A Conversation Starter

 

Here name is Michelle. 

Just like the Beatles song. A fun fact she pointed out during our conversation. 

I had been walking through the men’s department of a nearby store looking for items my son needed for an upcoming trip when she caught me off guard. 

“Have you been to Scotland?” she asked. 

I had to pause for a minute because I thought, “What a random question for two people who had never spoken before.” She was on the clock and had been busy tidying up clothes that were messily put back on a display table. I guess she looked up for a moment and that’s when she noticed my shirt which said - Scotland's for me.

This shirt is from an indie/rock band I listen to who are based in that area of the United Kingdom. I spent $50 on this shirt, a lot of money for a person who never buys clothes for herself.  Due to overseas shipping, the price was more than I would normally justify for a handful of cotton, with a cute rainbow and travel slogan, but I had wanted this shirt for years.

“No,” I said. “But I am planning on going someday.”

That’s when I noticed the twinkle in her eyes.

“I’ve been there,” she recalled with an excitement which managed to escape from her mask-covered face. 

I was in a hurry and still had a list worth of stuff to get but I couldn’t help but get caught up in Michelle’s magical mystery tour. As a reporter, I had lots of questions. When did you go? What did you see? Did you go to all the Beatles landmarks? I just started asking away. 

Her trip involved three of the UK countries - England, Scotland and Wales. If memory serves me correctly, her trip was back in the early 80s. Her mission: to buy as much vinyl as possible. I got excited thinking about the popular new wave music at that time and the treasure trove she probably collected while walking the streets of London. 

I tried to imagine a younger Michelle. I wondered what she wore and who she travelled with. Was she old enough to hit a pub? Did she catch anyone’s eye while checking out Buckingham Palace. Did she bring home a souvenir red phone booth?

The part of the story she remembers most vividly is when the airline lost her luggage on her way home. She retold the tale of calling her father from the airport to let him know. He anxiously asked her, “What about the records?”

“I had packed them in my carry-on,” she told me as a hidden smile crept across her face. Even back then, she wasn’t taking the chance her precious cargo would get lost. The satisfaction of knowing they were safe and sound filled me with happiness as well. The mission of her trip was accomplished.

Every time I wear my Scotland shirt now, I think of Michelle. I had noticed her in the store prior to our conversation and never would have thought she had such an interesting story to tell. I think that is the case for many people we come in contact with in our day-to-day activities. I fall into the trap of writing people off, judging a book by its cover. 

I have seen Michelle a few times since our meeting and I’m not really sure what to do. Part of me wants to find out if she has any more interesting stories to share. Part of me wonders if she remembers me and our conversation. Another part of me just wants to get my errands done and be on my way. 

The other day I was out at a restaurant having breakfast with my family. I noticed Michelle come in and get seated at a booth. I wanted to go over and say hello but I thought that might be awkward. 

“Hi there. Remember me? Miss Scotland?”

So instead, I excused myself from our table and secretly got her bill from the waitress. The least I could do was offer some subliminal hospitality from one anglophile to another. 

I am sure our paths will cross again, and hopefully when they do, I’ll be wearing my Scotland tee shirt to get the ball rolling. Who knows if either of us will go out of our way to jump start a conversation. That part of the story remains to be written. Will she tell me the same story again? Will she tell me about other interesting travels she has had? 

But one fact unites us in solidarity. 

Scotland is for us.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

It's A Marshmallow World For Some

It's hard to be a type A personality in a holiday world. 

Type A’s like planning, perfection, and precision. These characteristics seem perfect for making a gingerbread house, right?

Well, not necessarily. 

My youngest and I had the opportunity to help represent our school and build a gingerbread house that is now on display at Kennywood. This is the first time my family has participated in an activity like this and now I know why. But we’ll get into that later. 

Over the years, we have marveled at the gingerbread houses on display at the PPG Wintergarden at Christmastime. It really is something to behold and now that we have made one of our own, I can truly appreciate the time and effort that goes into making these holiday specialties. I have seen some amazing houses with themes ranging from The Wizard of Oz to Harry Potter. You can let your imagination go wild with a gingerbread house if….you have the time, patience and proper supplies. 

As has been the case for the majority of my parental years, things tend to get done at the very last minute. But this method of operation is not something that is new to me. I remember doing an elementary school science fair project the day before it was due. I remember college papers that were printed minutes before a class. This has been my style and I’m pretty sure having kids made it worse. I work best under pressure.

When I was approached to make a gingerbread house, I responded positively and with enthusiasm. “Sure we can do that!” I actually was excited to participate in something we hadn’t tried before. I had so many ideas for a sweet little cottage for a young cookie couple. The ideas were grand yet our time was limited. I played out the building process in my mind. It was divine.

I had picked up a gingerbread kit a few days prior to construction so I felt kind of good that at least that aspect was secure. But having a kit does not ensure success. The day before my youngest and I got working on ours, a friend posted a photo of her house and a collapsed roof. I was disheartened. What did I get us into? Did I set us up for failure?

At 7 p.m., the night before the house was due to be turned in, it was go time. At this point in the workday, you can imagine I’m at the height of creativity and energy. I told my son we’ve got one hour to get this done. (I’m sure these were the same parameters Frank Lloyd Wright worked with.)

On our dining room table, filled with weeks' worth of junk mail and clutter, we prepared to build our house. We carefully took out all of the pieces of our kit and laid them out to inspect and ponder. The gingerbread kits don’t leave a lot to the imagination which actually worked very well for us. The other thing I bought to help us in our endeavor was another container of icing. In my brief online gingerbread house research, I noticed that was a common complaint of the kits - not enough icing. 

Little did I know, a hot glue gun is the most needed tool we would need. The icing that came with the kit didn’t seem very efficient in holding things together. The bling we tried to add on, you know sprinkles, gumdrops and candy corn, thinking it would stick to the white goo, had another agenda. 

As we took a pause to regroup, I had to put on some Christmas music, a thing I only do after Thanksgiving, because my husband decided to watch the movie Goodfellas during our arts and crafts period and I had to drown out the colorful dialogue.

Once the sounds of an Irish Christmas began pouring from my phone, our house began caving in on all sides, and I was ready to give up. This is when my son remembered the special roof holder that came with our kit. We employed it immediately as Ray Liotta emerged from the living room to lend a hand. 

With all hands-on deck, we were able to stabilize the house. The hot glue gun was ready and I was a gluing fool. My son worked on his adorable final addition of a Santa looking gingerbread man who was coming down the chimney. He dyed the icing red to make the Santa suit and we used a glob of icing as glue to permanently affix him to the house.

When it was all over it looked like Christmas threw up. There was icing everywhere. Sprinkles were everywhere but my marbles were lost. Our house looked well...ok. Just ok but good enough for a first try.

The next morning, when the icing was dry, our gingerbread house looked a lot better. Everything had set and it reminded me of our real house after a fresh snow and none of the powder had been touched yet. I asked my son if he had fun working on our project and he said, “Yes!” Then we loaded it up in the car and took it to the drop off location. Deadline met. Yes, this girl still got it.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

Chrissy, Give Me The Big Knife!

Surgery.

A word people most don’t like to hear unless you are a surgeon and that is what you do for a living but when you are the one going to be on the table, I would say that’s a hard pass. 

But tomorrow that’ll be me. The one who is going to be on the table. 

It has happened kind of fast. I had some tests done at the end of September and here we are mid-November and it’s almost go time. I have been having some minor female issues and it appears surgery is the appropriate course of action. 

For a planner like me, this development has put a wrench in my schedule. I don’t like the fact that I will be off work for a few days. I don’t like that this is happening a few days before Thanksgiving. I don’t like that a part of me I came into the world with will no longer be a part of me tomorrow. Yes, there is so much not to like. 

I am no stranger to surgery. I’ve had close to five in my lifetime. My very first surgery happened when I was seven years old. I was a child who had lots of ear infections. I am not sure if things are the same way now, but back then the answer was tympanostomy tubes - small plastic tubes that are inserted into the ears to help with fluid drainage. 

I found out about my very first surgery days after my mother’s father had passed away. It was a crisp, cold November day, much like it is now, and I recall my mom and I sitting in a booth at Stan’s Restaurant in White Oak. We were trying to process the news just delivered to us at the doctor’s office and I had a few questions. 

Having experienced a funeral just a few days prior, I was wondering about my own mortality. It’s funny how much I remember about this experience. I remember asking my mother if I was going to die and how she tried to console me. I was staring at the squiggly lined tabletop waiting for my French toast as she spoke. I was just wishing I could make it all go away. 

 

My recollection of the surgery is fuzzy of course but I don’t remember anything bad. (And believe me, I would have remembered anything bad.) I was thirsty when I woke up wearing a fashionable blue hospital gown and wishing I could just be in my bed. The hospital staff made such a fuss over me and how well I had done. I even got a brand-new coloring book;  a special gold McKeesport Hospital coloring book with a bunny on the cover that I am positive can be found somewhere in my parents’ home.

I had two to three tubes surgeries throughout the course of my childhood, plus a few other procedures as an adult. None of the experiences were bad although I would have preferred not to have them at all but as they say life happens. This upcoming experience is one I have tried to resolve in my mind and I think I am getting there. A recent visit to a health professional helped considerably. 

We talked about all of the positives surrounding having the surgery; having a good support system, having the sick days to use, having the new Beatles documentary to watch during my recuperation period. (Ok, we didn’t talk about that but you know I’ve been thinking about it.) And oh, I almost forgot to mention the Thanksgiving leftovers that will only be a room away. 

 

I can see it now. 

Me: “I’m feeling a little sore. Maybe I need some extra whipped cream on that piece of pie?”

I recently re-watched the movie Castaway with Tom Hanks and he performed tooth surgery on himself without anesthesia or the proper instruments. I don’t need to worry about any of that either thank goodness. 

As I mentioned earlier, I am a planner and I never would have planned any of this but it is nice to know the timing, while not great, isn’t that bad. I can have a prepared holiday honey-do list that may or may not get done and I need to allow myself to be ok with that. I have a book to read and a few shows to watch but the only thing I have to do is get well.

So, in the meantime, send some good vibes my way and maybe some extra stuffing and oh yes, lots of whipped cream.

Till Death Do Us Part

  

Death and life.

Life and death. 

This past weekend, my husband and I attended our first wedding in four years. The ceremony was held at the amazing gothic Sacred Heart cathedral in Shadyside. 

It is a treasure you take for granted if you live around here. When you step inside, you are transported to Paris, Cologne or Florence and are immediately lost in the architecture and little nuances embedded in every inch of the impressive structure from the tile floor to the wooden ceiling. 

It is the perfect setting for a Cinderella-like bride to walk down the aisle, accompanied by a man in uniform, to join with her forever love. It was very romantic. But when you take away all the visuals and listen to the words, it becomes a good exercise in marriage evaluation; especially for couples who have been on a journey for decades. 

I get emotional at weddings for many reasons but I guess it is mainly because my husband and I are so far removed from that new love stage. For couples hearing the ‘to have and to hold’ and ‘to cherish’ it sounds absolutely lovely. But when you add the  ‘in sickness and in health’, ‘richer and poorer’, ‘til death do us part’ things get a little less dreamy. 

When you’ve been married 22 years, and you’ve got multiple teenagers in the house, you are in the thick of the less dreamy part. Lately, when my husband and I wake up in the morning, I whisper, “Let’s run away.” He whispers, “Ok.” and then closes his eyes for a few more winks of sleep. 

For us, there is nowhere to run but we also know there is nowhere else we would rather be. We are in it together and no matter how hard it gets, we understand what we vowed to do decades ago. And with that he gets up and makes our coffee and oftentimes he’ll bring me my first cup. It’s no diamond ring or view of a Tuscan village but, at this point, caffeine is our love language.

As luck would have it, the DJ played our first dance song during the wedding reception. It was an exciting moment for us to hear the Beatles “Something” as we danced near the new bride and groom. Old love and new love may look different but deep down inside they are the same. Comfort, trust and affection - yep, we’ve still got it. 

Just a few days after the wedding, I found myself standing in a hospital room. I stood there holding my aunt’s hand and she attempted to comfort her husband of 56 years. My uncle was hooked up to a ventilator to help him breathe. He had been sick for a few months and he took a turn for the worst. A priest came to give him his last rights. 

My aunt said something that was both beautiful and heartbreaking in the same breath. 

“I don’t want you to go but this is how it has to be.”

To love someone enough to not want to see them suffer. To love someone enough to put their needs in front of your own. To recognize the gift of 5 decades of marriage, thankful for each day you’ve shared, both good and bad, and knowing your time together is nearing its end. At that moment, I saw those marriage vows, the ones I heard just a few days prior, come to life before my very eyes and only then did I truly understand what they are all about.

Death and life.

Life and death. 

In the same breath they give and they take away. But the great uniter is hope. Hope that we will one day be together again with those we love after they depart. The hope that love never dies and goes beyond this life and transcends into the great unknown. 

Seeing love from all sides in the past week has been eye opening. I can only hope that I can carry the lessons I’ve learned and truly celebrate the gift I’ve been given. Yes, my husband and I are in the less dreamy stage of marriage and the days of flirting, rapid fire kisses, and Sunday Fundays have been replaced by quick dinners, grocery shopping and Home Depot runs, there is beauty in those as well.

I wish my newlywed friends the gift of a long, loving, and fulfilling marriage. I wish my aunt and uncle a love that lasts until the end of time.

*My blog is featured in the On My Mind column of The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week. The paper serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

No phrase written by Lennon-McCartney has ever been truer. But in my case, I think we should add: and their friends and their friends and so on. 

Let's go back a little before we get into it. This story is about shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. As a member of the parent board for my daughter's marching band, we were looking for ways to make money - ways that didn't require a lot of effort but yielded a nice profit. You see, many organizations are trying to bounce back after the pandemic forced regular fundraisers to be scaled back or cancelled. We needed to start thinking outside the box. 

What do I do when I need to think outside the box? I go to Google. That is where, after typing in 'outside the box fundraisers', I learned about the shoe drive. 

An organization based in Orlando collects shoes for distribution among 25 countries; countries like Haiti where 60 percent of their population live below the poverty line. The shoes help create jobs by giving people inventory to set up their own micro-business. Selling is a way for people, with limited education, to work, make a living wage and provide affordable footwear to people who need it. 

So, collecting shoes would not only help our organization but also help others far away. Win-win in my book. Our band would get a check based on the number of bags of shoes collected calculating the exact figure per pound. Easy right? Well, wait...just how many shoes did we have to collect? 

2,500

Yes folks, two thousand five hundred pairs of shoes in two months. 

The Orlando company is great and assigns a coach to help each group. They send you marketing materials, bags, rubber bands and boxes to help with the collection of the shoes. They want you to succeed but you need to be willing to put in the time and realize this kind of fundraiser takes a village. Our band needed to go beyond our membership of 40 families and reach out to our entire school district. 

We had collection bins set up at four local churches. We had boxes set up at both our elementary and Jr./Sr. high school. We also had a collection bin at our local municipal building. We used social media heavily to keep the word out about our shoe drive and those posts were shared by friends and their friends and so on. 

To be honest with you, there weren’t many days I didn’t end up with a few bags of shoes in my van. Since I work at our elementary school, co-workers were pretty consistent with giving me shoes. The church and township bins were frequently full. Many of the donations came from people I never met. I had a local Brownie troop contact me to see how they could help out. But many donations came from my Facebook friends, my neighbors, and my family. 

To say there weren’t days when I wondered if we could actually do this would be a lie. We had a bag check off sheet and my fellow board members and I felt like the little engine that could every time we marked off a filled bag. (Each bag needed to contain 25 pairs of shoes.) I think we can, I think we can. 

We held drive thru events where people could pull up to the school and drop shoes off. These were very successful. People shared stories about having a kid in marching band a long time ago and remembering when they were the ones fundraising. Local businesses donated boxes of shoes that were discontinued and they couldn’t sell.

Our fundraising coach told us there would be two weeks when our donations would be the highest - the first week of the drive and the last. Well in our case, our last week was gangbusters. We needed to fill one hundred bags of shoes and we went over that by 11 bags. It seemed like the shoes just kept coming during our final week and we really felt the love. 

I didn’t know what to expect when we first kicked off this fundraiser.  I could not have imagined the way our community would come together to support our marching band. If I was having a bad day, finding one of our collection bins full of shoes was an instant mood booster. Finding a bag of shoes on my porch was like a visit from Santa. 

What is my take away from all of this? Well, for one, people have a lot of shoes. People appreciated motivation to clean out their closets. But most of all, people are generous. People are good and want to help. So, if you have any challenge facing you always remember to get a little help from your friends.

*My blog is featured in the weekly column On My Mind in The Valley Mirror - a newspaper that serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities. 

C is For Cookie Table

What are two words that instantly bring a smile to one’s face?

Besides "open bar"?

If you are truly from western PA, you probably guessed it.

COOKIE TABLE. 

Yes, the beloved cookie table that is a sight to behold and one that, for adults, is like being a kid browsing through the Target toy catalogue to get ideas for a Christmas list. “I need one of these. And one of these and maybe even one of those.”

I don’t remember my first cookie table experience. My family didn’t go to tons of weddings when I was younger but I do remember waking up the next morning, after such an event, and finding the small Styrofoam containers on the kitchen table; like an invitation to come to the party one more time. Prying open the lid I was filled with anticipation. Wondering, would there be anything chocolate I could nibble on? Or maybe a thumbprint or peanut butter blossom?

When you grow up in the Pittsburgh area, or I guess even more broadly the tri-state area, you assume this is something everyone does. It is funny for me to think about it now because, in a way, it is on par with other traditions I have experienced like my family’s Easter dinner where we have five kinds of meat and one side. 

The cookie table is a dessert after the dessert. The cake is the centerpiece of a wedding. A gorgeous work of art that is supposed to be the most decadent thing you’ll ever eat but then as if that’s not enough you get to wash it down with some cookies. 

There has been some controversy over how and where the cookie table started. But from a quick Google search, I learned that the tradition started in southwestern Pennsylvania during the Great Depression when families could not afford to have a wedding cake at the reception. The bride’s family make cookies for the guests as a labor of love to represent love on the special day.

It is a tradition that has carried on for close to 100 years. I regret that I don’t really remember the cookie table at my wedding but I do remember the planning that went into it. My mom took the responsibility seriously and contacted family and friends to volunteer their special delicacy to adorn the coveted table. 

Even though off hand I can’t for sure say what kinds of cookies were available to nosh on at my reception, I am sure my mom’s tasty lady locks were there - her pride and joy. As a child, I used to help fill those delicate cookies and make a crumb sundae with the broken pieces and the sweet, whipped icing left over from the decorating bag. 

Fast forward to 2001, my husband and I were living near Virginia Beach and we attended our first wedding south of the Mason-Dixon line. We were excited to see how the other half lives and find out what kinds of cookies we would bring home for later. (My husband and I were often homesick and any reminder of the Burgh was a joy and a comfort.)

Imagine our surprise when we discovered there was NO cookie table! We walked around the reception hall, opening closed doors, looking under tablecloths, like an addict needing their next hit, we needed the cookies and there were none to be had. We went home disappointed but more shocked to find out not everyone in the world engaged in this tradition or even heard of it for that matter. 

Years later, after we moved home, fate made amends for this sad little experience when we attended an Italian wedding. Our neighbors’ daughter was getting married and boy were we in for a treat. At this reception, there wasn’t a cookie table, there was a cookie suite! We walked in a door and made our way through a maze of COOKIES ending up on the other side of the reception hall dazed and amazed. 

There were varieties I had never seen before. My eyes were wide, my heart was palpitating and my box was way too small. Luckily, being the awesome neighbors they are, they brought over some extra treats the very next day to share with our kiddos. We felt like we won the cookie lottery and had been given the best prize ever!

So why am I going on and on about a cookie table? A college friend of mine is getting married in a few weeks and his bride is from south of the Mason-Dixon line. She did not grow up with the cookie table tradition but is having a Pittsburgh wedding. She felt the pressure. She needed to have a cookie table. 

When she was telling me her story, I felt like Arnold Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter. My hand went up and “Ooooh, ooooh, oooooh, I’ll make some cookies for your table!”

This weekend, I’ll be making a few batches of my tasty snickerdoodles. I am so proud to finally get the chance to be a part of an actual cookie table and have my little babies lined up with other bite sized confections.

But first, the biggest challenge, making sure my family doesn’t eat them first!

Deferred But Not Forgotten

I never imagined it would take this long.

Just this week, a week in October of 2021, I made my final student loan payment. Not for any of my children, mind you, for myself, twenty-five years after I graduated from the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown.

I was a bright eyed optimistic young gal when I graduated from college with a degree in communications in May of 1996. I had just secured a part-time job at a Johnstown television station and was looking for an apartment. 

It would be a few months before I would have to start paying back my thousands of dollars of student loans but I didn’t care. I had a job. I would be living on my own. I was taking the world by storm. (Ok, by world I mean Cambria County, Pennsylvania.)

When the loan bills started coming in, I couldn’t afford to pay them. I was paying rent on an apartment. I had electric, gas and car insurance bills. Plus, I needed to eat. That’s important, right? Money was tight. I had been warned by college professors about the line of work I was planning to choose. I was not going to get rich as a reporter at a 106 Nielsen Designated Market Rated television station. (New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago are the top 3.)

But wait, I had an option. I could put off the payments until I was making more money. It’s a funny English word that seems like a parachute, when you are trying to make ends meet, but it malfunctions before you get to the ground. 

Deferment.

This parachute was something I was able to rely on for a few years. Each time I resubmitted the paperwork, cue the sound of a cash register, cha-ching, the interest only increased. Looking at my final student loan bill, the amount of interest I’ve paid is close to $9,000. Staggering, isn’t it? 

But there’s more to the story. I didn’t just go to post-secondary school once, I went a second time when I was in my 30’s. By this time, I was living in Virginia and had added radio to my career experience. I decided I wanted to pursue my childhood dream of becoming a weather person so in 2001, I enrolled in Mississippi State University to earn my Broadcast Meteorology Certificate. 

(Again, cue the cash register. But, in my defense, I thought getting a TV weather gig would help pay my loans off in no time. )

The program took three years. I did my course work remotely, watching lectures on VHS tapes, and submitting work via early 2000’s style email. In order to complete the program, we, my husband, our two-year-old and I, had to drive to Birmingham, Alabama in August of 2004 to take the final exam. I was eight months pregnant with our second child. 

Here is the sad part of the story. I never used that certificate. I never got a broadcast meteorology job. A few months after our Alabama trip, my husband accepted a television job back home in Pittsburgh. We packed up our life down south and returned to the Steel City with our two babies in tow. 

I immersed myself in raising our kids, while doing radio part-time. We struggled to make my monthly student loan payments which had now accumulated and had been refinanced a couple of times. I remember I had a repayment plan that had graduated payments. They were divided in three tiers from lowest to highest. It sounded good initially but when we got to tier three, ah, that was tough. 

Luckily, we only had one student loan to worry about. But even back then, I never would have imagined it would have taken me this long to resolve this debt. But I was the first child in my family to go to college. Neither of my parents did nor my grandparents. They were not schooled in college financing and we all paid the price for it. 

As Frank Sinatra sang so poignantly , “regrets….I have a few. But then again, too few to mention.” 

Am I sorry I never got my meteorology job? Yes, but then I would have missed out on all of the time I was able to spend with my baby girl. Am I sorry I did use my communication degree to its full capacity? Yes, but then I would have missed raising our family back home.

My mistakes have translated into better decisions in pursuing post-secondary education for our son. I have made it my mission to keep my kids from being bogged down in decades of loan payments. I sound like a broken record around our house but I don’t care. I did not suffer this cross in vain. I will make a better path for them. 

My final loan payment was a bit anticlimactic. Due to online bill pay, with a couple of clicks that was it. But I intend to frame my final bill. I intend to rejoice in the freedom of being unshackled from this loan that has been my shadow for the past 25 years.  

Who knows, maybe one day I’ll dust off that certificate and deliver your morning forecast. But until then I hope your day is partly sunny with a chance of happy.

I Guess "They" Were Wrong

They say it doesn’t happen twice. 

Well, maybe it does if you space it out a few years. Over the weekend, a tree in our yard was struck by lightning. My beautiful plum tree. My favorite tree. My tree that has pink blossoms in the spring. 

 As luck would have it, I was not home at the time. I was at an event out past the airport watching the sky grow dark. I was talking to people and I didn’t want to be on my phone but the weather enthusiast in me couldn’t resist checking out my weather app and noticing we were under a severe thunderstorm warning. I knew that conditions at my location were going to get a little dicey. I didn’t realize my house, an hour away, was in the bullseye as well.

 I went over to a window and took a photo of the dark clouds moving in. I can’t help myself when it comes to clouds. I am fascinated by their color, shape and size especially when a storm is moving in. I had to run outside to get an unobstructed view and the clouds were even darker but I didn’t hear any thunder or see any lightning. When I went back inside the only indication that a storm was happening were the branches of a small tree blowing violently against the windows. I noticed the rain coming down through the sheer curtains but a group of musicians practicing drowned out any other sounds.

 The storm lasted about a half an hour and then things went back to normal. I made a quick call to my husband and he told me a tree was struck. He said he was on the phone with his sister and the sound was so loud she asked him, “What was that?” 

 For some reason, I didn’t ask which tree was hit. (We have two trees in the front yard, two apple trees and my plum tree in the back.) It wasn’t until my husband sent photos that shock set in. It was my plum tree! The tree that once a year, for a very brief time, is covered with delicate pink blossoms that really pop against the dark purple leaves. I try to take a photo of the kids in front of this particular tree when it blooms each spring. The tree was perfect for climbing because it had a few branches that were low enough for small arms to reach. My youngest has even used the tree as a home gym doing pull ups on one of the low limbs. 

The tree has been home to numerous robins’ nests over the years and since the tree is right outside my bedroom window, I could hear the hungry morning tweets that often started pretty early. When I looked at the photos my husband sent, my first thought was I hope the tree doesn’t die. 

It was probably twelve years ago that our maple tree was struck by lightning during a violent late spring storm. My two older kids were preschool age and I remember I was sitting on the floor with one of them. I felt the energy travel through the floor after hearing a thunder crack unlike any other. 

I didn’t put it together at the time that our tree was hit but the next day we noticed bark was scattered all around the yard from the point of impact. Over the next couple weeks, the leaves began to fall from the tree. This normally happened in the fall but not during the height of summer. We hoped the tree would bounce back the next year but it never happened. The dead tree stood in our yard for years because I could not part with it and also due to the huge cost of having a tree cut down.

 I am thankful that I had taken pictures of the tree, in each season, which now serve as a reminder of our magnificent maple. Just last year, we planted a sapling near the spot where our beloved tree stood. My husband says since the plum tree is not a sap tree, it will not die like the maple did, but the tree has literally been cut in half. 

The clean-up has begun and I have yet to get a full view of the “new” version of the plum tree. I guess having part of that tree is better than losing it completely and maybe that is the take away here. Things change. Nothing stays the same but we have to put the past aside and embrace what is new, what is different. The blossoms may not be as numerous but hopefully they will still be there, as they have greeted us every spring since we moved into our home.

Help Wanted

I’m sure you’ve seen the signs. 

“We are short staffed. Please be patient with our workers.”

“Please accept our apologies. Temporary hours adjustment.”

“We all quit. Closed!”

Yes, it is a tough time for many businesses struggling to keep running with fewer workers. We can get into a debate about why this is happening but that is not my goal here. We can all agree the current situation is pandemic related and the problem is real. 

My favorite local restaurant just cut back their hours while praising the people that are showing up for their shifts each day. I’ve eaten there twice in recent weeks and the staff has been amazing and my gratuity has reflected that. 

I am not a frequent restaurant goer by any means and personally, while wait times have increased no matter where you go, it hasn’t affected me that much. I am patient and would never complain. Most times I am just happy to be anticipating a meal that I didn’t cook in a place that is not my home.

But my daughter works in the service industry and I know how hard she has been working for minimum wage. She is still new to the employment world and her paycheck and tips continue to be a source of great joy and spending freedom. But there is a lot that goes behind that monetary reward and the stuff she has had to endure, since she started,  gets under my skin.

Many places are hiring whoever walks through the door and appears willing to work. Sometimes the person who shows up for an interview isn't who shows up after they are gainfully employed. My daughter works with a variety of people with a variety of work ethics but for right now a body is better than nobody. 

But what has surprised me the most about her job, is the stories about customers who decide to take out their bad day, frustrations or lack of manners on a teenage kid. She has been called names, treated rudely and spoken to in ways that embarrass me to think about. I know there have always been bad apples out there but to get your panties in a bunch over a cup of coffee and a donut, I personally do not understand. 

Each day she comes home from work, she has a handful of stories about people behaving badly. The good thing about her is that she is still youthful and optimistic. She has even admitted to me, “Mom, for every bad customer there are many more good people.” I love that about her. I would have quit that job a long time ago but the camaraderie she has with her fellow employees helps get her through her shift with a few laughs and a shared bag of tips. 

Now that the procedures have changed at her place of employment, people can now go in and place their order in person. My husband and I stopped in the other day and to see her sweet, smiling face behind the covid plexiglass which filled us with pride. 

How could someone be rude to this delightful, young lady? 

Just the other day, someone threw a bagel at her. No folks, I am not making this up. When I heard this story, I was filled with rage. Luckily, the covid barrier protected her from being hit but her reaction was classic. She just laughed. Her manager took it from there and amazingly reacted much like I would have, chasing the customer down in the parking lot. 

I was thankful for this man and his protective instinct. I was happy she was able to laugh at the situation and realize there was something more going on with this person. Other customers who witnessed the incident reacted with compassion and a short time later someone came through the line and complimented her which gave her a boost of kindness to get her through the next couple hours. 

As I mentioned before, there are far more nice customers than rude and I feel this job is teaching my daughter important customer service skills. I have seen her give big tips while ordering out in solidarity of service workers everywhere. I myself have started using those tip jars that now seem to jump out at me on counters everywhere I go. 

We need to show our appreciation for the people that are showing up, knowing that not every customer is a peach to deal with. We need to especially support the young workers who are getting their first taste of being part of the workforce to encourage them to be good employees and to not get discouraged when people can’t act appropriately. 

We need to be the light to overshadow the darkness that often rears its head over a meaningless iced beverage and a sugar filled pastry