2015

I can't say I'm sad to see this year end. It's been a ride. It started in Michigan, and as usual ends in Michigan. I love that part. But then the start quickly morphed into a nightmare back in January. Bedrest for a nonexistent ailment. Pulmonary embolism. Blood clots in both legs. Gallstone the size of a diamond I'll never wear. Kidney issues. Liver issues. Autoimmune issues. Doctors appointments. Emergency rooms. Being taken care of. Being sick.

It was just a lot.

There were moments when I was sure I wasn't gonna make it. Like when I was in the heart wing of a hospital I'd never even heard of before, two nurses hovering over me, wondering why the machines were going off and my temperature was too high.

There were also moments that I long to relive over and over. Floating in the waves at Waikiki Beach. Sitting around the campfire with my family. Dancing with my dad. Laughing with my sister. Surprising my mom with my learning to knit.

It wasn't a bad year. It just wasn't all that great. But it had it's moments.

This Christmas season spent in the Mitten has been wonderful. Lots of family and friends and parties and dinners. Books read. Puzzles put together. Presents opened. Movies watched. It'll go on for another week. I love that.

But the rest? We'll just chalk that up to the year being done and we'll pack it up and maybe let the sensations dull a bit.

I am positive the new year will be better. I am positive it holds many wonderful, exciting new adventures, opportunities and experiences. I have to believe that or there's no reason to get out of bed tomorrow morning.

So here's to making it out of 2015 alive! And to starting 2016 anew!

Guest blogger! Angela...

Angela's devotion for our church's Advent Devotion:

Philippians 4:4-9

”Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”
 
The holiday season is a lot about lists, at least in my family. Lists of people to buy presents for, lists of people to see, lists of food to buy and make, lists of parties to attend, lists of lists to write. Ok, that last one isn’t true, but it feels like it. The holidays are stressful and at times, exhausting. I wonder what God thinks when he looks down and sees us running around looking for the last minute hostess gift. I wonder if he shakes his head and says, “All I want is for them to rejoice in the fact that I came to save them from themselves”.

As you make your to-do lists for the coming weeks, make one extra. Make a list of things to rejoice in, of whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable and excellent. There are so many praise worthy things in our lives, at the holidays and every day. We need to spend more time praising the One who gives us the gift of Everlasting life.

Today’s Prayer:
Dear Lord, while we make our lists of important items, we invite you to come: to bring us your peace, the one gift we cannot purchase. Fill our hearts with all the hopes you have dreamed about us forever. We rejoice in your presence in our lives and in our hearts, and we thank you for all our blessings. Amen.

Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church does an advent booklet (or advent readings online as they are this year). Today was my day:

Isaiah 40:6-8 
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

Life can seem very lonely, especially life in Los Angeles. ‘Let’s get coffee’ is a phrase often tossed around but seldom played out. Friends come and go, work changes, holidays pass without an invitation or a second thought. So many of us, so far from our childhood homes and families, whether separated by miles or minds, can feel lost. Afraid. Scared. Alone.

And yet? God reminds us that He is with us. Not just today, not just tomorrow, not just on December 25^th but always. “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever” (Isaiah 40:8).

Christmas in particular can be seen as a time of loneliness. Or as a time to remember that we are never alone. Every carol we hear in the stores, every light we see twinkling in the windows, every silly commercial we see on TV, all of it is a reminder that in reality, we are so far from alone.

We are loved. We are thought about. We are cared for. Not just by the people in our lives but by our Creator. He sent His son to remind us of that. A baby sent to serve as a symbol to the entire world – you and me included – that He loves us. It’s something I’ll try to remember every day of the year.

Prayer for today: 

Lord, thank you for loving us no matter what, from before we were born until we dance with you in heaven. Please help us to remember we are not alone, and never will be, because you promise to love us, to be with us, forever. 
Amen.

Alma Deane

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Mom, Edward & Alma Deane MacConomy

Cousin Edward was a legend in our family. He told this story about a goat that got people rolling on the floor. He was a very smart man who worked at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. and I was fortunate enough to have spent some time with him when I was younger. I loved Cousin Edward as we all did on the MacDonald side of the family.  

However, I was fascinated with Alma Deane, his wife. Alma Deane was a writer. More importantly to me, she was a reporter. In 1944. In Washington, covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. I thought that was so cool. She retired as editor and head of book publishing for the National Wildlife Federation. She had also taught school in a one-room school house, worked her way through Kansas State University, held PR posts at the Red Cross among other places, she was a research assistant for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall, and she wrote me letters. 

I loved that last part more than anything.

She loved that I was a writer too. That I had a degree in journalism like her. And I remember, when I was just out of grad school and my parents gave me a plane ticket for Christmas to Washington D.C. to visit friends how excited I was to go to her residence, to have lunch with her in the fancy dining room, and to talk writing. 

Thinking back now, Alma Deane was definitely one of my first role models. I didn't know about her writing when I was young but I did know about the stories of her different jobs. How she and Edward lived what I assumed was a glamorous life in the big city of Washington. (I've since realized big cities are not terribly glamorous by rule.) She worked at the Washington Post and created columns that still run today. I mean really, how cool is that? 

Today I will not mourn Alma Deane, who is being remembered at her funeral service by her friends and family. Instead I will remember, and celebrate, her 96 amazing years on this earth. Her writing, her editing, her work, her family, and her love. And I will revel in the fact that as a member of our family, we got to be witness to a tiny bit of all of that. She was the beginning of what so many of us do now. What so many of us want to do now. Make the world a bit better. Write the world a bit better. #awomanwrotethat

Alma Deane & I when I visited her in D.C.

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Thanksgiving love

Thanksgiving is about food. Everyone knows that. We spend weeks talking about menus and side dishes and who will host and what we'll do with the leftovers. Because there has to be leftovers. It's a part of how we celebrate community and family and show our gratitude for all that we have.

But it's about so much more I've come to realize.

Sunday we had our annual church Thanksgiving dinner. We filled the gymnasium and ate and ate. We shared tables with people we'd just met that day and people we've known for years. We talked and laughed and took pictures and ate. We gave thanks. We shared our love.

And then when Angela and I and some friends headed home from the dinner, we stopped just outside the gates of the church. There was Raquel who is a member of our family, a member who sleeps on the sidewalk out front. Someone had brought her dinner but she wanted coffee. With cream. I handed off my leftovers and ran back into the church. I grabbed a piece of apple pie and headed back out.

And as I watched Raquel take that first sip of coffee, she told me she hadn't had any yet that day, I saw pure joy wash across her face. The same joy I've seen on my grandmother's and my mother's faces a thousand times. The simple joy of a sip of hot coffee.

Then I made sure she liked apple pie, helped her get all situated, and headed to the parking lot. Along the way I ran into another member of our family, a man who yelled out my name with such friendliness and love that I immediately felt embarrassed I couldn't remember his name. But I remembered his eyes, his face, his love of black jackets and black socks, and I stopped to chat. I watched as he ate a turkey dinner from tin foil from a church down the street. He was so enjoying his food. We chatted. I promised to keep my eyes peeled for a black suit jacket for him and we parted with holiday wishes.

And then I hopped into the car where Angela was waiting. I looked at her and as spontaneously as Raquel had smiled when she sipped her coffee, I burst into tears.

I had had a wonderful day full of worship and decorating the church for Christmas and laughs with friends and time to share stories and lives and I ate a big meal with pie and it had been just about as perfect as a Sunday in November can be. But there I sat sobbing. Big ugly sobs that were completely unexpected.

We do so much as a church. As a people. I have friends who give so much of their time and their paychecks and their energy and their prayers. We do so much. And yet...

Two of these people I know, have known for eight years, stood outside on the street, eating their Thanksgiving meal. And this time I didn't feel guilt. I didn't feel guilt for eating inside, or enjoying the meal and not leftovers. I didn't feel that I had to bring everyone inside the gates. What I felt Sunday was pure sadness. Sadness over so much. Sadness over what I cannot help. Sadness over these two people in particular. That life has brought them to this point.

But if you live in only sadness the love gets lost. I know this. And I know there is light in this dark world. Because later on a friend sent me this message:

One of the Tuesday guests that joined us for Thanksgiving dinner was walking out to the parking lot afterward. He was so excited and talking to his friend. One of the last things I heard him say was "Yeah, I think Sarah was really excited we were there!"

I read that message and immediately grinned. I laughed out loud. I couldn't stop from smiling all night. The message was referring to Marlon, and we had several conversations Sunday. He joined us for worship, he joined us for dinner. He was beyond thrilled to see me it seemed. He couldn't quit raving about the best meal he'd just had there in the gymnasium with us. And Tuesday, when I saw him at Lunch, he bragged about how special it was that the pastor of the whole church, our new Pastor Blair, had sat and eaten with him and his friends.

It's true, I was really excited Marlon was there with us Sunday, and truth be told, I was really excited to see my two friends outside the gates Sunday night too. To stop and have a moment with them, however brief, to connect. Because in that connection there is love. No matter if it's with someone we've just met like Timothy who we decorated the church with and then ate with or if it's Jen and her lovely Marilee who we also ate with who I've known since before Marilee was born. It's the connection, no matter how brief, that's important. Sometimes we see it, sometimes we feel it, sometimes we are it.

Tuesday Angela and I worked Homeless Lunch and Angela passed out over 100 oranges as Thanksgiving treats. She had so many connections and I love that. Yesterday we worked a short shift at the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank with about a hundred other people and sorted donations. We didn't really make any connections, or so I thought at first. But then at the end of our shift, they told us what we had accomplished in three hours:

• 21,000 pounds of non-perishable food sorted
• 17,500 pounds of bread sorted
• 13,500 pounds of perishable food sorted
• 1,850 meals boxed and ready to go out within the week
• A total of 40,000 people who would be less hungry as a direct result of our efforts

Let me say it again, if you live in only sadness the love gets lost. I choose to not live in the sadness of Sunday. Instead, I live in the love of Sunday. The love of Tuesday. The love of yesterday. I choose to live in the love of today. To make connections. To remind myself that being blessed is not just a hashtag (though #blessed is amazing!) but a constant state for me and so many others. I cannot be sad. I can only love. I can only be love and share love and receive love.

Thanksgiving is about love. It's about food. And in so many ways food is love. It's about beginning this season, this year, this new year, this life again, with so much love. 

Paris is my soul

All my life I've been obsessed with Paris. With France. With all things French. I don't know when it started but I do know that I took four years of high school French when certainly any other language would have been more beneficial to my livelihood. (I filled out an application to work at the CIA after grad school and when it asked for languages spoken I really really wished I could put down Farsi instead.) During my senior year of high school it was announced that there would be a Monet exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. I begged my parents to take me. And they did. (Side note: I am drinking my tea from London out of a mug from that very art exhibit this morning as I type. It has made it through five moves in twenty years!)

It was during those high school French classes when I would sit and imagine what it would be like to walk the streets of Paris. But the funny thing is, I never really thought I'd get there. Just like I never really believed I'd live anywhere but near my hometown in Michigan. Back then I didn't even know it was really possible to do such things. But I'd soon learn...

My bedroom at my parents' house got a framed poster from the Money exhibit. My first apartment got a giant framed poster of the Eiffel Tower being built. My house now has actual photos hanging on the walls that I took in France. It also have actual paintings I bought along the Seine on my last day in the city. My workspace is covered in photos and mag
nets from my time there. Paris is in my soul.

When Angela and I planned our European adventure, we made sure Paris was our destination. London was lovely, but it was a weekend away from our real destination. Ten nights just blocks from Notre Dame. Two weeks roaming the streets, learning the metro stops, hearing the music that is the language, eating the pastries like we were locals. What I thought would be terrifying -- stepping out onto the street of a country where I barely spoke the language and living there for two weeks was really just the opposite. I never felt scared or lost or alone. Paris was more than I could have ever imagined.

The people were friendly. The city welcoming. The adventure perfect. We were hesitant to return home, though I did welcome the thought of my own bed. But I still wake up thinking wouldn't it be nice if I could stumble down the circular staircase to the basement and have a giant mug of cafe au lait, some cheese, some salami, some yogurt, and a fresh croissant like we did every morning there? I still close my eyes and can feel the grass under my hands as we sit and wait, for hours on end, watching people and soaking in the culture, waiting for the sun to go down and la Tour Eiffel to light up?

I learned about the attacks last night first on Twitter. That's where I get so much of my news nowadays, it's almost surreal. There between the jokes and the complaints and the commentary on Hollywood I saw that there had been a shooting. And then a bombing. I didn't turn on the TV, almost afraid of what I would see. Paris. Shredded.

The stories of humanity coming out of the city last night and this morning help. There are so many good people in the world. So many kind hearts and loving souls. And they will for sure overshadow any hatred or violence the few can manage. And yet? It's heartbreaking. When we finally did turn on the television last night I watched through tears
. Knowing that so many lives had been shattered and that so many would now have to pick up the pieces and try to carry on.

Paris is in my soul. I know the city. I know the streets. I know which way the Louvre is from the Eiffel Tower. I know which train to take back to Notre Dame. I think about the girl who worked in the restaurant we ate in several nights and pray she's okay. I pray we are all okay.

Because we are not. We are not okay. We are shaken and we are scared and we are hurt and we are angry. We are at war. Every day, all day, over so much and so little. Our hearts ache, our souls cry, our brains overload.

There's not much I can do. There's not much any of us can do. That realization is hard. That realization is maddening. And yet? There is. We can call the people we love and stay on the phone just a little bit longer. We can give hugs and sit on the sofa and just be. We can go out and do good. Be good. We can shine, even if it's hard at first or seems fruitless. If we shine, the world shines. And the world will shine again. It has to.

The first annual Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk

Yesterday Angela and I arrived at the Culver City Park around 7am. The sun was bright, the air was crisp, and the park was already full of smiling volunteers, balloons, and signs of an amazing day to come.

Why? Well, because yesterday was the Inaugural Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk. You all know this is something near and dear to my heart, not only because of how autoimmune diseases affect members of my family, dear friends, and myself but because I think scientists are superheroes who need all of the funding we can get them so they can help us to live long, healthy lives. And by helping out with events like the autoimmune walk, I can help these superheroes.

It looks like the walk, and a poker night held last Sunday, contributed about $80,000 to the fight against autoimmune diseases. It's no where near what people raise annually for cancer research or diabetes research or so many other amazing causes BUT...it's completely astounding that this much money was raised in just a few short months because my friend Barbara Ramm decided to do something. Instead of focusing solely on her disease, which frankly, she has every right and expectation to do, and take care of herself, she enlisted her family and her friends to put together this event. There are only two other walks that have happened to support autoimmune research, and two others scheduled for early next year, and Barbara thought, well why can't we do that? So she did. And it was pretty great.

It was a crazy, long day but God smiled on us and gave us the perfect California day. Sun shining, not too warm, perfect t-shirt and shorts weather. And He sent us so many great volunteers. And when people started showing up to register who just found out and wanted to help? That was pretty cool. Almost as cool as the couple of little kids who brought big envelopes stuffed with cash collections. I was so surprised to find out how many children fight autoimmune disease. And how many want to change that. They were there, decked out in handmade t-shirts and angel wings and with huge smiles and ready to go. That alone made the whole day worth it.

We raised hundreds in a silent auction and raffle. We gave away donated cookies and pasta. We thanks Chipolte who fed hungry volunteers for free. We watched as little kids whacked pinatas and as big kids played awesome music. We smiled as celebrities walked the purple carpet and as families surrounded each other in this fight for life. It was a day of so much busyness and so much happiness that all of the little snafus and first-year growing pains washed away quickly. Faces were painted, big and little, miles were walked, and stories were told. And at the end? We did a whole lot of good for a whole lot of people. Hugs and kisses ended the night and promises to work together again soon. Why? Because this huge amount of money is just a tiny drop in the bucket.

During the event, we wrote names of diseases and people we walk for on links and then joined them on a chain (my links included my Aunt Gloria, my friend Abby and myself). A chain that was carried during the walk and a chain that will be joined together with other links from other events bearing the names of other people and diseases. A chain that will eventually be taken to Washington D.C. and wrapped around the capitol in a human chain to tell Congress just how important this research is for so many of us. And I'm guessing, from the amount of people I talked to yesterday, and I talk to all the time, so many of you.

Thank you to those who prayed for, donated to, volunteered at, and walked during our event yesterday and the one last week. Thank you for caring enough about me, about the people I love, to make this fight not one I must take on alone but one you take on with me. Together, we can make a difference.

Barbara & I with signs from the walk's path

I may not be watching ESPN but I am working just the same...

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a writer. I promise. I am writing. I promise. It may not look like it but I've been writing every day for my whole life. Professionally it's been a bit less but suffice it to say I've been writing for a very long time. Even if it doesn't look that way.

This morning I got up, tied my laces, and put on a slick long-sleeved Nike shirt before 7am. I promised myself I'd walk and walk I'd do. For several miles, along the quiet streets of the neighborhood of Angela's school, the neighborhood I want to live in some day, I put one foot in front of the other and moved forward. And coming out of the white earbuds strapped on? An interview with Aaron Sorkin about his latest movie Steve Jobs. (Really, more than the promise to myself it was Sorkin that got me out of bed. Oh, yes.)

And at one point in the interview the interviewer asked him if he writes 10 pages a day or has a set number or some sort of regular process. And his answer made me laugh out loud somewhere near Wilshire Boulevard. He said to the untrained eye his writing process looks an awful lot like a man watching ESPN. And I thought, so so true. That's me. Except to the untrained eye my process may look like exercise, cooking, laundry, answering email, going to CVS daily, taking out the trash, and plucking at stray eyebrows in the closeup mirror I never should have purchased.

A few weeks ago I wrote an eight page outline for my new pilot. This was completed after several months of research, character development, countless hours on Wikipedia, and so many more hours sitting at my desk staring straight ahead at the white wall. Stephen King once said he had to move his desk into a closet so he wouldn't stare out the window. I have a window but it faces the garage wall so I guess it's sort of the same thing.

So much of writing is thinking. Like SO MUCH. Like there's no substitute for getting in the shower and thinking up a good idea and having to get out and run dripping to the desk to scratch an idea onto a soggy post-it note. There's no substitute for driving and thinking and realizing you need to stop the car so you can find your phone and send yourself an email. So many emails with ten word sentences that eventually become a story. And then a script. And maybe some day a movie. Or a TV show.

I've been standing here at my desk (yes, still standing, the new desk is great, until my feet get tired and then I find the chair because lets face it sometimes thinking is a sitting job) for an hour this morning. I have the new document for my pilot script pulled up in the software program. I wrote out the title page. I wrote out the first line of action. And now? Nothing.

I have seen this first series of scenes so many times in my head. Just this morning I had to rewind Sorkin's interview on my phone because I realized I'd been thinking about that first scene, the scene of the sailor rucking in the hot sun, carrying a pack, moving forward, just like me. I'm no solider but I can so clearly see this soldier's determination and struggle it's real to me.

Sometimes the words come so quickly it terrifies me. What if they're so fast they're no good? Or they're so fast no one else will understand? Maybe I shouldn't have played that Fifth Harmony song with the good beat on repeat while I wrote until it invaded my brain.

But sometimes they don't come so easily. It's not writers block, trust me, on a deadline I can get it done whether it's a term paper, a newspaper article or a draft of a script. But sometimes it's slow. Like the way you have to get to know someone. Because I'm getting to know these people I'm creating. I'm developing relationships in my brain. And that can be fast or slow or sometimes both.

So now I'm going to think about Sorkin's interview, think about what he does to get his fingers moving, and think about his advice on what makes a story interesting. And I think just as my feet were moving forward this morning, I'll make my main character's move a bit forward. At least a few steps, if that's all that happens today, then that's okay. Because when the time is perfect, it'll happen. Especially when deadlines loom...

Signed,

Me, the writer

It's everything

Last Wednesday morning I woke up at 3am with a pain unlike anything I'd ever experienced. It reached all the way across my torso and left me literally dripping in sweat. I couldn't lie down or stand or really do anything. After an hour I woke up Angela and off we went to the emergency room where the pain would subside two hours before I'd see a doctor. But they did a thorough workup, including checking for new blood clots, deemed it a gallbladder attack, and sent me home. No meds, no new instructions, just a new sense of what that feeling is and how I might experience it in the future.

That afternoon we picked our friend Eric up from the airport. He would stay with us for a week, visiting from Michigan. We'd spend the week/weekend enjoying his company, sightseeing, spending time together. Out of the normal routine, out of even my somewhat flexible routine. And then Angela had a tooth abscess and on Monday she'd have emergency dental surgery to pull said tooth. Trips to the surgeon, the pharmacy, the store for supplies, it has been a whirlwind. And here we are, over a week later, and I can't quite feel that the whirlwind has stopped yet. I still feel as if I am moving and the world is standing still or vice versa.

Even though we dropped Eric at the airport Tuesday, yesterday was not a normal day. There was an early morning trip to the surgeon for Ang's checkup, a trip to the acupuncturist that had already been rescheduled once, a trip to the new primary care doctor I've been assigned to (90 minutes each way) and a trip to find soup for lunch since even though our house contained the ingredients for soup, it contained no soup. We arrived home about 7pm last night and I made some mac and cheese and we both were in bed shortly after 9pm.

So today I woke up and decided it was time to get back in gear. I tackled the homemade soup first, and some cleaning along the way (a huge dust storm this weekend left my desk and much of the house covered in dirt) and as I was slowly realizing the fall bisque we made in cooking class and the next weekend at home was a lot more time consuming when it's just you alone making it, I smelled burning onions. Determined I could in fact make soup for my sister, I tried again, getting a new pan, chopping a new shallot and this time, paying close attention. Half an hour later I almost added unpeeled potato to the soup, caught myself, backed up and tried again.

I don't know what was wrong today. I can follow a recipe with the best of them. I've made this soup twice before. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized maybe I cannot be superwoman. Maybe today isn't the day I do the laundry, make homemade soup, run to the pharmacy, make a salad for lunch, write a pilot, think of a movie idea, and make it to my friends' staged reading tonight. Maybe today would be the day I ate a Subway sandwich alone in the strip mall while waiting for Angela's Vicodin. Maybe today would be the day I told myself to watch an episode of TV I'd been saving rather than write one. Maybe today would be the day I cut myself a little slack.

Those burned onions sat on the back burner the whole time I made my second attempted batch of soup. A soup which might be a bit spicy because I like the way the red pepper flakes look in it. A soup which will, despite it's lack of fancy Parmesan crisps today, taste pretty good tonight and tomorrow for lunch. And this afternoon as I scrubbed the pan with the burned onions I thought about how maybe those onions were just a reminder to slow down, to smell the flowers (or shallots) so to speak.

Sometimes life is so dull I fear for my sanity. Sometimes life is so busy I pray for nightfall and my pillow. And some days I remind myself that life is best tasted slowly, and quickly, and all at once. Life is butter foaming and onions softening and pears mixing with parsnips and everything all blended together. Life is good. Life is bad. And on the best days? It's everything.

Essential Skills for Fall...

Cooking that is, Essential Skills for Fall Cooking. That's what our class was titled Saturday afternoon at Sur La Table. In what's now become a two year tradition, I took another cooking class this October for birthday month. And this time I got to take it with Angela, who, just as I was that first time, was blown away by how much you learn, how much you get to eat, how good everything is, and how fun it is! In fact, we're on the waitlist for another class this weekend!

So Saturday's birthday class was, in the words of Chef Colette Christian, ambitious. We had six recipes to make and we were to learn how to fabricate a whole chicken. I had no idea what that meant. Now I do.

We started with the fall vegetable bisque and Parmesan crisps. I volunteered to start the soup on the stove and Angela and our teammates worked on the crisps. I love these classes for another reason, everything is already prepped for us. There's no chopping or dicing or cleaning. There are several assistant chefs running the kitchen and they keep things hopping with laid out ingredients and keep the dishwasher humming. Also, I'm making things I never would have tried at home but that I totally now will cook at home. Because they're really not that hard! Our fall soup had pears, parsnips, potatoes, celery, and so much more and it really was as simple as assembling the ingredients and seasoning them. And we're going to try the recipe at home this weekend!

Then we moved on to the chicken. Now, I'm not saying I'm going to be abandoning my large bags of frozen chicken breasts from Costco anytime soon but I have cooked a chicken several times in the past few years, a whole one. And I like the idea that I can do that now with more authority. I like knowing how to cut it up properly and how to make the best use of the pieces of meat. It's definitely something I'll try again soon, maybe over Thanksgiving vacation. Chef Colette cut the chicken for us but showed us just what to do. And she apparently has classes online we can view to review if we need them. 

Next was herb roasting the chicken and making the red wine pan sauce which was seriously, so so easy. And the crazy part? Our group almost wanted to lick the sauce off the plate when we tried it, it was that good. And it was basically onions, garlic, wine, oil, seasonings and some butter. So so easy, and things we almost always have on hand. (I am obsessed with Trader Joe's frozen garlic cubes. We couldn't keep garlic from going bad when we weren't cooking too much during all the heat waves so we switched to this and it's amazing. Tastes like it's fresh!)

After that we moved on to the vanilla bean ice cream. We just made the base, and tasted some that had been made by an assistant chef that morning because ours wouldn't have time to freeze but I love that the evening class would get to taste ours in turn later on! Chef tried to convince us to get the $60 Cuisinart ice cream maker but we held strong. I don't think the ability to make ice cream frequently is good for me or my healthy living plan. But maybe some day...

Then we finished our class by making the apple tarte tatin. Going in I thought this would be like a pie or a cobbler but it wasn't. It was a simple one-pan dessert you can really make while you're getting ready for dinner and then cook while you're eating and then have hot out of the oven (with our ice cream).

Basically we caramelized sugar and butter in a pan. We also learned several times what not to do or how to fix mistakes (when one group burned their sugar, we learned it was best just to throw it out and start over!). And we learned some tricks from Chef Colette, like cold better works best in the sauce, or to temper the eggs in some milk before adding to the ice cream base, or when to cook on high and when to cook on low (you can cook on high sometimes, I felt vindicated! I mean I always cook on high but that's part of my charm!). Then we added apples to the pan and then put a piece of puffed pastry on top. In the oven it went and VOILA! We had this amazing dessert that looked like it came from a magazine. And tasted amazing. (My favorite was when one of the husbands in the class came over for seconds when Angela and I were plating. Always a good sign!)

All of this happened in the course of about two hours, give or take. I really can't recommend these classes enough. And now we're going to be on the lookout for classes by Chef Colette too. And if you watch the website as the day draws nearer, you can score the classes on sale (half off!) like we did.

All in all, one of my favorite new traditions, birthday month or otherwise. I love the idea of making something from pieces. Of creating something that not only sustains but delights. Of being a part of making someone's, even my own, day a bit happier, a bit more delicious. And if it doesn't turn out? Who cares! You start over. Or you improvise. Our Chef was dealing with a new shopper Saturday who didn't get several necessary ingredients for the recipes. She made do by grinding sea salt smaller and by using frozen butter they had in the deep freeze. And when she sprinkled our soup with red pepper instead of black (or the white Julia Child would insist on), she said we were branching out, going spicy. And you know what? It was delicious. Because in the words of Ms. Child, "The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a what-the-hell attitude." I love that!

Our cooking team - Christiane, Me, Angela, and Kristen

This year just might be a bit better than the last...

Last night - birthday dessert!

Yesterday was the day. My actual birthday. What birthday month, birthday week, and birthday weekend had been leading up to. And we had no big plans. Church, maybe meatloaf (my favorite birthday meal growing up). We had to do a favor for an older neighbor in the afternoon so we had to stick close to home for a while. All fine, birthday celebration was almost over anyway...

Mom made me a birthday dishrag!

Of course it's Doris' cake!

But it wasn't. Last night I had one of those truly special evenings. It gets harder and harder to be excited about birthdays as we grow older. For one, we're growing older. For two, we have to fit it into every day life which is busy and tedious and full. For three, no one cares nearly as much about your birthday as you do (though I have some amazing family and friends who come close!). So this October Angela and I had been celebrating but just really by doing normal things and saying, "Birthday Month!" before and after. It's fine. It's good. It's life when you're about to turn 38.

Jamee is cheering me on!

But Saturday night I spent time talking to Angela and Andrew, eating cake, eating pie and playing cards. But mostly talking. And I've found that in reality, just spending time with people is the most important part of growing older. Whether it's new people or people we've known for ever, when people take time out of their own crazy worlds to focus on you and your stories, that's something to cherish, to celebrate. And it's oh so lovely. Oh so special.

Love from MI & Kerri, Rich & the boys!

Mom wants to make sure I'm stylin'!

New standup desk from Mom & Dad

From Mom & Dad!

And then Sunday came around. Lots of Facebook messages and texts and a Facetime with Mom and Dad to open such fun presents and then one offer to spend time with someone came in. My lovely friend Krista said if we had time, she'd love to have Angela and I come over and go swimming with her. I hemmed and hawed. It was overcast (yet still in the 80s). It wasn't what I was planning to do. It required a drive downtown. And then I stopped in my tracks. And I said YES.

Susie & Angela spoiled me!

One of the activities I love to do most in this world is swim. I love to be in the water. I love to float and kick and sit in it. I just love being in it. And someone had offered me a chance to do that yesterday, on my birthday. While also spending time with two of my favorite people. Of course I should say yes. And so I did.

Angela and I drove downtown and met Krista and we swam. We talked and we laughed and we floated and we swam. Then we sat for a long time in the cooling night air, with just the hint of fall in the air and the leaves, in the giant hot tub and shared our stories. And then Krista asked if we wanted to walk to this really good Mexican restaurant for dinner.

A handful of thoughts ran through my brain. It's Sunday night, Angela has to get up early tomorrow, we have dinner in the fridge at home, I shouldn't eat out after having splurged so much already this weekend, etcetera etcetera. And then I said YES.

Swim time!

We all showered at her place, put back on our bathing suits, and walked, damply, half a mile through the downtown night. We found the Border Grill, tucked away near a dark office building and I smiled as we were seated on the patio with it's paper lanterns strung above our tables and it's jazzy music and it's perfect temperature.

Card from Cedric & the gang!

And we ate. And we drank. And we laughed. And we talked about everything you could imagine. And Krista sang to me as the waiter brought over a little bowl of churro bites with a candle melted to the side.

Card from Cedric & the gang!

And then Krista said, wait, let's not go home just yet, I want to show you something. And off we went, three girls all dressed in damp skirts to this huge hotel right in the middle of LA. The Westin. We walked in and Krista led us to the glass elevator. We went straight up and Angela and I gasped at the beauty of Los Angeles at night all around us. And then we found another glass elevator on the other side of the building and did it again. And again. And again. We watched the skyline and the lights and talked about how Los Angeles doesn't look like this during the day, or really ever. Because well frankly, last night was one of those special nights where everything looks perfectly magical.

And as we walked back through the dark streets of downtown Los Angeles, three girls on an adventure, I couldn't help but think that this year just might be a bit better than the last...

Grief is love

I grew up knowing what grief was. Maybe not it's exact name but what the feeling was. How your heart hurt. How your soul ached. Grief surrounded us. And not in a horribly sad, black dress every day kind of way but in a we've lost people who are very important kind of way and it's okay to be sad and it's okay to think about them and it's okay to remember them and laugh about them. This became a part of me.

I have no memories of my own about my great grandpa Kenneth. As my mother tells the story, he knew he'd never live to see me be born although he knew I was on my way. Cancer sucked back then, and cancer sucks now. Those are the worst words I can say about cancer because in my house growing up sucks was a curse word. (No idea why really, since actual curse words were lobbied about quite frequently.) But his spirit was kept alive through photos and stories. So many stories.

Similarly I have no memories of my own of my Aunt Ginny. But I almost feel like I do because my Grandma MacDonald kept her memory alive so well with stories. Same goes for my Grandmother's father who died when she was 16. So many stories, so much to keep close.

When I wasn't yet three my mother gave birth to twin boys who didn't survive the day. I don't remember anything about that time but to this day I remember their birth date. I clean off their gravestone marker at the cemetery and I spent many a summer day trekking up the hill to water the flowers we planted. There and just above them, at my uncle's grave, an uncle who didn't survive the day he was born either.

We didn't really talk about the babies in my family but we didn't not talk about them either. Each year on their birth date I'd calculate their age and wonder what it would be like to have two little boys in the house. Or to have two brothers instead of one sister. As the years went on we mentioned them less but never forgot.

When I was not quite 10 my mother's father passed away. I have distinct memories from that day, from that week. Of knowing something so bad had happened. Of knowing that life would go on but never be the same.

We would go years without another death close to the family like that one. But the grief never went away. My grandmother would have a big family dinner in a restaurant around the time of my grandfather's death. We'd spend days planting flowers by his gravestone, watering the flowers at the babies' stones.

But then another grandfather passed away, my dad's dad, and I was older, in college, and I remember feeling the grief so differently, not completely yet, but knowing what it meant, at least in part.

When my Grandma MacDonald passed away I was a bonafide adult. At least that's what life tells me. And I will never forget the feelings that accompanied that death. That immediate sadness. That immediate emptiness. The moment of sitting there in the funeral home, listening to the pastor, holding hands with my sister and my two cousins, sobs racking my body. I'll never ever get that image from my brain. And I don't want to. I have to hold on to that. To that love. To that pain. To that hurt. To that grief. 

And then came the summer, three years ago, when all three of my remaining grandparents passed away within weeks and months of one another. I remember thinking I might never stop crying. I might never get a handle on things again. Life was so profoundly changed. Not like when I was a little girl and people would be sad for a while and then I'd not really notice the difference. I was so young, I couldn't pick up on the deep sadness that envelopes people when their loved ones pass. But I'm no longer so young.

The grief settled in and made a promise not to go away. It enveloped us and changed us. These were people, who as an adult, I had made a part of my daily life. These were people I called on a daily or weekly basis. These were people I thought of regularly. These were people I kept track of. I knew their schedules and their favorite candy bars and whether or not they'd be happy with the score of the game. I knew these people. These were my people. Not just family. My family. My every day support system.

And suddenly they were gone.

All at once.

Gone.

And then someone else passed away. And then someone else. And it felt like the world would never be the same again. Or okay again. Because, frankly, let's face it, it won't be. Ever. And we just have to deal with that.

And then last summer, in 2014, I went home and I saw Mom #2, Marilyn. I saw what cancer had done to her body, not to her spirit, never to her spirit, but to her physical being. I saw that she really was sick. She really was dying. And yet we all pretended it wasn't. Because that's what you do. You pretend it's going to be okay, because even if it's not, you have to believe it is. Because what else do you have.

I didn't say goodbye to her last summer. I thought about going to her house and walking up the porch, and petting Cyd hello, and wrapping my arms around her. I'm sure she thought about it too because she didn't come say goodbye to Angela and I. There were opportunities for both of us but we never took them. None of us. And I know why, at least for me. Because deep down I knew I wouldn't just be saying goodbye until Christmas. I'd be saying goodbye forever.

And I couldn't do that.

I believe in Heaven. I believe in my people smiling down on me when they aren't too busy doing awesome Heaven stuff up there. I believe in hope and I have faith and I have love in my heart. I do. But I also have grief. I have such profound sadness that strikes me at moments and it almost knocks me down because I'm not expecting it.

The grief over Marilyn has been that way. Knowing today, the day she died, was coming up over the past few weeks, even months, I had a keen sense that things were not okay. And I have come to terms with the fact that that is okay. Grief has no correct fashion. It takes no direct path. It doesn't happen and then end. It continues, just as life does. It reminds us hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, eventually yearly, that we had people in our lives we loved so much or who loved us so much that it hurts now that they are gone. And that is miraculous. That in all this world we are loved. And we love. And we hurt. And that's all life really is.

Some days I miss her handwriting on a bright envelope in my mailbox. Some days I miss the sound of her voice through the phone. Some days I miss the way she'd sit at my mom's kitchen table and talk for hours. Some days I miss just knowing she's there, in that little house, and that I can stop in and get a hug and shoot the breeze.

When we went home for Christmas in 2014 Marilyn taught Ang, Mom and I how to make rolls. Her mother's rolls. Eileen's rolls. She wrote out the recipe for us. She walked us through the process step by step. And she made us promise to practice. We haven't yet. It's been too hard. It's been too sad. But this fall, when the weather cools and there's spaghetti on the stove, we'll practice, Angela and I. We'll practice and we'll remember that day and we'll smile and we'll laugh and we'll probably cry a bit. Because grief is all of that. Grief is us. Grief is love.

January 2014

I have autoimmune issues...

That's a technical diagnosis. Apparently. I have autoimmune issues. No disease they've narrowed down yet. When I was younger it was simply arthritis. Grandma had it, Mom had it, so it's just a family heirloom passed down. My fingers ache. My feet ache. Sometimes just barely. Sometimes so slightly I barely notice and forget to worry about it. But sometimes? I can barely move a finger. Or think about anything but the burning pain in my hand. This can go on for hours or days or weeks. And then I can go long periods and not experience anything.

When I lived in Yuma and had my own health care insurance for the first time I made an appointment to see a rheumatologist. He did the tests and said I didn't have rheumatoid arthritis. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Rheumatoid is bad news, a scary disease. And yet? Mere aches and pains seemed more than I was experiencing. He prescribed a new drug, Lyrica, which I declined to take regularly since I didn't have pain regularly and I never made another appointment.

Fast forward to this year. Emergency room. Hospital. DVT. Pulmonary embolism. Gallstone. Kidney disease. Liver problems. So many more issues to deal with. And yet? No clear answers.

This spring I sat in my hematologist's office and listened as he read my test results out loud. He was flummoxed, which I took as a bad sign. The man has a PhD and an MD. He said I had lupus (an autoimmune disease) markers. But he didn't believe I had lupus. And he sent me back to my primary care doctor for followup. I sat in my car in the parking lot that morning and sobbed. I had no idea what lupus was other than the disease they never could quite diagnose correctly on the TV show House. That instilled no confidence in my prognosis.

At another doctor's appointment I was assured I didn't have lupus, even though I had lupus markers. Strange. I think so and I'm not a doctor. My doctor was again confused. I was again unimpressed. Then they moved on to possible kidney disease and now another new doctor is testing me for liver issues. So many issues, so little time to think about them all because frankly, I don't want to.

But I do, logically, know that I have medical problems. I have autoimmune problems. I've talked about this at length with the only constant health care provider I have, my acupuncturist Trace. She studies the blood work and test results. She knows how to treat my arthritis and she helps me deal with the other medical issues. She is working on the gallbladder. She's the one who diagnosed the gallstones, the pulmonary embolism and the DVT. I'm so thankful to have her in my corner.

But the autoimmune issues? The problem is that there is maybe no known disease to classify me under yet. The doctors and scientists haven't had the money or resources to investigate properly. So I can't be treated properly yet. One of Angela's doctors told us that medical scientists are making new discoveries every day and yet that still isn't fast enough. We don't know enough yet. But we can.

When I was sick this winter so many people reached out to me. One of those people was Barbara Ramm, a lovely woman I met at church. We bonded over making funeral cookies, she was organizing the luncheon and Angela and I were volunteering. This spring I learned that Barbara also has autoimmune issues - but hers has a name. She has relapsing polychondritis. Look it up, it's not good. But guess what? She's doing something about it. In a sea of so many medical issues being talked about and having awareness raised for and demanding our money and our contemplation, Barbara and her family are taking this issue on. They are creating the first annual Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk.

And Angela and I have decided to walk alongside them.

Because I have autoimmune issues.

Because people I love have autoimmune issues.

My Aunt Gloria has MS and has been in a wheelchair more of her life that she's been out of one. I will walk for her.

My dear little friend Abby who's just started school and this crazy life has celiacs disease. I will walk for her.

My mom and my sister have arthritis and will deal with it their whole lives. I will walk for them.

Who do you know that you can walk for? Or support with a donation? Or a few hours of your time on November 8th?

If you want to help, click here! If you want to pray for us, do it! It you want to share your story with me, come on over and chat! We can make a difference. We have to try.

Donald Jewelers is family

Sometime last year I heard the news, Donald's was closing. Instantly I thought, no. Can't be. They've been there my whole life. And yet? Today is their last day. I'm happy for the men who run the business, that they get to go out and enjoy retirement, but I'm sad for a part of my life in Michigan, on Grand River Avenue, to be gone.

Donald's has always been more than just a jewelry store for my family. Located right in the heart of downtown Howell, right next to the courthouse my mom worked at for my whole life, it's been a place where we've gone in good spirits, in the blazing hot summer, in the cold winter snow, always with a smile and a joyous occasion to celebrate.

Donald's sold my parents my first pair of pierced earrings when I was thirteen years old and allowed to get my ears pierced. Fourteen carat gold butterflies on a post that came in a silver velvet box. I still wear them. Donald's is where my sister and I got to go with our parents prior to our sixteenth birthdays. In our house you got a class ring or a birthstone ring. Angela and I chose wisely, we both still wear our birthstone rings regularly.

Donald's is where my parents and I took the golf and choir medals I'd won at high school competitions to be engraved. Never once did Buss (the younger Donald) charge us for those engravings. He always spent time talking about my accomplishments, asking questions, spending a few minutes connecting even though I'm sure he had mountains of work in the back of the shop to focus on.

Donald's is where grandma got my first watch, a small Timex. I wasn't with her, as it was a birthday gift, but she made sure to tell me that when I needed a new battery she would take me to Donald's and we'd get one.

Donald's is where I accompanied my dad, year after year, to watch as he picked out just the perfect piece of jewelry for my mom for Christmas. Laid out there under the glass were always beautiful necklaces and fancy rings and lovely pins. Dad would pick something out, Mr. Yax (the older Donald) would wrap it up and we'd leave knowing Mom would be happy on December 25th.

Donald's is where I took old pieces, passed down to me, and had them fixed up, shined up, and was always surprised that Buss or Mr. Yax never charged more than a few dollars for this labor-intensive job. We'd shoot the breeze, and after I'd moved out to L.A., I'd listen as Buss told me stories that would work as scripts. He always has an idea or two to share, many I've written down and will someday claim as my own!

Donald's is where I took my grandmother's diamond ring after her funeral. It was now mine, the two-diamonds on the gold band that her father had given her when she was just barely sixteen. I'd intended to have it reset, something more modern. Buss took so much time with me and my mom, he found books and catalogs of settings, websites he e-mailed to me after I'd come back to L.A., wanting to make sure I found just the perfect setting to remember grandma with. And ultimately? He's the one who convinced me, not through specific words, but through his heart and his careful prodding, that maybe the ring was perfect as it was. It's solid, it's beautiful, it's timeless. And so? After months of talk and planning and him even drawing out a few settings on scratch paper for me, I didn't change a thing. And Buss seemed to think that was just fine. And it's a ring I wear every single day now.

In July Angela and I made some cookies and took two plates down to Donald's. Mr. Yax was off on a clock call, something I'm sure he'll continue doing forever despite his retirement. But when we walked in and saw the mostly empty glass cases, we knew an era was ending. We thanked Buss for what he has meant to our family, to our town, and to us. His family, including his mom, has been a source of joy in so many of our family's important moments and I love that about our Howell community. No matter how far I've gone or how long I've been there, people like Donald and Mr. Yax were always there to welcome me back and remind me of what makes a village.

I'll miss Donald's. But mostly I'll miss visiting with Bussy and Mr. Yax and gazing upon the jewels in those glass cases and wondering about what's next. For all of us.