EAT MORE PIE

November 25, 2018November 26, 2018 / middlesisterkathleen / 2 Comments

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EAT MORE PIE

There was a time in my life when I didn’t eat much meat. I didn’t drink much coffee, either. I rarely ate sweets, and only occasionally did I drink alcohol.

Those were good times; I was happy. This discipline suited me well—then.

When I meet someone who doesn’t consume any or all the above, I understand. It truly is the best thing for some people.

It worked for me then, but not now. I start my day with coffee, no exceptions. Strong, black coffee. Several cups of it. I don’t eat a lot of meat every day, nor do I limit myself if I desire it. I ate a significant amount of turkey this holiday, which I count as meat. Dark meat turkey happens to be my favorite meat. I drank a beer or two each day of the holiday weekend, but that’s not out of the ordinary.

That leaves the sweets. I have had a lifelong see-saw relationship with sweets, an all-or-nothing mentality in the past. Not anymore.

I know from multiple attempts at proving the notion wrong that I do indeed feel better if I don’t indulge in sweets.

But that doesn’t stop me from eating a little bit—not a lot, and not every day. But enough to enjoy them, enough to savor the treat without making myself feel bad.

Pie happens to be one of my favorite sweet treats. Pie also happens to be one of my favorite things to bake.

So, I signed up to bring pies to both family gatherings for Thanksgiving—my husband’s family on Thanksgiving Day, and Gail’s house on Saturday.

I made eight pies: Six pumpkin, and two sweet potato. In honor of my mother, and just like every other pie I have ever made in my life, I made the crusts from scratch. It was a three-hour, Thanksgiving Eve labor of love.

My boys had friends over as I was baking. One of them wasn’t sure there would be his beloved pumpkin pie at their feast, so he went home with the two missing pieces.

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I am fully aware of the discrepancy, the dissonance, the abject disagreement between last week’s post highlighting my niece Lydia’s struggles with Type One Diabetes, and this week’s post singing the praises of pie, and eating more of it. I had already decided upon the topic of gratitude when I found this awesome charm:

It went so well with my Thanksgiving shirt, I knew it was meant to be.

Lydia’s diabetes doesn’t prevent her from eating sugar, but it does require advance carb measuring, strategizing what and how much, prioritizing intake and injecting insulin to compensate for the carbohydrates she decides to consume. To make it as easy as possible for Lydia to enjoy everything else, and, of course, to make myself appear to be a good aunt who doesn’t speak and write out of both sides of her mouth, I made one of the pumpkin pies sugar-free.

My intended moral of the story is this: Don’t deny yourself any desired joy in life if there is some way to make it work. Figure it out, and go for it. You owe it to yourself. It’s Thanksgiving.

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Giving thanks should not limited to one day each year. This holiday, which happens to be my favorite, should serve all of us as an annual check-up to ensure that we are practicing this virtue called gratitude every single day of the year. Just like Lydia doesn’t get a day off from measuring her blood sugar and counting her carbs accordingly, neither should any of us take a day off from measuring our levels of gratitude, and counting all we have to be thankful for. Like Lydia–and every other diabetic, we should do this every day as if our lives depend on it.

Because guess what: your life, if you want to live it to the fullest, does depend on it.

The wheel of gratitude is not always an easy one to grease; I have been there. When you need a gratitude adjustment–as we all have at times–it’s best to start simple.

So, let’s adjust. If you are reading this, you are likely breathing, so start there. And keep going.

*If you have a partner, children or a family you love, they are among the greatest gifts. If you don’t, and you want to, give thanks for the power you have to change that. Look inward, not for external causes.

*If you have a job you love, you are miles ahead of many people. If you don’t like your job, and it pays the bills, you are more fortunate than most people on Earth. All of us have the opportunity to look for a different job.

*Even if you don’t like our current political situation, we do live in the Land of Liberty. If you disagree, you can consider moving to another country. Be thankful for that, too.

There. I got you started. Please keep going.

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I am writing as the Thanksgiving Sunday blizzard moves through, the blizzard that brought us home a day early from Gail’s house, my favorite Thanksgiving destination for my favorite holiday. I chose to be grateful we were able to go, as well as:

*Enjoying the company of not only Gail’s family, but Suzanne’s, too, and part of one brother’s family. Some years we have more, but the skeleton crew was a gift as well. We will see more of them at Christmas. Our children enjoy their cousins, a gift we didn’t get to enjoy as we grew up, as we only had one. My boys taught them how to play 6-point pitch, something they recently learned from hanging out with my husband’s family.

*Safe travels during the 450-mile round trip, with a dependable vehicle to take us there and back.

*My firstborn made it back to campus safely late last night after we returned home early, beating the blizzard—another 60 miles east.

*A cozy escape in a cabin on the shores of the small lake in Gail’s small town: we anticipated an overnight crowd at Gail’s, and reserved space accordingly, so we kept it.

*Warm soup today made from leftover turkey, but more importantly, made by my husband. If you recall from a previous post, I only like to bake, not cook.

*A cozy, warm, private space in my home first and foremost to nap, then to write.

*I am solar-powered, and less daylight brings me down. Only 26 more days until the days get longer!

*As always, my sisters—as well as my entire family.

I could go on, but you get the idea. Take the simple things and make them special, because this is where special lives—right amidst the simplest of everyday gifts that are often overlooked. But first, you must consecrate them with gratitude in order to make them special.

Let us not forget the big things, either. Every day, whatever degree of good health you have, your family, food, clothing and shelter, as well as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness should never be overlooked.

Write them down every day. Start a journal. Putting them on paper with your own handwriting gives you not only awareness, but ownership. Often, this simple act is all it takes to turn the ship around, to make your perceived lack become certain abundance.

It is your choice. You get to decide if you want to see through skinny, little lenses of half-empty, or big, round glasses of half-full.

For the life of me, and all that counts as a blessing, I’m not sure why anyone would choose anything but half—or all the way—full.

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Gail, Suzanne and I took our third annual Thanksgiving photo in Camp Gail, her private, highly personalized, highly decorated space in her home. Along with our two previous Thanksgiving pictures, it will now grace the opening to every Sister Lode post.

We Camped out in her retreat, her private sanctuary for as long as we could before we had to get back to the cooking and the crowd.

As always, we laughed a lot.

And, as always, the sun always comes out again after the blizzard, after every dark day. I gave thanks for that, too.

My husband and son were eager to move snow after the blizzard stopped. For that, I am over-the-top grateful.

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After I woke up from my nap in my private space–both of which I am so thankful for, I ate more pie-both sweet potato and pumpkin.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERY DAY.

A BLUE AND GRAY RIBBON

November 18, 2018 / middlesisterkathleen / 5 Comments

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A BLUE AND GRAY RIBBON

Imagine your immune system as an army, armed and ready to fight off any and all enemies. It is a well-trained, disciplined and dedicated team of soldiers. When an invader, such as a cold or the flu tries to take over, your immune system soldiers mobilize and defeat the enemy.

Most of the time, they do their job quite well. They recognize the enemy and they know the allies in your body as well. They are there to protect and serve them. They do their best, but unfortunately, sometimes we still get sick. Mercifully, most of us bounce back from illness, and our immune system army has been made even stronger having this battle behind them.

Now, imagine that this army has had a mutiny; the soldiers decide to fight for the other team, and an evil and dictatorial military leader has taken over. He is commanding them to attack their own. And they do.

This is what an autoimmune disease does. The immune system sees its own body, its own master, its own homeland as the enemy, so it attacks.

Type One Diabetes is an autoimmune disease, long with a too-long list of other diseases, including:

*rheumatoid arthritis

*multiple sclerosis

*celiac disease

*Lupus

*Psoriasis

*Grave’s Disease

*Scleroderma

*alopecia

*myocarditis

*amyloidosis

*Crohn’s Disease

And the list goes on for far too long.

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When a person has an immune system disorder, the immune system cannot be recruited back, cannot be re-programmed to return to fight in its homeland, for the home team. It must be countered with multiple medical interventions.

And so, the life of a Type One Diabetic must depend upon these interventions. Pictured below is Lydia’s first year of insulin and supplies.

Maybe you knew already, but I didn’t. And I thought I learned a lot in the last year since Gail’s daughter Lydia was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes. But I didn’t know that:

*Type One Diabetes is the second most common chronic illness in children, behind asthma.

*Children are often misdiagnosed with a virus, acid reflux, sinus infection, urinary tract infection or strep throat.

*Type One Diabetes mortality is greatest in infants, toddlers and preschoolers due to lack of diagnosis and dehydration.

*Almost all cases are diagnosed before age 40, with the vast majority before 18.

*By 2050, the incidence in teenagers and children is predicted to triple, with the average age increasing.

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What a difference a year makes. Thirteen months ago, Gail’s daughter Lydia was handed a diagnosis that would forever change her life. Forever. As in, every day for the rest of her life. As in, if she doesn’t monitor her blood sugar and act accordingly, she could die.

She has no choice but to act. She doesn’t get a day off, not even on Thanksgiving Day. So, this Thanksgiving holiday, she will not be able to simply eat whatever she wants and pay the price only in feeling stuffed and sleepy. She will have to plan ahead, by counting the carbohydrates in everything she plans to eat, right down to the creamy sauce in the green bean casserole. While I, and everyone else in our family simply eat whatever we choose—and likely too much of it—she will be monitoring her intake of all those luscious carbohydrates—mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, dinner rolls, pumpkin pie and cake, pecan pie, as well any and all sauces, condiments, snacks and drinks. She will have to pre-empt any blood sugar spikes by injecting herself with insulin before she eats, something she does 4-6 times every day, every day of the year. And she will do it with her sweet smile, as all of us simply eat without thinking about the possible consequences.

“Thanksgiving is coming around and I love to eat all the sweets but let me tell you about my mom’s stuffing–it’s soooooo good! I plan on eating as much as I want, so I will dial up the insulin in my pen, and I will cut back on the sweets so I can eat more potatoes and stuffing.” –Lydia, on anticipating Gail’s locally famous Thanksgiving dressing.

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Because I am a word nerd, and I like to know word origins, I decided to look up the word “stroke.” Having worked with strokes for about 20 years at the time, I wondered why we call it as such.

From several online sources, I gleaned this information: As far back as 500 years ago, when someone had a stroke and they truly had no idea what had happened to that person in just one moment, they decided that person must have been stroked by the hand of God.

Now, 500+ years later, we know more about strokes than we did then—not everything, of course, but we still call it a stroke.

Diabetes: Greek—to siphon. One source reports it was named in the 1560’s by Aretaeus the Cappadocian, a Greek physician. Another states it was named in 1552 by Hesy-Ra, an Egyptian physician. Named as such because of the excess sugar found in blood and urine, as if it has been siphoned. Excess urination is a classic sign of diabetes.

As you can see, I had to know where the word diabetes came from, too.

Gail is a word nerd, too. She told me that she recalls being fascinated by the term islets(pronounced eyelets) of Langerhans in high school anatomy/physiology. They are regions that house the cells in the pancreas that produce insulin, the absent hormone that causes Type One Diabetes. Little did she know that almost 40 years later, her daughter would be lacking these cells, causing her to develop Type One Diabetes.

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In Not Her Type, (February 4th), I wrote about the differences between Type One and Type Two diabetes. If I can reiterate one point I made then, it is this: there is no known method of prevention or cure for Type One.

If I may paint a picture with words, it would be this: imagine having to find a way to pump your own heart, and expand and compress your lungs because they can no longer do it on their own. In Type One Diabetes, the medical interventions are in place to find a way to replace the insulin the pancreas no longer produces, so that the food you eat can be converted to glucose in order to provide the fuel to make your body go. Just like when your car runs out of gas and can no longer go, the body runs out of glucose, which is your fuel. And then, just like your car, you can no longer go.

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November is Diabetes Awareness Month.

Perhaps you are tired of yet another “awareness” campaign, another month dedicated to awareness of yet another disease you don’t have to worry about. I get it. I get how you may feel bombarded by yet another colored ribbon. I’m not here to say you should focus on diabetes awareness above all others. Like every other diagnosis/disease, it is best to know the symptoms, so that you may save your own life or that of someone you love.

In addition, if you already know someone who is affected, it is a gesture of caring and concern to educate yourself about what they are going through with their disease.

Type One Diabetes was formerly called “Juvenile Diabetes,” because it was typically diagnosed in childhood. This is still the case, but not always. A close friend’s brother was diagnosed at age 51 since Lydia’s diagnosis. I can now speak the language with her, because I understand it so much better.

While the exact level of association is widely estimated, there is a genetic link in Type One diabetes. My friend also has a nephew—her brother’s blood relative—who has Type One Diabetes. Unfortunately, their family already spoke the language. To my knowledge, Lydia has no close relatives with Type One Diabetes.

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So, Lydia has Type One Diabetes, but it doesn’t have her.

She fights it every day, measuring her blood sugar, then counting carbs before she eats them, and, finally,

injecting herself with insulin.

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“I feel a thousand times better than I did before I was diagnosed, but when I go to bed at night I wonder how I will feel when I wake up as some mornings I don’t feel great. I try to remedy this feeling at bedtime by eating something with carbs, then protein by helping my blood sugar to remain at a safe level.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I should eat carbs because insulin is so expensive. I dread taking shots to cover the carbs, but I have gotten used to it.”

Most of us only worry about what carbs will look like on our hips, not on our bank account.

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Please enjoy Thanksgiving dinner this week. If you are not diabetic, be sure to give thanks for that gift.

If you have Type One Diabetes, don’t let it have you, and please enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner.

If you are close to someone with Type One Diabetes, let them know you are thankful they are fighting the good fight. They really have no choice, but hearing this from you will be a gift to them.

Stay aware, keep fighting and give thanks. You Can Do It.

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Thank you, Lydia, for raising my awareness. You are a warrior.

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The response to last week’s post, “The Magnificent Seven,” which introduced you to the Greif sisters and their travels, was overwhelming. If you and your sisters have a story to tell–travels or no travels, or if you know an amazing group of sisters who stand out among sisters, please let us know.

LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR SOME

May 27, 2018 / middlesisterkathleen / 6 Comments

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LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR SOME

“And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.”

As a child, I recall hearing and saying this many times: “I can do what I want. It’s a free country.” It was typically in response to some perceived offense, and when confronted, the offending party would often respond with that phrase.

I don’t hear kids—or adults—saying that much anymore. But we should never forget the meaning behind it.

“And I won’t forget the men (and women) who died, who gave that right to me.”

On Saturday of this week, my husband’s family celebrated his father’s 80^th birthday with a large gathering of 50-plus family members. The host led grace just before the meal, followed by the Pledge of Allegiance, then “Happy Birthday” sung to the birthday boy from the crowd. This trifecta was the perfect display of gratitude first for the food, then for the freedom, followed by a family honoring a strong and deserving patriarch.

“And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today.”

After the singing, my father-in-law and the uncles who served our country were asked to stand to be recognized and honored. There were seven . We applauded with our hands and with our hearts.

This will never be enough to let them know how much we appreciate their service, but they don’t expect any more than that. They simply served; they were honored to give.

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Our dad didn’t serve in the military. He was deemed not fit enough due to flat feet. Now, most of his seven children have flat feet, but we might not be here otherwise.

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Memorial Day is a wonderful bonus Monday off for many people, myself included. But, as this Facebook post so painfully illustrates, it goes so much deeper than that. Deeper than the vast majority of us will ever know. Deeper than our worst nightmares can conjure, to a depth that that should always be seared upon our minds, hearts and souls how supremely fortunate we are to live in a free country.

OUR FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.

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Gail, Suzanne and I got to spend the weekend together. Gail traveled the 230 miles to our small city, and we savored this gift of time together in the sisterhood. We are supremely fortunate to have each other, and we know it.

We are celebrating our parents this weekend too, as we do every time we are together. None of us felt the need to visit their graves; we know they are not there. Mom made it clear before they died that we were welcome to visit her plot when she was gone, but we wouldn’t find her there.

And we don’t.

We find both of them in our togetherness, wherever we go.

Our brothers and their families who live on their farms close to our hometown take tender, loving care of their graves there, and for that, we are so grateful. We visit when we are there at other times throughout the year.

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I was a kid during Vietnam. I watched news coverage of the Gulf War and the other foreign conflicts that took place as I grew up, and unfortunately, continue to take place around the world. Often, I simply turn off the news when more coverage is aired. I simply cannot take more bad news of war. I didn’t fully realize the depth of our freedom NOT being free until I watched the horrific events of September 11th, 2001, unfold on live television.

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.” Jimi Hendrix, a famous 1960’s rock musician, is credited with this statement. Online sources list other similar quotes, which may have inspired him. It summarizes what I feel is the answer as well. Ironically, Jimi Hendrix enlisted in the U.S. Army and trained as a paratrooper, and was granted an honorable discharge.

But how to find this peace? What can each of us do, as Average Jane and Joe Citizen, to bring this about? What on earth—literally-can we do to stop the fighting across the world? We all think that, as just one person, our actions–good or bad–cannot possibly make a difference.

These hundreds (thousands?) of years, these scores of generations of violence toward our fellow man in the name of one’s god, one’s country, one’s pain, scorn and oppression cannot easily be turned around. This is the way of life for so many, so many fellow humans who have never known a day of peace. So many who don’t even know there is a better way.

So many, just like ourselves, who think there is nothing, as an individual, that can be done.

Oh, but there is.

There is one beacon, one guiding principle that each of us can put to work every day. The key word is work, because it takes a lot of that. If you have even one iota of self-induced strife in your heart, it has the potential to create a negative ripple, and it can be worked upon. If you think there is nothing you can do to bring peace to the world, think again.

I have written about it before, and I will write about it again. I offer no apologies to anyone who doesn’t want to hear anything remotely related to religion, because this only has to relate to humanity. It comes to you and me as fellow humans, breathing the same air, co-existing on the same earth, from another human being. A man who walked this same earth, breathed this same air from 1181-1226. A man who gave up riches to pursue a life of humility and peace: Saint Francis of Assisi. He is venerated worldwide as the original Instrument of Peace, the man who wrote the prayer.

He is the saint my parents modeled their lives after, leaving us a tremendous legacy, as well as a tough act to follow. Specifically, our mother wrote a letter to be read at her funeral asking us to live our lives by this prayer.

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So, we try. For myself, I stumble and fall, get up and keep trying to try. Some days, that’s the most I can do. Some days I do a little better. But I never stop trying. I can’t. Mom saw to it that we were handed those marching orders, and we saw to it that it was written in stone on the back of their tombstone in their honor.

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I did something recently that didn’t make me feel very good about myself. Something that, in the parlance of my Catholic upbringing was very likely very venial, was still very wrong. And my hyper-developed conscience wouldn’t let me rest until I did something about it. It was more than a white lie, perhaps a shade of light gray. Nothing damning, nothing that would incite violence or crush someone’s soul, but wrong, nonetheless. At the time, it felt like an eye for an eye, but in hindsight, it really was something more like an eye for a toenail clipping.

So, I came clean. I went to the person who would be affected by this transgression, even though it was known only to me. I confessed. I owned up to the infraction, made reparations as best I could, and they forgave with open arms. They asked only to allow them the chance in the future to help to prevent it from happening again. In a turn I wouldn’t have imagined, they were an Instrument of Peace to me.

So, if an offense is committed deep in a forest and no one hears or sees it, did it really happen? Is it really wrong?

Undeniably, unequivocally, YES and YES.

If your little voice tells you that you can make peace by righting a wrong, or even creating a right where no wrong existed, then you’d better listen. That voice is not only your conscience and your voice of reason, it is a much wiser, deeper part of your soul speaking. It is your opportunity be an Instrument of Peace.

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“Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,”

I do love this land. I love the open fields and rolling hills of my home state, and there are so many other parts of this land I want to explore. My away-from-home favorites are the mountains of Colorado and the beaches of Florida, but there are so many more places in these great States I want to visit. I don’t even have a strong desire to travel abroad because there is so much in America I haven’t seen yet. Places open to me and you and everyone else to visit because this is indeed a free country. We are at liberty to travel where we want to go.

For that, and for every other liberty small and large, our military is to thank. The brave men and women who served and those in active duty as well. Those who may never know the liberty they deserve. Those who gave up their liberties so that we may have ours. Words will never be enough to express our gratitude, but it is a start. God bless them, and…

“God Bless the USA.”

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Please observe Memorial Day with gratitude for all the liberties you possess. Please thank any active or former military service man or woman. And, because I know it never goes away, I extend my sympathy to you for anyone you are mourning.

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Thank you for your continued support. My sisters and I are grateful for the opportunity to reach out to each of you through this blog. We want to take our mother’s dying wish and make it work not just for us, but for the world. In the face of conflict, in what appear to be war-torn families and relationships, we are often asked what we do to make it work and to keep it all together. So many people, we have learned, don’t have even a taste of what we have. If we can help you in any way to find it, please let us know. Send an email through the blog, or message any of us privately on Facebook. Please reach out.

OUR FAVORITE GIFTS OF 2017

December 31, 2017January 1, 2018 / middlesisterkathleen / 8 Comments

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OUR FAVORITE GIFTS OF 2017

I usually just say no. I get several requests every year to work privately with children. I am most comfortable with adults, and I feel that another speech therapist would be better suited for helping children.

Given that, I did have the pleasure of working with a fine young boy on his speech sounds for an extended period of time. I said yes to this request, and I am so glad I did.

I went to his home typically once a week after school for a period of several years. He and his family were delightful. I was a guest in their home, but they made me feel at home every time I was there.

Every year at Christmas, I received a handmade Christmas ornament from him. He presented them to me on my last visit before the holiday; and I treasured each of them. I hung them together on my tree, and sent a picture to his mother to show him how great they looked on our tree.

I stopped working with him just over a year ago, not long before Christmas. When I put the tree up this year, I hung each of his three ornaments together. I stepped back and smiled, recalling the fond memories of him and his family.

About a week before Christmas, I stopped by Suzanne’s house. Her home is close to theirs, and as I drove by their street, I recalled more fond memories of him and his family.

When I got home, there was a parcel on my porch. His name was on it. He made another ornament for me.

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There are some rewards to my work that no paycheck can compete with.

Another patient, knowing my dad’s favorite pie was a straight raisin pie—no cream on this one—and that I liked it too, delivered one to me the week before Christmas. His wife made it just for me. It was delicious, and my dad would have loved it.

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And there’s James and Lucy from my Time for Letting Go: Part Two, dated October 29th. How did they know I love clean and fresh candle scents instead of flowery ones? I have told them so much about me, but I am sure I didn’t share this little fact. They just knew.

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Therapists are not allowed to accept large gifts, but our code of ethics allows those of “nominal” value. Monetarily, these could be called “nominal.” However, they are worth far more in a different kind of currency. When I sometimes feel I am making no difference, not helping these people at all, I simply remember their appreciation expressed through gifts like these. And then I remember why I continue to do this work.

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Gail, Suzanne and I have an annual Christmas tradition. We give each other gifts. Of course, this sounds like garden variety gift-giving. But these are no regular gifts. These are gifts we shop for year-round, gifts we accumulate slowly, methodically, purposefully. We buy them new in cool stores, used at garage sales, find the hard-to-find ones on eBay, troll the thrift stores year-round (Suzanne and I do, anyway), and special order them when we need to. These gifts—and there are multiple ones for each of us—are, quite simply, the best.

During our family Christmas get-together, we sneak away for our private exchange when we think no one is looking. Except they’re on to us by now, and when we slip away, someone always finds us.

Busted again! We thought perhaps in Ryan’s house, they wouldn’t know where to look, but they did. The sisters-in-law have now vowed—in good-natured ribbing– to start their own secret gift exchange, and we hope they do, because it is so much fun.

These gifts are special, solemn and secret. It would not be right to showcase them, but perhaps the picture gives you a small inkling. We seem to know exactly what each of us needs to get in a special package from their two special sisters.

Because Suzanne is a minimalist, and because laughter is a gift too, she chose to receive her largest gift from me as a ticket to a night together, complete with much laughter.

There is a small, art-deco style theater in the beautiful downtown of our small city. A very funny lady with a great first name—Kathleen Madigan—performed there in November, so Suzanne was my date. The memories of her humor and our laughter made that gift priceless to me, and I hope Suzanne felt the same way.

Gail and I always find treasures in Cripple Creek at Christine’s place, 9494. I had found yet another one there on our trip in September, and I resisted the temptation—initially. I told myself if it was still there the next day that it was mine. We went back, and it was gone. “Then it wasn’t meant to be,” I thought, and assumed it had found a more deserving home.

It showed up in my gift package from Gail.

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Suzanne’s daughter gave her a gift that brought back great memories of her childhood, a retro-style toy that was recently resurrected, and Julia found her mother’s favorite one, which was Suzanne’s favorite tangible gift:

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Suzanne was an exceptionally cute little girl. Of course, she is still cute, but not like she was when we were kids. She treasures a certain picture of both of us, one where she looks cute as a button, and I look, well, not cute. She delights in showing this picture to her new co-workers, because I already knew many of them. She wanted me to have an enlarged print. She wanted to keep the frame subtle, she said, so as not to take the focus off of the subjects of the picture. It now sits on my bedside table.

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(Please realize the enormous amount of self-acceptance required for me to post this picture for the world to see.)

There is a certain person who delights in reminding me just how not cute I look in this picture. He even has the audacity to suggest that, perhaps, my pre-adolescent female hormones were late to arrive. He knows who he is, and I have but one cryptic word for him: karma.

Mercifully, my fashion sense has evolved, the gap between my teeth grew shut, I shed the pre-adolescent weight, and I got a more flattering haircut.

********

But all these things are just things.

The greatest gifts are not things. The greatest gifts cannot be bought or touched. They are experienced.

We celebrated Christmas with our siblings and their families, and we celebrated Ryan’s birthday too, just as we always do.

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Our day at his house together was wrapped up at its close with another beautiful Kansas sunset, its vast expanse visible out his front door.

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Because I couldn’t decide if the earlier picture or the later one was more beautiful, I included both of them.

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Gail and her family left Ryan’s house in the pre-dawn hours and headed north to visit Gail’s daughter and her family in northern Michigan. After a semi-treacherous period of 20 hours, five more than it should have taken, they arrived.

Gail’s greatest gift she says—hands down—was time with her daughter, and her grandsons.

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The ornaments, the pie, candle and necklace, and all the other gifts were absolutely wonderful. I am very grateful to each of their givers for their thoughtfulness and generosity.

The biggest and best gifts, however, cannot be wrapped and given away, cannot be bought or made. The Giver gives, and too often, we take, without saying thank you.

For these gifts bestowed upon me in 2017, I want to give thanks:

*Always, for my sisters.

*Suzanne now lives and works in my small city, much closer to me.

*More travels with my sisters. Whether it be Colorado, Florida, Nebraska or somewhere in Kansas, I relish the memories and look forward to making more.

*The unique celebration of sisterhood through this blog.

*Another year, another birthday to relish, because age is a gift. I welcomed 51, Gail celebrated 57, and Suzanne is proud to be 47. We don’t hide our ages, because we know the gift of every year, of every day, every moment.

*For you, dear reader. You gave me the faith to keep this endeavor afloat after its maiden voyage. You made me believe I really can do it.

*Work that continues to sustain and support me.

*Good health: my work reminds me every day that it is a gift not granted, a gift to be savored and enjoyed every day.

*My ability to communicate in spoken and written form. My work also reminds me daily of this gift, the gift that allows us to connect with others and be fully alive through it.

*Our continued constitutional rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. These may be legal rights, but more importantly, they are all three gifts from God.

*My family. Another addition extended the circle of love.

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********

Because my patients also found the humor in these, I want to share two misspoken New Year’s greetings from two different women who had strokes, and had difficulty choosing the right words. It was New Year’s Eve day during their therapy sessions three years and one year ago respectively, and after multiple attempts, these two greetings are what they called good enough:

“Happy Two Beers!”

“Happy Near You!”

*********

Happy 2018 to all of you. May every moment of this new year be a gift.

GIVE THANKS

November 26, 2017November 27, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / 3 Comments

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THANK YOU

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is ‘thank you,’ that will be enough.” Meister Eckhart

Our country celebrated my favorite holiday last week. I celebrated with my husband’s family on Thursday, and my family on Saturday. I try to celebrate it alone every day. I try to find small and large things to be grateful for. Some days, I know I don’t try hard enough. When I give it my best, I get the best in return.

I find more peace. More joy. More awareness of so many more things I need to be grateful for. More awareness of how rich life can be when I focus on the good.

I am now grateful for things that used to drag me down. Like the seemingly endless stretch of Interstate 70 that leads to Gail’s house:

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I drove this hundred mile stretch several hundred times on my way from my current small city to an even smaller city during my graduate school days:

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If I try just a little harder, I can find so many beautiful sights along the way to be thankful for. Out of respect for Gail and Suzanne’s love of the wind, I have come to appreciate–only a little more– the reason why Kansas has so many of these:

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An hour past my alma mater town, this gem on the plains is the hometown of both of my in-laws. They were married in this church that stands as a tall beacon on the prairie skyline, and all four of my husband’s grandparents were laid to rest behind the church. A dear friend’s parents are buried there as well. In an unlikely coincidence, my mom’s father was born there at home, but didn’t live there long as a child.

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As I age, I am more thankful that I was born and raised a Kansas farm girl. While my family trusted only the red tractors, combines and other machinery, the green ones are fixtures on the Kansas plains. My husband’s brother-in-law recently retired from a long and storied career with the green tractor company, so I have to respect them too. Only if you were raised on a farm would you understand the ongoing debate/argument over which tractor is better: red or green? Either one will adequately harvest the current corn crop, which, in the last 10 years, is becoming a bigger cash crop in Kansas.

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So, just when I think I can no longer tolerate the monotony of the flat western Kansas landscape, the road to Gail’s house takes a surprise twist: hills!

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Then, about ten minutes later, we have arrived. Over the plains and through the hills, to Gail’s house we go. 24058991_1925613150786933_3385765566210426815_n[1]

Gail and Suzanne are busy cooking; Suzanne and her family arrived last night.

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Anyone in the kitchen is expected to lend a hand.

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This is Gail’s time to shine, it is the pinnacle of the year–in family terms–for her. I think that’s why it’s my favorite too. Three of our four brothers, their wives and most of their offspring were there as well. If Gail is in charge, it’s gonna be good.

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And it was.

******************************

Our new tradition is to take a picture in Camp Gail, just like we did last year.

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After duplicating that picture, we decided to try to duplicate this one, with a slight modification to reflect the fact that we are all fifteen years older than when this picture was taken:

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It didn’t turn out so well:

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Still, we tried. And we will keep on trying to have all the fun we possibly can. I am so thankful for that.

*************************

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I have long been thankful for Kansas sunsets, perhaps the most recognized natural wonder of The Wheat State.

Happy Thanksgiving every day from the three Kansas wheat farm girls of the Sister Lode.

LOADS OF SISTERS

November 25, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / Leave a comment

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LOADS OF SISTERS

Sisterhood at its finest is what I aim to celebrate with each blog post. Typically, this means I write about my sisters, but sometimes we need to share the spotlight with other sisters.

This week, I have done just that.

Gail, Suzanne and I met Friday for Mildred’s funeral. Mildred, like a handful of other caring, thoughtful and loving matriarchs, opened her heart, home and holidays to us in our time of need.

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Gail’s mother-in-law lived fully, loved even more deeply, and left an incredible legacy of peace, positivity and optimism to her entire family. On a beautiful November day with full sun, near record-high temperatures and—much to Gail and Suzanne’s chagrin—absolutely no wind, Mildred was memorialized in this small town where Gail, Suzanne and I were born.

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Mom and Dad lived there from 2000 until they died in 2008. Both Gail and Suzanne had lived there as well. Tana and Amy (Swheat Girls Part Two, dated July 9th) were born there, and spent their early childhood years there, too.

The service left only a few dry eyes in the church, and the burial concluded with this spectacular sight:

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We all returned to the church, and enjoyed the unparalleled cuisine of a small-town church potluck lunch, complete with homemade desserts. Gathering outdoors in the beautiful weather became the obvious order for the rest of the day.

Gail’s three daughters hadn’t been together for some time. They, too, celebrated their sisterhood today:

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Lisa (right), who also married into the family, celebrated with her sister today too.

Mildred’s daughters, who weren’t old enough to lose their mother—no one ever is, if you recall from last week, are now the matriarchs of the family. My heart breaks for them.

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When Mildred was just ten years old, her world was effectively rocked by the arrival of—surprise—twin sisters. She was an only child until then. Mary, Martha and Mildred became perhaps as close as Gail, Suzanne and me. They traveled, had fun, bent the rules, laughed, spread joy, and drew even closer as Mildred neared the end of her life.

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Besides Gail’s three daughters, Mildred’s other granddaughters are left to help their mothers carry on her legacy.

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Even the great-nieces will carry Mildred’s memory forward.

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Mildred’s family didn’t let the beautiful November weather pass them by.

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The window pictured in that small gap in the trees in the center of the above picture is the house my parents lived in, just across the street and across an open lot. Mildred, Mom and Dad couldn’t have asked for better neighbors in each other.

****************

Suzanne and I were chauffeured to Osborne by my husband. We savored the beautiful Kansas landscape along the way, with next year’s wheat crop just getting its start.

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We stopped in Lucas to partake of the sights, and to procure some of the locally famous bologna and cheese from Brant’s Meat Market.

In operation since 1922, Doug Brant is handing the reigns to his daughter carry this family legacy forward as one of the few remaining authentic meat counters in Kansas. Our dad was one of his regulars, and Dad’s local conversational legacy is still alive and well at Brant’s. He remembers Dad, and he remembers us. We remember how good his homemade treats are.

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No trip to Lucas is complete without a stop at Bowl Plaza, voted second best restroom in the world on World Toilet Day in 2014.

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The contest was sponsored by the United Nations and Cintas to increase awareness of worldwide sanitation. This free, public restroom has been recognized for its uniqueness and flair.

For me, it provides a welcome rest stop on my travels in this direction, but more importantly, it validates my favorite expression of art: mosaic art with all degrees of randomness included.

Life is often random, so art like this makes perfect sense to me.

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Next time, I swear I will make time to stop at the other world-famous attraction there: J.P. Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden.

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**************************

The holidays officially begin this week. I know from heart-wrenching experience that this can be the hardest time of year for the newly grieving.

If it is your first year without a loved one, please consider this perspective: Although the pain never fully goes away, this first year is a blueprint. We have no idea what to expect on the first round of birthdays, holidays and anniversaries, but when we survive the first year of all those special days, we can say I made it. I will make it again. We now have a foundation of what to expect in future years, and while each year is different in its own right, each year you move forward makes you another year stronger.

I am celebrating Thanksgiving Day with my husband’s family, and then we will spend the weekend at Gail’s for her much-anticipated annual Turkey Party. It is a large part of the reason why I love Thanksgiving so much. Our signature picture at the beginning of each post was taken in Camp Gail last year on Thanksgiving weekend, and I plan to take another one this year.

My favorite holiday is almost upon us, and after nine years, I can say I no longer dread holidays. I welcome them, and savor the memories from so many blessed years with my parents. I still miss them, though.

If you are missing a loved one, I wish you this peace I now feel.

If your family struggles to find harmony on holidays, I wish you peace as well. Consider, if possible, seeing your family through their eyes for just a moment, or just for the day.

Give thanks. Be grateful. Express gratitude for the little things, as well as the big things. Because the little things, as you already know, are what the big things are made of.

**********************************

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In loving memory of Mildred. I am thankful I had the privilege of getting to know her. She left an incredible legacy of love for all of us to carry forward. May her family feel peace at their Thanksgiving table, and every day.

*****************************

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Any woman who was a sister to another woman posed for this impromptu picture.

Gail with her family.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

LOADS OF SISTERS

November 19, 2017November 25, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / 2 Comments

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LOADS OF SISTERS

Sisterhood at its finest is what I aim to celebrate with each blog post. Typically, this means I write about my sisters, but sometimes we need to share the spotlight with other sisters.

This week, I have done just that.

Gail, Suzanne and I met Friday for Mildred’s funeral. Mildred, like a handful of other caring, thoughtful and loving matriarchs, opened her heart, home and holidays to us in our time of need.

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The service left only a few dry eyes in the church, and the burial concluded with this spectacular sight:

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Gail’s three daughters hadn’t been together for some time. They, too, celebrated their sisterhood today:

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Lisa (right), who also married into the family, celebrated with her sister today too.

Mildred’s daughters, who weren’t old enough to lose their mother—no one ever is, if you recall from last week, are now the matriarchs of the family. My heart breaks for them.

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Besides Gail’s three daughters, Mildred’s other granddaughters are left to help their mothers carry on her legacy.

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Even the great-nieces will carry Mildred’s memory forward.

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Mildred’s family didn’t let the beautiful November weather pass them by.

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****************

Suzanne and I were chauffeured to Osborne by my husband. We savored the beautiful Kansas landscape along the way, with next year’s wheat crop just getting its start.

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We stopped in Lucas to partake of the sights, and to procure some of the locally famous bologna and cheese from Brant’s Meat Market.

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No trip to Lucas is complete without a stop at Bowl Plaza, voted second best restroom in the world on World Toilet Day in 2014.

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The contest was sponsored by the United Nations and Cintas to increase awareness of worldwide sanitation. This free, public restroom has been recognized for its uniqueness and flair.

For me, it provides a welcome rest stop on my travels in this direction, but more importantly, it validates my favorite expression of art: mosaic art with all degrees of randomness included.

Life is often random, so art like this makes perfect sense to me.

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Next time, I swear I will make time to stop at the other world-famous attraction there: J.P. Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden.

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**************************

The holidays officially begin this week. I know from heart-wrenching experience that this can be the hardest time of year for the newly grieving.

If you are missing a loved one, I wish you this peace I now feel.

If your family struggles to find harmony on holidays, I wish you peace as well. Consider, if possible, seeing your family through their eyes for just a moment, or just for the day.

Give thanks. Be grateful. Express gratitude for the little things, as well as the big things. Because the little things, as you already know, are what the big things are made of.

**********************************

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*****************************

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Any woman who was a sister to another woman posed for this impromptu picture.

Gail with her family.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

THREE PAIR OF GLOVES

November 12, 2017November 12, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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THREE PAIR OF GLOVES

The words “Thank you for your service” seem to be the best we have to thank our service men and women. It’s what I say when I see one in uniform and I reach out to speak to this stranger. It’s meaningful, and it is always appreciated.

It’s also what I say to the veterans I know when I want to express my gratitude for what they have done for me, for you and for our country.

If I dug a little deeper, put a little more heart in it, I might find something like this:

“There are no words strong enough to express my gratitude for the sacrifices you have made. I want you to know how much I appreciate your service.”

I have one veteran in my family. My father-in-law Marvin served in the Korean War. I called him yesterday to offer my gratitude on Veteran’s Day.

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I sent an unspoken thank you to all the others.

Just like Thanksgiving Day, we should make Veteran’s Day every day. We should go out of our way to thank them. Be it for their service, or any other gifts from any other giver, we can never express gratitude too much.

The words “I am sorry for your loss” seem to be the best we have to express sympathy. I say it to some people, but now that I have been on the receiving end, I try to dig a little deeper.

In the 150-plus cards I received after my parents died, there were three friends who sent cards—not even close friends—who wrote these words of gold I will never forget, and words of gold I now use: “My heart breaks for you.”

I cannot find words that go any deeper in my heart.

If it is a parent of a friend or loved one, I also offer this:

“We are never old enough to lose our Mom/Dad,” because we aren’t.

Our dad escaped the draft because of his flat feet. Now, several of his seven children—including myself—have flat feet. I don’t complain; I may not be here without them. He was never outfitted in a military uniform, but he did wear another uniform for very special occasions. The gloves were part of the uniform, and if not for a third pair of gloves, I may not be here either.

*******************

I wrote the following piece earlier this year.

I will never forget the gloves. I gave them to Mom as she sat under the green tent at her mother’s funeral. It was a cold, but bearable early March day in Wichita, Kansas. I was standing behind her, and I noticed she had her hands clasped tight in her lap. I wanted her to have them; she was burying her mother and I wanted to comfort her in whatever small way I could. So I gave her my gloves. Her hands were in mine, so to speak.

I wore those gloves five days later as I stood under another green tent—it’s always green–to bury my father and my own mother, the woman who, just five days earlier had these same gloves wrapped around her living hands as she buried her mother. I held the hand of one brother and one sister; we held on to each other literally and figuratively in order to get through.

I retired the black leather gloves soon thereafter. I panicked for a moment when I thought I had lost one of them, but it showed up. I tucked them away in my bottom dresser drawer alongside other keepsakes.

My father was a Fourth-Degree Knight in the Knights of Columbus, a Catholic fraternal organization. They were knighted and outfitted in a regal, caped tuxedo with a plumed hat fit for a prince, a red-white-and-blue band that stretched from shoulder to the other side of the waist and a sword in a sheath on the opposite side of the waist. The final touch was a pair of thin, bright-white gloves.

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The Fourth-Degree Knights would stand in full regalia in a majestic honor guard fit for a king when one of their own died. Knights from nearby towns would come if they were available. It was a solemn duty; one to be fulfilled if at all possible.

I remember my dad donning his tuxedo and all the extras. As a child, it seemed mysterious when he would leave the house for a funeral fully garbed, but as I grew up, I saw the majesty.

I didn’t realize it until his own funeral, but apparently, he was the one who would cajole and beg other Knights to find a way to travel far and near to stand guard for one of their own. One of the other Knights told me this, and took it upon himself to assume his powers of persuasion, and assemble a sizeable group for my dad’s funeral, since he did it for everyone else.

And it was sizeable. He had a salute fitting for the earthly, humble king he was. The Knight and his dame of 50 years got a special salute—women don’t normally get the honor guard treatment.

Along with other precious possessions, we were left with his tuxedo and accoutrements. We turned in the tux, the sword and the hat in order for some other Knight to use it. My brother was going to take the gloves and band and turn them in as well, but I stopped him.

Do we have to give those away, or can I keep them?” I asked.

“No, they are his, we can do whatever we want with them,” he said.

So I kept them. They are sitting in the bottom drawer, next to my black leather gloves that Mom wore. They are sealed in a thin plastic bag, apparently they had just been professionally cleaned. I kept the band too. It bears the insignia of the Knights of Columbus.

I plan to let them rest there.

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I started writing this after I found a little ditty I had already written about my gloves some time ago. I felt like writing more, so I sat down and let it flow. Not knowing what was coming, or what I would eventually do with it, I just kept writing. It felt good. The part about Dad’s gloves came to mind, and it seemed fitting to add that to the story.

I sent the first part to my older sister, ending just after describing Dad’s gloves. She is my sounding board, my cheerleader, my positive and constructive critic. What she replied back with took my breath away for a moment.

I had forgotten the story about Mom’s gloves.

****************************

My parents met on a blind date. They lived three hours apart; Mom in the city and Dad on the farm. They wrote letters to fill the hungry gaps of time when they didn’t get to see each other as often as they wanted to.

This was 1955, and long-distance telephone charges applied. So letters it was.

Mom saved hers, and Dad saved his. When they married, they combined them in a box. When they died, we got the box. I couldn’t bear to read any of them early on, and my sister took the box.

“Don’t you remember the story about the gloves?” she asked when she replied with immediate feedback. “In one of the letters, after one of their first dates, Mom said she left her gloves in Dad’s car on purpose so he would have to get in touch with her again.”

Without those gloves, I may not be here.

I knew I needed to honor my gloves that Mom wore. I knew after I almost lost one of them that I needed to keep my black leather gloves in a safe and special place, and then place Dad’s white gloves next to them.

I wish I had Mom’s pair of gloves from their date.

I wish I could offer my gloves to my mom again.

I wish I could see my dad in his Fourth-Degree Knight regalia again, gloves and all.

I wish I could hold both their hands right now.

I wish the damn cemetery tent could be orange or maybe even yellow sometimes. Perhaps a little twist with a paisley print or maybe some tie-dye would brighten things up a little.

*******************************

First, Dad wasn’t drafted. That kept him here to meet Mom. Next, the gloves. Finally, to complete the trifecta that fate perhaps orchestrated, I must tell another story, just like the one about the gloves, one I recently learned from Gail.

Mom and Dad met on a blind date. This I knew. What I didn’t know was that Dad was not the first choice in this fateful match.

We’ll call him Fred. Fred was the man my uncle had lined up to meet my mom, but Fred apparently had too much fun the night before. By the time the scheduled date came around, Fred was in no shape to meet my mom. My uncle rounded Dad up as a fill-in at the last moment, and the rest, well, you know.

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I am so thankful for the series of events that allowed me and my siblings to be born.

I am so thankful for the service of all veterans that continues to allow me to live freely in the United States of America.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE.

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I wish you the peace I feel now over nine years later, knowing their hands are guiding me along my path every day, in every way. Hands that no longer need gloves.

I wish our veterans peace every day, peace of mind to continue to live their lives to the fullest, despite the sometimes unimaginable pain and suffering they have seen as part of their service.

MY HEART BREAKS FOR YOU.

*******************

Gail’s beloved mother-in-law Mildred passed away peacefully on Tuesday with her family at her side. She was an incredible woman whose smile will never be forgotten. She became the Thanksgiving Matriarch for my family at Gail’s when Mom was gone.

Mildred is pictured below with Gail’s daughter Lydia on her birthday 3 years ago. 23167612_10210881722382522_2588106536783792728_n[1]

She will be missed, because we are never old enough to lose our mothers.

My heart breaks for her family.

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Recall that my plan was to dress as Rosie the Riveter at Halloween. Because this blog is dedicated to optimism, Rosie will be my final image and thought:

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WE CAN DO IT!

EVERY DAY SHOULD BE THANKSGIVING DAY

September 17, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / Leave a comment

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EVERY DAY SHOULD BE THANKSGIVING DAY

Just like my parent’s generation remembers where they were and what they were doing when they heard the heartbreaking news about John F. Kennedy’s assassination, mine remembers the day our country came under attack: 9/11/2001.

I was holding a sick baby, glued to the TV all day, staring in disbelief.

The sixteenth anniversary of that dreadful day passed last week, the same day our country came under attack from Mother Nature with Hurricane Irma. I was glued to The Weather Channel all weekend, staring in disbelief at my beloved St. Pete Beach, and all of Florida as it was battered by wind, rain and the fury of nature.

My heart broke for everyone in her path. But this wasn’t helping them or me, not one little bit.

I feel heartbreak as a routine part of my work. People whose lives have been devastated by a stroke, head injury, progressive neurological disease or a myriad of other illnesses present themselves for my attempts at remediation of their communication and/or swallow abilities.

Most days I can make a small difference, but most days I want to make more of a difference for them. Most days I cannot heal, I simply offer a new way.

Sometimes, at the end of the day, I think I can’t take this anymore.

But then I remember something I read in a book by one of my mother’s favorite authors: I can’t take on enough sadness to make someone else happy, nor can I take on someone else’s illness in order to make them well. The best I can do is do the best with what I have, and practice gratitude for all I do have.

Even if this regular practice of gratitude does make me feel guilty for all I do have, while remembering those whose lives are being torn asunder by an illness or injury, a hurricane, or the ongoing loss felt from all those affected by the senseless attacks of 9/11—I have to keep feeling it.

And so I try. Every day. Some days it is easier than others. Some days, I really have to dig deep.

It’s always there, though. Always.

I recently read a book that challenged the reader to write down three things every day they are thankful for. Three different things every day; no repeats.

The biggies—health, family, faith, freedom, food, shelter and clothing are the easy ones. I used those up in the first few days. The hard ones are the ones that take longer to get on paper. Sometimes, I have to sit and think for quite some time before I can find something new.

It is typically something easily overlooked, something like the beautiful orange-pink glow of the sunrise.

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A luscious, tasty watermelon from the bounty of our neighbor’s garden–as well as their generosity.

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From earlier this summer: the reflection of the water in our above-ground pool on the porch roof. Getting a hand-written note in the mail. Beautiful ground fog in the morning. My boys enjoying an evening frog hunting.

These little things, when focused upon, become larger. Larger, and more worthy of gratitude.

Sometimes, however, I have to turn it upside down to see the positive side in order to be thankful: Electricity, as we sat for three hours without it. Good dental care as I dreaded my six-month cleaning that afternoon. Surviving a bad Monday. No headlines in our daily paper about North Korea–no news is good news. Realizing the reason a colleague irritated me was because I despise that too-frequent behavior in myself.

After a few months of making a point to recognize these small gifts worthy of gratitude, it started to grow on me, just like the author said it would. I started to try harder to find the positive in what I typically considered negative.

I felt—do I dare say it—a little bit happier (just like the author said I would). I realized I didn’t have to see something as negative if I didn’t want to. Turning many thoughts upside down proved to be a good thing.

I felt empowered.

So, of course I wanted to share this good thing, this new view. I asked Gail and Suzanne to try it for one day, just for this blog. They each had to come up with three things that they don’t normally give thanks for.

Suzanne quickly came up with this: she hasn’t taken it off since she got it in Florida.

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And, as a fellow lover of puzzles, she and I worked on this one last night. Dad made two of these puzzle boards for Mom, and Suzanne and I are both thankful to have one. Gail is not a puzzler like we are.

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She can complete a 1,000 piece puzzle in a day if she sets her mind to it, and she is grateful for this hobby that provides her with countless hours of enjoyment.

The third one was easy for her to come up with, but it is also something Gail is grateful for, and wanted to use as well. It is something I despise. It will wait until after Gail’s other two.

For over seven years, Gail was the owner and sole proprietor of a Daylight Donuts franchise in her small western Kansas town. The bobblehead below reminds her to be grateful for all the friendships this created–her shop was the a.m. social hub in this small town.

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When she closed those doors, the woman in the picture below opened another door for her, and she will be forever grateful to her. It was time to move on, and April gave her the opportunity to manage her chiropractic office. Their children were both members of the homecoming court on Friday.

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The third one for both of them sets them apart from me, and makes me wonder just how they can both so enjoy and be grateful for something I loathe, something I gladly leave far behind me in one of my special places when I travel there. In fact, one of my favorite things about Colorado is the relative lack of it: wind.

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They both love wind. The windier the better. They both got their wish two days ago. Gail has thought about changing her name to Gail Force Wind.

I can say this because they are my sisters: they are crazy.

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Because the title picture for my blog was taken during our Thanksgiving weekend celebration last year, it needed an encore presentation today. It is taken in Camp Gail, a very special place in her home that will be covered in a future post.

Gail is our Thanksgiving hostess every year, and she does it up right. It was my favorite holiday before she started the tradition, but her soiree enhances it.

I like the fact that there are no commercial expectations for Thanksgiving, just family, food and gratitude.

I am separating the idea of a holiday from a holy day, as I look at them differently. Christmas is my favorite holy day, but I don’t like the commercialized, societal aspect of Christmas. I prefer to keep it a holy day, and let the holiday buzz go on without me. Thanksgiving, however, is a holy holiday for me. It is all about gratitude—and good food with my family.

Today, I am thankful for you, my blog readers. My day so far hasn’t been among my best. When I finish this post, I am going to turn a few things upside down to find two more.

I am challenging you to start this daily practice as well, and sit back and see if maybe your life doesn’t become a little bit happier too.

Thank you, and Happy Thanksgiving—every day.

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Dedicated to the victims of the recent hurricanes, the ongoing grieving from 9/11 and my patients, all who fight their battles every day of their lives. May you be filled with new hope for new and more frequent Thanksgivings.

Special thanks to my husband Mark, who suggested this post.

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EVERY DAY SHOULD BE THANKSGIVING DAY

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