazing single dad, and they helped us meet. When we married, all of the faculty and staff were in attendance, they were some of the first people to visit us at the local hospital when Sam and Ben were born, and when Sam died, they were with us immediately. The spring after his death, they dedicated a buddy bench to him on the playground, knowing how much he loved that school community, and how much he loved sitting on a bench and talking with new people. When my mom broke her leg last year, they were the first non-family members there to visit her.

Keeping in mind that I met most of them in 1976, we have a lot of years together. There have been marriages and divorces, births and deaths, ups and downs, and through it all, that little school community has stayed together as a family.

Yesterday, one of the teachers got married. When we got there, we walked in to hear a chorus of “over here,” and we joined the “Leicester School Section” We sat together for the beautiful ceremony, then sat together for the reception. We laughed, we cried, we talked, we remembered and we celebrated. We ranged in age from 83 to 19, then joined by the grandchildren of the bride, bringing the age range to 83 to 2.

At one point, all of the current and former members of the Leicester School faculty and staff were out of the dance floor with many of their daughters and our brave son, dancing with streamers and ribbons, laughing, just enjoying being together. Again, the age range was 2-83. It was a beautiful site — love that goes beyond blood, goes beyond age, goes beyond political beliefs or anything else.

Plain and simple, it was Leicester School love, and I am so very thankful that community has been a part of my life for all these years.



As we wait for our Thanksgiving meal to finish cooking, I would like to ask something of you all. If you are reading this, whether on Thanksgiving, or some point in the future, please take a moment to think of people in your life. Is there someone in your life that you spend a lot of time thinking “if only” about? Is there a family member or friend that you have stepped away from due to some perceived issue? I’m not talking about someone who has abused you in some way. I’m talking about the friend from college who really mattered to you, but after a spat, you drift apart for years. Or the cousin that due to a family divorce, you haven’t connected in years.  Your child who you don’t speak to often because you don’t like his/her spouse, life choices, decision to move across the country, etc.

If there is someone like that in your life, I am asking you to find a way to reach out. Could you send a text that says you are thinking of that person? A text or email that reminds them of a good memory? A note sent in the mail that just says that you care, no matter what? It doesn’t have to be picking up the phone and talking for hours, it can be something smaller if that feels more comfortable. Just do it!

Some people you reach out to will not be ready to accept that overture. That’s okay. You will know that you tried, and I hope you will keep trying.

We don’t get to know how long we will live, nor how long people in our lives will live. But we can decide to not live with regrets about wishing that we had reached out when we had the chance.

Wishing you all love, peace, joy and time for gratitude today and every day!

Busy with a touch of sadness

Today was busy from start to finish, but one that gave us joy even as we swallowed the too familiar sadness as we prepare for Thanksgiving. We delivered copies of Of Grief, Garlic and Gratitude, delivered a shipment of alpaca/wool rovings and drop spindles, covered firewood, cleaned, and cooked. Oh, we cooked. Pumpkin and maple pecan pie, stuffing, chex mix, winter squash, cheesecake and pumpkin bread. We listened to great music, watched the snow fall, then finally sat down together to watch a favorite movie. Everything we did today was familiar, and gave us pleasure — if only Sam could have been with us in person to prepare, regaling us with his yearly plan for competing with his friend to see how much weight each could gain in that one meal. Tomorrow at some point, we will talk about that set of memories, and it will make us laugh again, as it did when it was actually happening.


A good day

Today was one of those days when it all seemed to come together, and now, as the day comes to an end, it’s time to sit, watch a movie and do some writing.

What did we do today? We moved hay, cleaned barns, packed fiber/drop spindle orders, washed and blocked a knitting project, and packed books to ship tomorrow. Then we made cookies, brownies, beef stew, chicken pie and chicken broth, and bagged and froze lots of brussel sprouts. Through it all, we listened to great music, laughed, talked, and had fun.

Here are some pictures from today:

Relentless Love

Yesterday was a really weird day. So weird, that I couldn’t write about it last night, as I needed to reflect on it.

What happened? Things that caused extreme emotions…

First, there was a work glitch that upset me. Not a big deal in the scheme of the universe, but it bothered me a lot.

Then, while I was trying to let that go, we picked up the mail. In the mail was this envelope:


And I admit, it almost drove me to my knees. I know, it sounds stupid if you haven’t lived it, but that piece of mail drove a spike of pain through me. It was a fundraiser for the Lincoln Library, and Sam used to take a client there, and I’m sure he signed up because he liked to sign up for every mailing list. But here we are, more than five years after his death, and he’s still getting mail. And it hurt more than I can express.

Then my phone buzzed with a Facebook message. It was from someone Sam loved so very much, someone we love. She sent a note about my book, and shared a story with us about a day she spent with Sam years ago. And it made us laugh. We laughed, and then we scrolled down, and there were two pictures included with the note. Both pictures are beautiful, but this one took our breath away — it is such a Sam picture, and we had never seen it before, and it just made our hearts sing.


It was as if Sam was popping in to say hello, and to remind us of how much love we all share, and that friend said that reading the book reminded her of how Sam should be remembered, for his relentless love.

After the ups and downs of emotion, I realized again that love is what matters, period.

Little Things

I started today with the most beautiful note about Of Grief, Garlic and Gratitude. The note was from someone that I admire and love, and greatly respect her opinion. Her warm words washed over me like the absolute best of hugs — you know the kind, the long, strong hug from someone you love that makes the world seem right.

One of the things she mentioned in that note was a memory about the two of us listening to the song “Clouds” by Zach Sobiech. Check it out here: CLOUDS

I asked her to listen to that song after our youngest had gone to a Hugh O’Brien Youth Leadership event, and heard it there. He’d gotten in the car to come home, and insisted we listen to the song in the parking lot. That’s how much it meant to him.

I fell in love with that song, and the next day at work, I asked that friend to listen to it with me. And she did. And she held my hand, cried with me a bit, and made me feel loved and supported.

This is an example to me of the idea that little things matter in life. That friend taking the 3-4 minutes to listen to the song meant so much then, and still does now. The friend sending a text to just say hi? That matters. The friend handing me a tiny giraffe eraser? That matters.

One of the things I’ve learned in the years since Sam’s death is that big things matter, but sometimes the smaller things matter even more. Sometimes we get so hung up on the big things, like I want to get that really special gift for someone, when just picking up the phone and calling to say hi would matter just as much.

My Grandfather, Alfred


On this Veterans’ Day, I wonder a lot about my grandfather, Alfred. Actually, both of my grandfathers were named Alfred, but today, I am wondering about this Alfred.

My paternal grandfather Alfred came to the United States as a very young man, coming from somewhere in the Balkans. It seems like it probably was from Latvia, but we aren’t completely sure of that. He arrived in the United States, became a citizen, married, had children, divorced, married again, and fathered my dad.

Along the way, he enlisted to fight in World War 1 — long before there was a real rush of Americans enlisting. This is a picture of him in his cavalry uniform. I would love to know why he enlisted so early. I know he went to Europe, I know that he suffered through, and survived, trench warfare.

My grandfather died more than thirty years before I was born, and he has been gone almost eighty years now. He died when my dad was only three years old. So even my dad has very, very few memories of him, and certainly, never asked him about why he enlisted.

After the war, Alfred was a court translator. He worked in Boston, making sure that people that came before the bench knew what was happening, that it was in language they understood. I really like that idea — he was protecting the rights of others almost a hundred years ago!

So today, I honor Alfred, and all our veterans. I give thanks for their sense of duty and honor, and I am thankful for them protecting the rights and freedoms of others.

This was going to be about grief…

I started out writing about grief today.
Like so many others, I am grieving this week. Another week, another mass shooting. Beyond the horror of the event, is the horror that we (as a society) are getting so used to such events. So I grieve. I grieve for the loss of the individuals, and grieve for the pain and loss of their families and friends. But I also grieve for us collectively as a society, as human beings. I grieve for us reaching a point that if only a couple people have died or are wounded, it doesn’t even make the news cycle.
But then I thought more about. I grieve, and will continue to grieve, but instead I need to feel that we can take action to change the reality. I choose to not become afraid to go to public events or places. I choose not to avoid making eye contact because I don’t know someone. I choose not to say that “this is the way the world is now.”
Instead, I choose to look for the good, the beauty, the kindness in others. I choose to actively look for the light and love, not the darkness and hate.
On Wednesday, I left a class pretty late, waiting for a ride to see family. I was waiting in a less than stellar neighborhood, tired and hungry.
I’d been standing out there about five minutes when a man who’d been in my class came out. “Waiting for a ride?”
After he offered to give me a ride, and I assured him that my ride was on the way, he said he was going to keep me company until my ride arrived. We stood in that parking lot by the crumbling school in that rough neighborhood. We talked about views about education and school safety. We talked about maple syrup. We talked about public state colleges and private ones. And when my ride pulled in, he smiled and said, “Just wanted to make sure you were safe.”
I didn’t know him. I knew his first name only, and we will probably never see or talk to each other again. I’d heard him talking to others in the class, so I know that his political views are as far apart from mine as possible. But after a really long day of an intense class, he chose to keep me company rather than leave me alone there.
I’m sure I would have been fine waiting there alone. But that really isn’t the point. The point is that a relative stranger made an effort to take care of another human being.
While I grieve, I also recognize the beauty and wonder of humans. I want to live in a world where we aren’t desensitized to the horrors, but also don’t forget the wonders.

Fish and Chips

Our two youngest children love (loved) fish and chips. You know, the English style fish and chips. When Sam was about 8, and Ben was 3, we traveled to London as a family. Setting aside the seeming insanity of taking three of our four children (3 to 18 years old — the fourth went to North Carolina) and my parents (dad who had never been out of the US or Canada), it was an amazing trip.

We learned so much on that trip, which was the April after September 11th. Ben assertively introduced himself to a group of middle eastern looking men when I would probably have kept my distance — not proud of that, but being honest. The friendships we developed because of his assertiveness? Priceless! He taught us to look beyond the stereotypes the media was pushing then. We traveled around England, learned about traveling with multiple generations involved, saw great sites, and went to Lego Land.

My dad wanted fish and chips on that trip. He really, really wanted them. So we found a great local restaurant that had fabulous ones, and I think my parents ate there every night of the trip. Sam and Ben loved that place, and they loved the fish and chips except for the peas that came with them. I ate the peas. Lots and lots of peas. We have great pictures of dinners there, and we have reminisced about those meals and that trip a lot.

Last night, while on a work trip, we went out to the hotel restaurant. I don’t usually eat in a hotel restaurant, but I was too tired to go elsewhere. The fish and chips there were the best I’ve had since England, and they came with peas. Peas. It made me laugh.

As I ate my peas, I thought a lot about how thankful I am that we were able to travel like we did when our children were young. Those memories, those laughs, make me smile — even though they will always now have a tinge of sadness because we can’t ever make new memories with Sam.

Make your great memories while you can, don’t wait for the perfect moment to do something. We almost cancelled that trip to London because the world seemed to chaotic then, and I will be forever thankful that we went.

Tomorrow — PLEASE

The second school district I worked in had a mission statement that said (I’m paraphrasing) that we committed to treat every child as if that child was our own. That mattered to me. I thought about that every day of my time there, and still think of it years later. Treat every child as if they were our own.

Tomorrow we vote. I’m not telling you how to vote, I’m asking you to vote. I voted by absentee ballot. I voted as if I was voting for the world that I want for my children, for my grandchildren. I ask that you do the same. However you vote, please vote for candidates that support the world you want our children to inherit. And please, please vote.