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At this time of year (as we think of others and buy buy buy to show our love), I find myself going back in time, to thoughts of my maternal grandmother who saved saved saved.

Yes, she was an amazingly frugal woman. She could save to the extreme. Grandma would stash a little away before she paid the bills, before she sent savings to the bank (which she did every pay check). This was her habit until after she passed away. Her thrift became evident when I went home for her funeral.

I was helping my granddad by making up all the beds for him; and as I was tucking the blankets into one of the guest beds, my hand touched something that felt foreign for the underside of a mattress. I lifted the mattress a bit only to find a considerable cachet of cash. I didn’t even count it. I took it straight away to my granddad.

I told him the story… how I came by the money. I waited as Grandpa took it, counted it, held it for a moment. Then he looked up with big tears rolling down both

A few days ago, I whiled away the early evening as I watched a Christmas flick where the hero made a complete fool of himself trying to put more lights on his house than anyone else on the planet. You know this one? He was totally obsessed with lights in every way shape and form. I thought, “That’s just nuts,” and then I walked outside. All of my neighbors (no it’s true!) were putting up Christmas lights.
*Lights on the roof.
*Lights on reindeer
*Lights around the front door
*Lights on the windows and in the windows
*Lights that blinked and lights that didn’t blink
*Lights sans color
*Lights of every color
There were displays of Santas that heaved with air inside and they were lit up! (Scary. It was actually a balloon filled with air, but still… Santa “breathing” like the last chimney was going to give him a heat attack? The sound was awful.)

We had put up our Christmas tree a few days previous. You could see it in the front window of the house, so we had lights that decorated the house… well, sort of. Now it was me who was thinking lights lights lights.

The very word can strike terror in one’s heart. And ya know? This was not that big a thing when I was a kid. My parents would toss their three kids in the car. We would park, get out. And immediately my dad would say, “I’ll take Carolyn.” It would be settled… Tom and Barb would go with our mother to shop for their Christmas gifts. One day I asked my dad why he always wanted to take me Christmas shopping. He said, “Because you’re the best shopper. You don’t have to see everything in town to buy a gift. You know the people you’re shopping for, and they always enjoy the gift you give them. And the very best part of this for me is that when I take you shopping we are done in a very short time; then we can just walk around and enjoy each other while your mother and Tom and Barb finish up.”

“Wow! That’s a pretty good thing,” I thought.

I had always believed that everyone was a natural shopper. Now that I am shopping sans father, I can’t say that I

Shoppers beware. Black Friday, the day that so many American Capitalists forge out into the night (yes, stores open at 3:00 a.m.) and buy buy buy! Last night I listened to friends discuss their plan of attack to this day of purchase that has no equal. As I listened, I could not understand why anyone would do this just to pay less money, when payment in loss of sleep, time away from family among a crowd of hungry buyers would be the robber, not the taxes added to the purchase.

The plan seemed without flaw. I cozied into the bed. I slept. I awoke. I had my tea, went to the computer to check my E-mail from friends and family. And this is where I learned that no one is safe of this day.

Inbox: Forty E-mails, none of which were from friends and family, dropped from the sky and into my personal space.
*Bloomingdales… 40% off blah blah blah, come see us today.
*Lucy Attire… 30% off blah blah blah buy buy buy, come see us today.
*Healthcare News… Healthcare you can afford (“How is that possible if I go to

He sits next to my computer. A little wooden black bear. He first belonged to my father who collected any and everything carved out of wood. Dad had everything from ducks to a child sleeping on an oxen. If it was carved from wood, he bought it. While I loved all my father’s woodcarvings, the little black bear was and is my favorite.

This little carved bear walks on all fours with his nose toward the ground. His eyes are big and open. And, his ears look perked up as if he is listening while he wanders along his way, fur rumpled as if he just took a dip in some rushing river. At a time when life was difficult, this little bear became a symbol, a reminder of something I don’t want to ever forget. Here is the lesson of my little black bear.

I have the on-going challenge of being able to stay on my legs and walk. I have lost the use of my legs three times in my life. Not to walk is very much like living half a life. I see persons in wheel chairs

Bugs could be one of those species that helped to define summer activity for kids. Mom throws you out because she doesn’t want you in the kitchen picking a finger full of mashed potatoes… So what do you do? Go outside and find a bug to torture. And, I recall doing just that.

Potato Bugs. You know those little things that could roll up into a ball? Lots of entertainment to be found there. Of course torture was always more fun if I could find someone to do it with me… We’d poke those little things just to watch them haul in their gut and legs. Then we’d roll them around the sidewalk with a little twig. Never mind that it might have been torture to the bug. Heck, we were having fun at his expense.

Ants. Lots of fun found there too! I was my own horror movie.
With an anthill, I could drop rocks onto it until the inside of the anthill was exposed… Then take a stick and drive it into the center of the hill.

Moths. Not really a bug but to me, (a small,

In my home, where order normally reigns supreme, I have noticed changes of late. At first it was a subtle change. Just sort of caught my eye but didn’t rock me.

I had just finished the dinner dishes. All the leftover food had been covered and put away. I took a clean sponge and began to wash the long kitchen counter. From the one end to the other end I worked to clean with satisfaction. I knew that when I got to other end of that counter, I would be done and I could go sit down and read or take a bath or even sleep. I drew a breath of closure with that last swipe only to encounter… “it.” A small pile of mail (maybe two days worth) that no one wanted to address.

“Oh, Man! I’m too tired for this,” I think to myself. I rinsed the sponge and put it next to the sink. Then I began to review the little pile of paper.
*Several ads
*Two bills not due for a couple of weeks
*More ads
*A magazine
*A card from my cousin
*Bank solicitations
* Two more ads
When everything was at

I recall years ago my dad saying that a person will have very few real friends in his life. “If you have two or three really good friends, then you’ll be blessed more than most.” Having been a performer across the globe and a teacher for many years in many places, I’ve met hundreds, thousands of people that I have called friends. I suppose Dad was talking about the few to whom we tell all. And yes, they are very important. I would add, though, that there are others who have passed through my life, stayed briefly, and left an indelible mark on my soul.

These people come along just as one enters a new stage in life, or when something monumental has just happened to us. I can relate to both of those venues. Perhaps you can too. Let’s talk about the guys!

Richard. Fifth grade. Always wore blue jeans with a crease down the front you could cut your finger on! White tee-shirt, sleeves rolled up as if a pack of cigarettes belonged there. Big dark eyes and this delicious looking chocolate, brown hair. (He

Type and delete. I find I do a great deal of this lately. I start out writing an article or even an e-mail to family or friend and the next thing I know (after maybe two or three paragraphs) I’m hitting the delete! What’s up with that?

Sometimes it may be that I just needed to vent and not send. There wasn’t anyone here to talk to, so I basically said it to the airwaves. Or, I don’t send because at some point before that fateful moment of putting it out there, I’ve come to my senses and hit the almighty delete.

A couple of times, it’s been good to write and then put in a save file… I’ve come back and read it later and thought to myself, “Wow, that was really lethal! Good thing it’s still here with me and not out there!” And then, there are times when I’ve read what I said and thought, “Dang! That was good, really well said. But it isn’t enough.” And if I’m thinking that, I know it needs to stay in the save file rather than be out there.

The point

Letters have been a form of communication for centuries. Lovers write to send their passion for one another. New mothers write to send good news to family and friends. Military Generals write to give instruction, while people all over the world write to simply pass the time of day with a good thought to others.

(“Dear Santa… I would like a wagon. Thanks very much. Carroll”)

(“Dear Santa… I have been a very good girl. Please can I have a doll and a wagon? I would also like to have some candy. Love, Valette”)

As you can see, I come from a family of writers and all I have done is to follow in their footsteps. This truly was the way my writing started. By writing letters. And while the above was probably not the best prose my parents ever composed, they were concise. They spoke directly to the audience for whom it was meant. And, the message is clear, yes?

(“Dear Santa… I have been a very good boy. Could you come to my house first with my presents? I don’t know how much longer I