Happy Birthday Kansas! Today, you are 162 years old, having become a state in 1861. And, there is no place quite like you, no sunsets and sunrises quite like yours, no rolling hills like yours. Most importantly, there are no people like yours.

“Ad Astra Per Aspera.” “To the stars through difficulties. This is the motto of your people, and we don’t disappoint. The Kansas farmer feeds the nation, and we know how this works. Gail, Suzanne and I are farm girls, and we know how farmers make it through difficulties to keep going. We learned from our parents, from each other and our brothers, our schools, our community and our state.

As adults, we continue to learn this from each other, but perhaps more importantly, we also continue to learn how to reach for the stars, and how to celebrate when we arrive there.

I had grand plans to make my second annual Kansas Day tour with my husband, but it was not meant to be this weekend. It worked last year ( There’s No Place Like Kansas, January 30th, 2022), and it will work again soon. The weather is bitter cold today, but it is warm inside. Inside where Gail, Suzanne and I gathered briefly at my home when Gail was passing through our small city.

We take every opportunity to gather, even if it is for a brief visit. Today was no different. In honor of Kansas Day, we took a group picture, but it appears Suzanne didn’t get the memo, instead sporting a Colorado shirt. We will let her off the hook. Especially since she never fails to notice my Kansas Day “costume.”

In honor of our magnificent state and its birthday, I am offering a montage of pictures of us enjoying the wonder of Kansas from previous posts.

Little Jerusalem State Park in Logan County

The backyard of Gail’s/Lola’s home in Atwood

Konza Prairie Trail in Riley County

Somewhere in rural Rawlins County in the wee hours as Gail celebrates her birthday in grand style

The bike shop in OsborneTrixie and Lucille are their faithful bicycles

Suzanne and her husband Steve preparing for a journey through Kansas

My front porch

Classic big hair/big dress for Easter in the 80’s on our family farm

Gail soaking up the Kansas sun on her back patio

Sunflower season near my home

Bennington State Lake

Easter on our family farm, Osborne County

Bundling up for a winter outing on the farm

Meeting in Colby to head to Colorado, Thomas County

Suzanne and me wallowing in the mud with our little brother on the farm after a Kansas summer rain

My backyard during my favorite season in Kansas

I’s born in Osborne. So were Gail and Suzanne

My driveway

The famous bathroom in Lucas, Russell County

Gail’s back patio

Saline County fair

Swheat girls, our family farm in Osborne County

Again, Suzanne, that’s a great shirt from another great state, but we are celebrating Kansas here…and that Nebraska shirt in the Sunflower picture? We’ll talk.


Be sure to tune in next week for the second annual “Spell-it Sisters Spelling Bee edition. Once again, win or lose, we guarantee we will hold you spellbound.


Today is January 22nd. One month ago today on December 22nd, I posted that the sisters of The Sister Lode would be celebrating a late Christmas with our brothers. It would have been our mother’s birthday, and we felt it was the perfect date to gather. It was not meant to be.

Old Man Winter and Mother Nature conspired against us to make travel difficult for Gail yesterday, and possibly for our brothers today, which was predicted several days ahead, so we decided to call it off just to be safe. We will keep trying, as Christmas can–and should–be celebrated throughout the year.

The snow flew all day yesterday, and this morning, we woke up to a beautiful winter wonderland. As the afternoon goes on, the snow continues to melt, and will soon be gone.

While I much prefer 100-degree temperatures to bask in the sunshine, this morning’s weather is my favorite for my daily run/walk–if there is no wind. I loathe the wind as much as Gail and Suzanne love it, and it was very mild from the west this morning.

Gail lives in western Kansas, and they typically have much more snow there than we do in central Kansas. These are pictures from her yard today, where she estimates they had about 9 inches of snow.


Our mom would have been 86 years old today. This day, as well as Dad’s birthday at the end of March, has become sweet-bitter, instead of bittersweet. Time may not heal all wounds, but it gives us the opportunity to gain strength, and to find new ways to celebrate their lives, instead of mourning their deaths.


Just like after a snowstorm, there is beauty after loss. The sun always comes up again after a dark day and night, and the snow begins to melt away. The cold and dark never last, and we are given warmth and sunshine again. In life, we are given the opportunity every day to make it a brighter day and to find the beauty, but we have to do the work.

It is sunny and 33 degrees now, and there is a mild 5 mph wind from the west. The snow is melting, and I might just lace up and go for a short walk. I know there is beauty out there I am not seeing from inside the window, and a walk would make it a brighter day.

Happy Heavenly birthday, Mom. It is indeed a bright day.

Mom didn’t like to be photographed, but I don’t think she minds now if I share these. She loved sunflowers and cardinals, though, and we loved to celebrate her birthday when she was here. This is one of her last birthdays.


In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”–Albert Camus


Today is Thursday, December 22nd, 2022. 12/22/22. “22” is my lucky number, so this day of the month is always one of my favorite.

Yesterday was December 21st (obviously). Yesterday was also the winter solstice, the day of the year with the least light, and the most dark. After the summer solstice on (about) June 21st, the days leading up to it shorten incrementally every day, and I do not fail to notice the absence of light as the daylight continues to wane.

My spirit wanes with it.

I have a small legion of friends who are acutely attuned to it as well. We celebrate the light, and bemoan the dark. I say “friends” because even though my sisters are my dearest friends, I am not referring to them. Suzanne prefers the dark (weirdo). Gail, in her usual fashion, loves each and every day, no matter the minutes of daylight, the amount of sunshine, the weather conditions, or the reading on her own personal barometer. She knows not a dark day, or a long night–mostly because she hardly sleeps, but I digress.

I bemoan the dark and celebrate the light, and I wish I could celebrate both. But, since I know there is likely a majority of readers who actually (like me) prefer more daylight, I am speaking to you.

This is the season of light. Christmas lights, Hanukkah lights, light from one person to another in the form of holiday cheer, and the reason for Christmas, the Light of the World.

Light keeps hope alive, just like the Star of Bethlehem did over two thousand years ago.


This morning, on the 22nd, in the frigid minus-30-something wind chill, I opted to stay inside and use the “dreadmill.” My outdoor morning run/walk jumps starts me almost every morning, but it was not meant to be today. I made it for 22 minutes and burned 222 calories. I took those auspicious numbers as a sign to call it good enough.

One month from today, Gail, Suzanne and I, along with our brothers, will gather to celebrate our family Christmas a bit late. We decided the Christmas season was already too busy, so we will celebrate it on what would have been our mother’s 86th birthday–January 22nd. That’s why my lucky number is #22.


If you know Gail and Suzanne, then you know they both shine their lights in their own unique ways, every day of the year. Gail, in her usual over-the-top but ever-so-awesome way, has once again organized a celebration for her small western Kansas town to heighten their Christmas joy.

Modeled after the “Georgetown Santas” in the small city Suzanne and I live in, she began this tradition three years ago: Gail, along with 14 other residents on those two blocks on a hill, and Elm Street, at the bottom of the hill, become the “Santas of South Sixth,” and the “Elves of Elm Street.” They all prepare treats–candy, snacks, small toys such as Hot Wheels and Play-Doh for the community’s young, as well as adult treats for the young at heart. The city police department works in conjunction with her and the neighbors on those two blocks to direct traffic down their street, letting the cars cruise slowly down the hill, and the “Santas” come to the car to deliver their goodies to everyone. This year, they will again brave the extreme cold, undeterred.

Gail is preparing over 300 of these adult treatsboth in small cups and in cubes.

It is a young, but already much-anticipated Christmas tradition in her town. It is yet another way Gail chooses to shine her light. I wish I could go, but family celebrations will be underway at my home, too.


According to an online almanac, daylight increases by less than a minute every day at this point, but continues to increase as we move toward the summer solstice on Wednesday, June 21st, 2023. I stepped outside in the one degree temps just long enough to take this picture from my porch at 4:45 pm, then again at 5:13 pm. I came in, cozied back up under a blanket as I wrote, and turned on the weather to check the local wind chill. Of course, it was minus 22.

This post is unusual in that it is a Thursday evening, and I generally post on Sunday evenings. This Sunday, however, is Christmas Day. My hope for you is that your light will be shining bright with your family on Christmas and every day, and will continue to shine brighter as the sun shines for just a bit longer every day.


This picture was taken on the winter solstice from our brother’s front porch three years ago. We gathered at his home to celebrate Christmas a bit early that year.


It is that time of year again. The time of year when we should make an extra effort to count our blessings.

It should be practiced every day, because without it, life can feel quite dark.

The gratitude we offer on Thanksgiving, that is.


The first picture in our series above was taken on Thanksgiving Day 2016. The last one in the series was taken this weekend in Camp Gail, the sacred space in Gail’s house where we hang out when we visit. They have all been taken in Camp Gail on Thanksgiving weekend, and for obvious reasons, we didn’t gather in 2020.

This is the non-negotiable (except in Covid times) time that we gather as a family at Gail’s house. It is expected that we will all be there with as many of our family members as possible.

This was her grandson Myles’ first Thanksgiving feast

It is a joint effort; each of us brings our specialty, as well as whatever else we would like to contribute. As you may have noticed, my specialty is sweet potatoes. Gail, Suzanne and I re-create Mom’s delicious dressing, and it tastes almost as good as hers.

Suzanne and I arrive on Friday to help with the preparation, and to soak up the mirth at Gail’s house. It’s always there.

This takes place on Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. On Friday evening, before the cooking begins on Saturday, Suzanne and I–and our spouses–arrive to help Gail celebrate one of the joys of small-town life in the form of their Christmas parade.

Perhaps you remember Lola from former posts. She is the 1974 Chevrolet Nova Gail bought for herself on the occasion of her 60th birthday, almost 3 years ago. Whenever Gail takes Lola out, she is always a faithful ride, turning heads, just like a showgirl would.

This year, she knew it was time to get Lola into the parade action.

In the unforgettable Barry Manilow song, Lola was a showgirl. This Lola is a show car, and Gail proved that in a big way in her small town’s Christmas parade Friday night, right down to the yellow feathers in her hair (on her roof). She had a specially mixed blend of holiday songs to blast from the speaker hanging out side the door. In that blend, however, were snippets of the classics that were perfect for this occasion, just for this car: “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…” and the 1970 hit by the Kinks, “Lola, L-O-L-A, Lola.”

Gail’s former donut shop was in the Oddfellows–IOOF–building across the street. Lola was named after her former owner, and Gail extended an invitation to her son, John, to join her in the parade. He was thrilled to be a part of it all.

Gail’s daughter Lydia helped to toss out candy. Her grandson, Myles, and her step-granddaughter, Macy, helped, too.

There were other entrants in the parade, too, of course, but none quite like Lola–in my opinion.

The Grinch-mobile was second only to Lola, in my opinion.


We arrived home this afternoon, with another weekend of Thanksgiving memories–and full stomachs– under our belts. Gail never fails to entertain and uplift, but more than that, she inspires every day of the year by living her life to the fullest every day of the year, not just on the holidays. She knows how to make any situation fun, and cares not one iota what anyone else thinks. She knows life is a ride, whether or not she is riding in Lola.

I wish everyone had someone like Gail in their family to remind them to keep life light, to have fun in any and every way possible and to offer gratitude even for the smallest things. I am so fortunate, and I give thanks every day.

Happy Thanksgiving every day of the year.



It’s a wonderful place to be. Relaxed, gliding through the day, nailing every task you have signed up for. You have done them a thousand times, and you know what’s next, notwithstanding the curveballs life sometimes throws each of us. You’ve rehearsed it, and you kill it (mostly) every time. It’s easy peasy (mostly).

So, why would anyone ever choose to leave this cushy place? Why would you sign up for something that forces you to navigate an unfamiliar land and speak its unfamiliar language? That’s hard. That’s not the path of least resistance that most of us humans want to take, and do take.

Because that’s where the good stuff is. That’s where you find the high-hanging fruit, and it is much more luscious and tasty than the stuff hanging right in front of us, the stuff we reached for all our lives, because we don’t have to reach too high or too far.

When reaching for this high-hanging fruit, however, we may question our own sanity. Why, for the love of all things easy, would we voluntarily take ourselves to a place that makes us think and act in ways that require sharper focus and herculean effort? What the heck?

One must be crazy to do this, which is exactly what I thought of myself on about day two of the eight-day training I signed up for, and paid good money for. “What were you thinking, Kathleen? Are you nuts? You are not an auctioneer, you are a speech therapist. You have had some crazy ideas in your life, but this one tops them all. Now get back in your cage, and don’t try to pull this s*** again.”

Except that I’d already paid my hard-earned money for those eight days of class, and I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was supposed to be here. This had been on my “Liberty List” for a long time (see Liberty List, September 11th, 2022). I was way outside of my comfort zone, and it was painful. I wanted to run back into the open arms of all things familiar in my life, and leave this crazy idea behind in that hotel conference room in West Des Moines, Iowa. Surely those other 21 people in my class belonged there; they all appeared to be perfectly suited for this adventure. Still, I didn’t run. Looking around, I noticed I wasn’t even the oldest one there, which I had expected to be. Nor was I the only female. There were five other women–but I was the oldest female.

I stayed. My higher self–the one who knows what is truly best for me–overrode the scared child in me, told the woman who had lived in her speech therapy bubble for 28 years that she was not too old, nor too inflexible to learn this new language. Most importantly, she was ready for something different in her life (see Change is Good, October 9th, 2022).

And different is what I got.

Now, back at home, back in the comfort of my home, two days after I graduated, I feel a sense of accomplishment that cannot be experienced without having left that comfort zone. Two hours after getting home yesterday, I went to my first auction last night and helped as a ringman/bid caller, thanks to the ongoing leadership of another auctioneer I am fortunate to be mentored by.

I have a lot of practicing to do; I can’t expect to sound as good as him without daily practice and continued pushing myself to new heights in this new field. I have a diploma, which is only a license to continue to learn and improve my skills.

The verbal and mental boot camp I attended for eight days–8:00 am until 7:30 pm–kept me disciplined and accountable. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I hadn’t sat in class for that long for 28 years since grad school, and my days weren’t that long then. Frequent breaks were necessary; I took a pre-victory lap on foot around the outside of the hotel for most breaks. My 56-year-old brain was being stretched, and my body needed stretching, too.

Arriving for the first day, a quick scan showed me the strangers I would be learning with; I don’t remember the last time I felt this isolated. This group of 22 quickly went from being completely unknown to each other, to cheers, camaraderie, encouragement, friendship, exchanging contact information and hugs on the last day. There were six women and16 men, and fourteen states were represented, as well as two Canadian provinces. The most amazing students were the under-25 group; ten of the young men–as young as 17–were lifelong learners, already having spent years learning the skill in their everyday rounds. Still, they supported their elders in the class, uplifting and encouraging us every step of the way. We were the amateurs and they were already the seasoned experts, but they inspired everyone around them.

One does not engage in that frequent and intense repetition of tongue twisters and number drills without having difficulty leaving them out of their head. Some of the twisters were familiar to me and some were not. I had never heard Tommy Attatimus took two Ts, tied them to the top of two tall trees, but now it won’t leave my mind. As a child, How much would could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? A woodchuck would chuck as much wood as a woodchuck could if a woodchuck could chuck wood was one of my favorites, so that came easy. However, I wasn’t used to repeating it ten times with increasing speed each time. Nor had I ever counted to 100 and backwards by 2 1/2s, certainly not ten times in a row, with increased rate each time as well. And I certainly didn’t do it every day for eight days straight.

Now, any series of numbers–even two–sends me straight into an auctioneer chant. The tens are especially persistent in my head. You will likely read this with the short /e/ vowel sound you have said it with thousands of times in your life: 10-10-10-10-10, but to me, it sounds like “tay-un, tay-un, tay-un, tay-un, tay-un” and that is the desired sound I hope to master one day.

I checked my alarm clock last night as I wound down, but the display sent my brain back into that drill, keeping me awake a bit longer: it read 10:10.

Before this class, I didn’t know any big names in the auctioneering industry in America. Now, I can say I got to meet some legends.

The legendary Paul C. Behr

I knew so little about this industry, but now as a graduate, I can say I received a well-rounded education, as well as a diploma. My 28 years as a speech therapist played well into this learning; so much of what the breathing and voice mechanisms have to accomplish as an auctioneer are the things I have been teaching my patients for years. Except as the student now, I had to work so much harder than I ever worked as the teacher.

Each student had to auction many items in our drills. As the week progressed, the auctions became more frequent, more spontaneous and more complicated. Among the multiple items I “sold” were: tables, chairs, chandeliers, wall sconces, neckties, my jewelry, an Iowa state flag, a mountain bike, a Corgi, a television, a dinner for ten at a fancy restaurant, a year’s supply of bottled water, an umbrella and a briefcase. Each student brought an item for our “live” student auction. I sold a bag of locally-grown Kansas popcorn for $110, with all auction proceeds going to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.

I have grand ideas about how I am going to develop this new trade; there is so much opportunity, even for women in what has been traditionally a male-dominated field. I have a new skill set I didn’t have ten days ago, and I wouldn’t have this if I’d stayed in that comfortable bubble. If I’d listened to the doubter that most of us have living in our heads, I would have left on day two, or not even gone at all. It will be the perfect complement to my speech therapy career.

I knew so little before I started; I didn’t even know that, because auctioneering dates back to Civil War times, auctioneers are respectfully called “Colonel.” Gail and Suzanne called me that upon graduation. They knew. I ask that you call me the same, but only after you have stepped out of your own comfort zone and have done that thing that you want to do, but are being held back by fear, or that voice of doubt.

Become your own Colonel in your own dream. If I did it, so can you.

Now get out there.

Respectfully yours, Colonel Kathleen.



According to my watch, the time is now.” –Jimmy Buffet

My generation remembers where we were and what we were doing 21 years ago today: I sat in the recliner all day, holding my sick baby as he slept, watching the horror unfold before my eyes on TV. These memories are seared into the brain of anyone old enough to remember that dark day, the day that forever changed our country.

Gail was preparing her soon-to-be opened donut shop for business. I called and told her about it, she hadn’t heard yet. She went home to watch it on TV, something she rarely does. She knew this needed her attention at that time. The donut shop could wait.

Suzanne arrived at work, not knowing what was happening. She and her co-workers remained glued to the TV for the rest of the day. Her five-year-old daughter had a friend over that evening, and they wanted to watch TV. She heard her ask him what they should watch. He replied innocently, “I guess we could watch the explosion channel.” We all remember there wasn’t much else on, and he realized this, too.

That dark day won’t ever be forgotten, nor should it ever be forgotten. The people who lost their lives that day should be remembered as heroes, even though they likely had no idea what was happening in those horrific moments leading up to their deaths.

The rest of us get to continue to live our lives, even though that scar will always be on the face of our country. The family members and loved ones of the victims, as well as the first responders and others who sacrificed their safety that day should always hold a special place in our memories and hearts as well.

Our veterans, active duty military, Reserves and National Guard are the heroes every day of every year; they are the ones who protected and continue to protect the freedoms most of us take for granted–including me.

Our small hometown held its 150th birthday celebration last Saturday; Suzanne and I were able to go to this special gathering, but Gail couldn’t join us. The veterans of our hometown who were present were honored with recognition: a profoundly moving speech and a special flag salute by some of our town’s youth, followed by a standing ovation:

They are the reason we live in this nation of freedom. We have so many liberties that we fail to realize, all thanks to them.

One of them is the opportunity to travel freely about this country, and take in all it has to offer. Gail, Suzanne and I do our best to enjoy this privilege. Another is to partake in whatever activities interest us, because this country is indeed the land of liberty.

Which is why the term “bucket list” is widely known. Popularized by a movie of the same name, many of us have a list of things we’d like to do, or places we’d like to travel to before we euphemistically “kick the bucket.” Instead of using that term, however, I decided to call it “The Liberty List.” It reminds me that I am so fortunate to have these liberties.

My 25-year-old son lives on the other side of the world. He is checking something big off his “Liberty List” at a relatively young age, exercising the freedom he has as an American to put this big world right in the palm of his hand. He has had the opportunity to travel to other countries as well, and has given himself permanent reminders of this liberty.

Last year, when America was celebrating it’s Independence Day, he traveled to Egypt with 5 other American friends. To remind themselves of this freedom, they gave themselves a permanent reminder in the local language–Arabic. This year he spent July 4th in Thailand, and added to this reminder in Thai:

The translation is “freedom” or “liberty,” both translate into the one foreign word. You pick the one you like best. I like the ring of “liberty.” And what kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t follow my son’s example? An unfit one, that’s for sure. So, my next tattoo will be inside my upper arm, just like his, with “Liberty” as my English word of choice.

I am already sure I will never regret this permanent reminder of all that America has given me.


I asked Gail and Suzanne what they had on their “Liberty Lists.”

Gail: “I don’t really have one. I just live life to the fullest every day.” I can attest to this. She makes every moment of every day the most it can be, whether it is working one of her multiple jobs, or cruising around with her friends in “Lola,” her 1974 Chevy Nova, into the wee hours of the morning. It’s usually a party whenever Gail is there. Always has been, always will be.

Suzanne: “Going to any beach, anywhere, anytime.” Simple and true. If you recall, my maiden post on this blog just over five years ago detailed our epic beach trip to Florida (The Sister Lode, June 16th, 2017). We haven’t been back to a beach together since, but it is on all three of our “Liberty Lists.”

If you know me, you may want to be sure to be sitting down when you read what I am soon to check off my list. When I tell people, it is generally met first with disbelieving laughter, then something along the lines of, “That’s so cool!”

This endeavor has been on my Liberty List for some time now, and the time is right to check it off. I see it as a natural extension of my 28-year career as a speech therapist. I have been a speech scientist, and now it is time to be a speech artist.

I will spend eight days at the end of October/beginning of November in Des Moines, Iowa, training to become–wait for it–an auctioneer! I have long been fascinated with this skill, knowing that one day I would learn it. That day has come. I don’t know yet how much, or in what capacity I will use it, but I am doing it–now! All we have is now, and as the wise Willie Nelson says, “It’s always now.”


Now only comes once, which is why I am struggling so much with some heartbreaking news I received this week. A friend, a bright light with an electric smile and unforgettable laugh, was cruelly taken by COVID and its complications. We bonded after she lost her parents separately, but both in devastating ways. We understood each other. We spoke this dreadful language. We connected, but I had let too much time pass, knowing I needed to reach out to her again. But I didn’t do it then, and I can’t do it now. My heart breaks for her family, because I know how it feels to lose your mother way too young.

I’m not feeling the strength yet, but I will regain it after this heartbreaking news, and I will check a few more things off my Liberty List. They are things I have needed to do for some time in order to reach out to other important people.

We never know when it may be too late. I smugly thought I had learned the Life is short lesson after our parents died in that one moment, but if I think I have fully learned it, that only means I need to go back to school. Clearly, I didn’t. It is a lifetime of learning in order to make sure every now is the most it can be.

We would all be well-advised to think back 21 years ago to September 12th, or perhaps a few more days or weeks later, when so many people used that tragedy to galvanize their efforts to create more peace toward each other. Let’s all do our best to do that again, every day. Connect with those you need to reach out to before it’s too late. The time is now.

So, turn off the explosion channel in your head; we’ve all seen enough, and it will always be there. Use that memory to honor those who lost their lives, their families and loved ones, the first responders and our military–past and present.

And get out there and work on your Liberty List.

Raise your hand high and place your bid on that.


Perhaps it was the stray dime I found at a garage sale yesterday. I paid the woman a quarter, and told her it was a sign from my parents. As I have written before, I believe it was.

Perhaps it was that song again. I believe our loved ones who are no longer with us can speak to us in a number of ways. One of them is through music. About four years ago, I was having a strong moment of grief while thinking about my dad. I was sitting on my bedroom floor with the radio on, and I heard his voice come through a song released in 1970 by The Five Stairsteps: “Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.”

And they did.

In another month or so, it happened again. I was thinking about Dad, and there was that song. And, once again, things did get easier.

The third time it happened was uncanny. I had him on my mind, and there was the song–again.

And, of course, things did get easier.

I heard that song on the radio last night. Life ebbs and flows, as we all know, and it happened during an ebb. Not necessarily about Dad, but there was that song again. And, yes, things did get easier.

Perhaps it was the dream I had last night. I have mentioned several times in my posts that when I dream about Mom and Dad, it is as if they are still with here, never having left us. Last night was no different. There was a community dinner of some sort in a public hall, and they were there. “Oh, Mom and Dad are here,” I remember thinking in the dream. “I’ll sit with them,” as if nothing had happened. And then the dream was over.


I checked Facebook while I was sipping coffee about 7 a.m. today. A widowed friend has posted about how hard it was to face her now-empty nest. Her youngest of two had just moved away to his first year of college, and without her husband, she was truly alone. She spoke of the heartbreak and pain, but also of the strength she will have to summon to keep going, and I know she will.

I commented as such, and another friend commented as well. This is a mutual friend who also faces a crushing loss: her beloved sister was taken from her in a pedestrian accident several years ago.

Lest we think we are alone in our grief, none of us have to look far.

This morning while I was walking/running, I had my iPod in my ears as I always do. Out of 250-plus songs, there it was again. “Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.” I smiled, then shed a little tear, but I kept moving; my husband and I had plans for an outing later this morning.

Perhaps it was the song again, or maybe the dream, or the Facebook posts, or likely a combination of all the above that brought it to mind: as we were getting ready, I decided today was the day to make my second pilgrimage to the place where Mom and Dad drew their last breaths; it wasn’t far from our destination. Dad had spoken to me through song twice in the last 12 hours, and they both showed up in my dreams again last night. Those were my signs, and I chose to heed them.

I had been there only one other time (And You Will Go On, October 14th 2018), and now that it has been fourteen years, five months and ten days (not that I am counting), I knew in my heart of hearts it was time again. We would be driving near there, and a short detour would take us there.

It was there, and then it was gone. We didn’t stop, I only needed a glance. It was almost dark when I was there the first time; today it was full sun, but in my mind, the dark cloud still hovered over the intersection. I was alone last time; my husband was with me this time. Plus, I was six and a half years stronger. Still, the sharp pain of loss and lingering grief was there. This docile beast will never go away, but I know now how to keep it tame–most of the time.


I have a dear friend who recently lost her ex-husband, her daughters’ father. Ooh children, things are gonna get easier.

I have another friend, a graduate school classmate, who is struggling through a cascade of devastating family crises. Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.

We have a mutual friend, another graduate school classmate who lost her 52-year old husband suddenly in the spring. I have lost touch with her, but my friend hasn’t. She gave me her number, and I am going to call her tonight. There is no statute of limitations on expressions of sympathy to others; I have learned this in the past 14-plus years. Today is the day. Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.

To my two friends on Facebook this morning: Ooh children, things are gonna keep getting easier.


About four years ago, I had a home health patient in a rural area. About a mile off the highway, there was a wooden cross. It was lovingly adorned with football items, and it appeared to be a memorial to a young man, which was confirmed by co-workers. I passed by it multiple times on my repeat visits to this patient’s home, always saying a little prayer for his family.

One day, a woman was stopped there, re-arranging the memorial items. I didn’t hesitate, I knew I was supposed to stop. I surmised it was his mother, and it was. I got out of the car, walked up to her and said, “I don’t know who you are, but I know you. I have two of those.” We instinctively hugged, shed a few tears, and gave each other the gift of understanding.

I couldn’t have survived these past fourteen years (five months and ten days) especially without my sisters, but also my brothers, my husband and sons, and my wide circle of family and friends. This support net has carried me through, and I know it will continue to carry me, as long as I keep reaching out to help connect with others who are living with grief, and letting them reach out to me. It can still be so hard, but every day brings me more strength, hope and understanding.

We may not know who they all are, but we know them when we see them. We must keep reaching out, and keep our arms open for their reaching in.

Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.


It has been two years since I made it to the wheat field. Last year, it was a work scheduling problem, along with weather woes that dictated the days in the combine. This year, it was a little problem called COVID. That makes only three harvests I have missed in my 56 years, and it breaks my heart.

Along with Gail and Suzanne, however, I will always be a Kansas farm girl at heart. Swheat girls, just like our friends Tana and Amy. I met them in the summer of 1984 when I began “babysitting” these two amazing sisters. They didn’t need much, just someone to take care of business. Business soon became pleasure, and we have remained close since. We may, or may not, have gotten wheat tattoos together a few summers ago to prove this.

So close, as a matter of fact, that they visit every July 4th with their families from their homes in Arizona. We have maintained this tradition for many years, and our hope is that it will continue for many more. They left only four days ago, and I am already looking forward to next July 4th, which, coincidentally, is one of my favorite holidays.

Their visit kicks off my favorite month of the year. Following that fun-filled (almost) week, I continue to enjoy the Kansas summer, my favorite season. A vacation is usually in order in July, as well as our youngest son’s birthday. And, I have deduced that since I was born in mid-April, I most likely came into being in July.

Suzanne was able to join us for an evening, but Gail wasn’t able to make it. As always when she is not here, we missed her; she always adds life to any party.

We decorated to the nines again, perhaps even more than we normally do.

One of our favorite pastimes is to porch sit, and we amped that up too this year by dragging the old couch out of the shop for some good old-fashioned redneck couch-sitting on the porch.

Recall that the term “redneck” originated from the sunburn on the back of a working person’s neck from working outdoors in the hot sun. Therefore, it is a term of honor, one we take as a compliment.

The couch is still sitting on the porch, up for grabs. It just may look perfect year-round on your porch. If you think perhaps it would, please let me know–and bring a truck.

We swam in the backyard pool,

and, of course, took in the fireworks. We celebrate our country, as well as our favorite place in it: Kansas.

This one looks almost unreal, but it is real, taken by my daughter-in-law.

Every year brings back old traditions and memories, and more new ones are made. Our bonds grow deeper, and our Kansas farm-girl roots keep us grounded and gritty.

These Swheat girls , just like Gail, Suzanne and I, are Kansas farm girls who know how lucky we are to have this heritage, and to have each other.

Happy Independence Day to you, every day of the year.


The reviews are in: “Gail brings high energy and fun to all aspects of her life! I had such a fun time. Her garden is delightful, Lola is one of a kind, we got to meet her friends on their front porch, and had a great lunch at the bar/grill she manages. Camp Gail was highly entertaining. I give “The Gail Experience” 5 stars! –Shari


It’s a real thing, The Gail Experience. I have lived it many times; I am one of the lucky ones. In the next breath just after I say that, I will also say this: there is no such thing as The Suzanne Experience. And that’s how they both want it. As the middle sister, I guess I am in the middle there, too. I guess, perhaps, this blog is part of The Kathleen Experience, if there is such a thing.

But I am not here to talk about that. This is about Gail, her aura and the gifts of her presence. And there are so many.

Shari, my friend since kindergarten, loves to hike like I do. We have long planned to take a trip to western Kansas to experience the natural beauty of several land formations there, as well as a new state park with hiking trails. We have tried two other times: first, my son was sick with Covid in my home, so we decided it best not to share that kind potential illness. Second, we were both available and healthy, but Gail was not going to be home at the time we planned to go, and this involved an overnight stay at her home. I told Shari, “We could go, but you wouldn’t have The Gail Experience. I will let you decide.” She decided to wait until Gail was home

Wise decision.

Last week, it finally happened. The stars and planets aligned, we were both able to get out of work responsibilities, the weather couldn’t have been more perfect, and Gail was home. So, Shari arrived from the Kansas City area at my home Tuesday evening, and we headed west Wednesday morning. The sightseeing and hiking was every bit as beautiful and enjoyable as we had hoped, but that’s not the point. Our home state boasts so many natural wonders that deserve more attention than most people give them, and more than I can put into this blog. It may very well be covered in a future post, because both Gail and our beautiful state deserve their own headlining coverage.

The farthest point of our trip took us to the northwest corner of Kansas, and even into the southwest corner of Nebraska. We turned around, and were at Gail’s house in the beautiful burg of Atwood an hour later. Gail had supper ready, and we were hungry hikers. As usual, it was delicious.

Shari’s reaction to Gail’s home was the same as mine when I first set foot in it over 20 years ago: it’s Gail. Her spirit and style are carried through in her decor, especially in Camp Gail, which I have featured in each of the five pictures at the beginning of the blog. We “camped” after our cruising, more on that later.

It was about 7:30 pm at this point, and it was a beautiful almost-summer evening, the kind that calls for cruising. So, as well The Gail Experience, Shari also got to have The Lola Experience.

Gail’s 1974 Nova, lovingly named after its last owner, always turns heads on the streets of Atwood.

We were privileged to meet a group of her friends, who were hanging out on the porch of the group’s senior member, 87-year-old Buzzy. Perhaps you could say, with the little squeeze that Buzzy added in this flanked pose, that Shari and I also had The Buzzy Experience. Or, perhaps more accurately, we got Buzzed.

We cruised some more, then headed to Gail’s house. It was a girl’s night, as her husband was out of town for a few days. Her daughter, Lydia, was there to enhance The Gail Experience. As is custom at Gail’s house, guests gravitate toward Camp Gail, which is where we spent the rest of the evening talking and reminiscing, but mostly laughing.

Perhaps it was the beautiful night, or the slight deliriousness from a day in the sun, or maybe since we were one or two beers in, everything was funny.

I’m pretty sure, though, it was mostly the company.

Among other visual treats in Camp Gail, Shari noticed a beautiful scarf Gail had as a decoration. She picked it up, and proceeded to find all the ways it could be used. With Gail’s encouragement, suggestions and goading, we laughed until our stomachs hurt.

Starting with the functional look to keep one’s hair tame in the Kansas winds–just like our mothers used to wear, Shari began the modeling:

Our mothers also wore scarves fashionably around their necks:

And to church.

Then, it started to get really silly.

She took the cue for this one from my Willie shirt, and it was followed by the do-rag:

And the blindfold…

And the bandit.

and the toothache/mumps wrap.

The turban was the finale; our stomachs couldn’t take any more laughing.

Shari and I had to hang it up and go to bed, but, as usual, Gail could have entertained us for hours more.

In the morning, we went for a brisk walk, followed by massages. We were relaxed and energized, and, of course, hungry.

Gail had some work in the office of her first full-time gig as an office manager for a chiropractor,

and then we enjoyed lunch at the home of her second full-time gig as the manager of Legends bar/grill. She wasn’t technically working, but she had already unloaded the food truck that delivered supplies earlier that morning.

As parties always are, it was then over. We fought the blasting south Kansas wind for the first 30 miles, and then I cussed it as I drove east for about the next 120 miles until it calmed. As usual, Gail loved the wind. Ugh.

But I still love her for that. It’s part of The Gail Experience. If there were a Suzanne Experience, it would include the love of wind as well. Definitely not part of Kathleen in any way. Our day of hiking/sightseeing in western Kansas couldn’t have been more calm and beautiful, with brilliant blue skies and a slight breeze. NO wind.


I am not as pious as the picture of Shari praying in the scarf, but I say a prayer of thanksgiving every day for the gifts of my sisters, and for the “experience” of being their sister. They cry with me in the bad times, and laugh with me in the good times. And, we know the importance of having fun.

Special thanks to my dear friend Shari for making this trip with me. Her “Gail Experience” was a great one!


It has been a while. I have had a bit of a dry spell, perhaps even a drought of ideas. So, I asked for help. I prayed for ideas and inspiration, and I wasn’t disappointed. Our parents are the inspiration for this blog–their lives and their deaths, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Again, be careful what you wish for.

I woke up early this morning after a relatively late night–11:00 is way past my bedtime. It was not yet six, so I went back to sleep. When I am lucky enough to fall back asleep, I often have the strangest dreams. This morning was no exception, except that it was perhaps the strongest, most moving dream I have in the last fourteen years. And, it took me a moment to realize it was just a dream. It was still real when I woke up an hour later, for just that moment, and I had to wrap my mind around what I thought was my new reality.

In the dream, Mom had called to tell me that Dad had died in his sleep. I was awake now–barely, and my own heart was broken. I didn’t know how I would live without him. And then I realized it was a dream. I had already been living without him for over fourteen years, and without Mom for just as long.

It was real, just for that moment.

Perhaps it was because I was thinking about them yesterday as my husband and I traveled close to the accident site. I considered taking the short detour to stop there, but there was no reason. I had already been there once. (And You Will Go On, October 14th, 2018. )

Perhaps the dream was portended by the five cardinals I saw the day before. Yes, five. I even had to slow down to avoid hitting two of them with my car on two different occasions.

Perhaps it was the dime I found on the floor of a store yesterday. Mom and Dad had a dime bank they often contributed to, and after I wrote the blog about the six amazing sisters (The Magnificent Seven, November 11th, 2018 ) and they told me about the connection they have to their parents through dimes–“Dimes from heaven,” they call them, I started to find dimes lying randomly here and there, including one in the middle of my bedroom floor later that afternoon. I had just tidied up the room, and left it with no trace of anything stray on the floor. Yet, the dime showed up. And they have been showing up ever since. I put that one next to their picture and each one since then has been placed in a skinny shot glass next to it.

One of Gail’s daughters has this same connection to her grandparents through dimes. We send pictures of our latest dime finds to each other via text along with a short story. I sent her the picture of yesterday’s dime, and not long after that I got one back from her–this one was wedged in the crack of a table.


I get good ideas when I take my morning run/walk. Last night’s dream was still bouncing around in my head as I ran, stirring up more ideas. I came in the house ready to get them on paper, because ideas don’t always stick around. I left the house with CD music playing, and when I walked in the door, a lyric I’d heard dozens of times, but never noticed, jumped out at me: “Ill hold you in my dreams.”

I will. I am.


I long to dream about my parents in a way that brings them back to me. Except for this morning’s dream, whenever they show up in my dreams, it’s always as if they never left, so there is no grand reunion. It’s just another day of my life with my parents in it, as if they were still alive.

Gail says she rarely dreams of them. I doubt she sleeps enough to dream. Suzanne says she dreams about them, but it is as if they never died. The most memorable one she had is that, after a long absence, they showed up, having moved to a nearby town. When she asked them if they were moving back, they said, “No, we like it here. We plan to stay.”

We all long to connect with them again in grand style in a dream. However, we don’t get to order one up as if we are ordering at a restaurant. I remember visiting with a friend who had lost his young son. He longed to dream about him, he said, because this was the only way he could see him again.

If only we could put that order in, and expect it to be filled.


I hope that not a single one of you can relate to this strong desire to connect to a lost loved one. I hope none of you have ever experienced a loss of a loved one. But I doubt that. I am guessing that each one of you has had to let go of a loved one at some point in your past. For that, I am so sorry.

If, perhaps, you have not felt this pain, or even if you have, and you want to discount any of these “signs”–the dreams, the dimes, the cardinals, please be my guest. I have no proof that they mean anything. There is no science to back this up. Yet, I believe. And, if it brings you peace, I hope you believe, too.

Sweet dreams, my friends.