The last piece of pie

I am writing again. I am writing. I had hoped to feel so energetic that I burst back onto the scene like the Kool-Aid man I’d known in my childhood.

Instead, I’m feeling more like a twenty something doing the walk of shame back home at seven a.m.- disheveled, and not feeling so good about myself. But, here I am, I’ve reached the keyboard.

I have a wide range of emotions in my head…fear, gratitude, anger, happiness, sadness, rage, hopelessness and hope. I am digging deep to keep myself moving forward. The world has not ended, other people are worse off- blah, blah, blah. I’d like to stop with the daily banter about it, I’m beginning to appear obsessed, and appearance matters.

Years ago I posted a question on Facebook about “Nurture vs Nature.” Kind of a fun way to get some banter going. I had posed the question of how the five of us siblings had been raised in the same house with the same parents, yet we were all different in our outlook on life, our opinions and how we expressed them etc. The general consensus was that yes, we had all grown up in the same house, we all had the same stories to tell about things that happened in our childhood, but depending on our age and our abilities to cope at that age, the event was viewed differently. And, because we were all experiencing it from our own perspective, we became shaped differently. I feel like this situation is the same…. our family has been shaken by a singular event and although the event is the same, our reaction to it is different.

So, some shelter in place, others run about. Some cry with you and some try to avoid the subject entirely. When looking at it like this, I know not a single person can understand how I feel because they are not me. They don’t know what my soul felt, what my eyes saw, what my heartbreak feels like. It’s not possible to tell them, so I move on as quietly as possible. Quiet has never been my strong point, so when I do finally speak up, it’s usually anger that spews out- which is fine by me, but makes me bad company.

Hope. I have hope. Faith. I have faith.

The positive feelings are harder to express. Fear of the letdown…don’t speak it in case it doesn’t come to be. But, I do have my positive days, thankfully. I manage to get a few chores done, talk politely to friends, organize and plan and give myself a pep talk- that’s time well spent but it’s fleeting and the- the anger kicks in.

I listen to my new favorite artist every morning. The lyrics to “Rescue” hang in the spare bedroom so they are seen every day. They are powerful. God’s promise to us, transformed into my own message to my child. I don’t know how I have the strength to be the person who provides the rescue, and the last time I gave myself that responsibility it didn’t end well…. but this time, I am determined, and just fired up enough to make sure this time it pans out.

This time we will have the victory in life. This time, we will have life.

Till next time- Erin

Usually, my writings are about women. The whole blog was based upon the idea that women could relate to me chasing my passion, that more than likely they had passions of their own that they had shelved while raising a family. Today, let’s focus on the men.

My men, three generations who also have shelved their passions in the pursuit of the largest purpose ever given to a man- to be a positive roll model for their children. To be the hero of their families stories. It is with more love and gratitude than I can even muster that I give you My Men.

Chapter one: My Dad

For me of course, the story starts with my Dad. He was born the second of four children to a hard working Father and a Mother, who would be the caretaker of the family up until her death when my Father was still quite young. He grew up mainly in a train station where my Grandfather worked. I’ve been told that chickens ran freely throughout the station and that my Grandfather never missed a day of work. Hard work ethic was something that he learned early, although I suspect from the stories I’ve heard that he found time for a decent amount of mischief. He was not a good student, because most subjects didn’t interest him. He wanted to be a cowboy and a pilot, and live a life much different then his father did. His grades would improve when an inspirational teacher Mrs. Fryburg would allow him to read and study subjects of interest. Reading cowboy stories and stories of flight and fantasy. Not surprising to this day he say’s that if you meet five people in heaven like the popular book suggests, he hopes one of his five is Mrs. Fryburg.

My Dad went on to own a horse, Lady. He loved riding her with his friends. He also became a licensed pilot, would race cars, learn to play the guitar and joined the military, serving in Korea. Upon his return from Korea, he married my Mom and just shy of nine years later, they had me, the last of five children. When I was born with a congenital heart defect, it rocked his world. He talks about it often, even today, and in over fifty years of telling the stories about those days of fear and struggle it’s never been told without a tear.

My father never became a commercial airline pilot, having signed up to take his commercial test, and having it fall near my heart surgery date he would be too preoccupied to pass- a disappointment to him. Instead, for most of his life, he did construction. He provided for his family, and my mom and the five of us kids were blessed that he had such a strong work ethic. He worked hard and played hard, teaching us kids about baseball, country music, story telling and so much more. He was the dreamer in the family, making sure we knew “If we could imagine it we could do it.” Eventually, he became a business owner and put most of us kids on the payroll. He was a hard boss, and made sure we all knew the value of hard work and that has been a legacy he is proud of.

Never a dull moment, he was always quick tempered and more than once found himself on the inside of a squad car. Once throwing a heavy metal train through the window of a car that would speed pass our front yard while us kids played. He was filmed by a local cable show at our school charging the wrestling matt after a match gone wrong, and I watched as a child as three officers tried to catch him on foot while he roller skated around a roller-rink with precision. We had been there, just the two of us to skate, a passion we both shared. I was learning to waltz, foxtrot and alike. At some point during the “couples dance” I was told by the owner of the rink that I “wasn’t really good enough to be out on the floor with the others” who were all instructors- Trust me when I say that you don’t want to tell a child they’re not good enough in front of their parent- ever. So his refusal for us to leave the floor turned into a true life police escapade after the owner literally called the police on an ten year old and her Dad for continuing to skate. Later in his older years, the troubles would be more localized to home improvement stores, grand kids sporting events and Panera Bread…all stories for another post. It’s always been one story or another. Stories which make a full life. This was a man who always allowed me to play beauty shop on his thick white hair, complete with curlers. The mountain of a man who would sneak away from his table of co-workers in the morning so that he could use the pay phone to call home and pretend that he was my favorite storybook prince, creating lifelong memories.

I could go on for pages and pages of stories, but stories don’t always convey what you need to say. Sometimes the words although fun to read are not enough- I wish that people could feel how I feel. I wish that all little girls grew up knowing that their father had their backs. I wish that everyone had been brought up with a good work ethic and had seen their fathers work like I saw mine work.

My father is half way to his eighty seventh birthday now. We talk daily, usually multiple times. When he’s in Michigan we see each other several times a week. We enjoy Gin and Tonics together and I enjoy anytime I can have him for dinner, or share a hot tea and cookies. I do not take these visit’s for granted. During the quarantine we didn’t see each other for a month or maybe more- than I got the idea that I would call him and video chat so that I could see his face. It was going to be fun! Instead we both spent about three minutes sobbing before we had to hang up, regroup and trying again later in the day. It had been too long, it was too hard to not have him here- drinking tea or having coffee- or sharing that G and T I mentioned above. There is an entire long life of love, respect and gratitude that I have for him. My husband likes to joke and say that all I ever needed to do to make my Dad proud was survive my surgeries. I suppose there is a hint of truth to that, but really he wanted the “life” that came after the survival. He wanted me to “live, experience and enjoy” and I have, because for over fifty years I’ve had a security blanket of his support and love. He has been my biggest cheerleader. Because of him, I knew what to look for in a man, what to expect from hard work and how to never give up- even on days when it’s hard to see what you’re fighting for. I owe this to my Dad.
Love ya Daddy-O.

Chapter two: My husband

I met my husband when I was seventeen, at a high school party our senior year. The original meeting was mainly lackluster – but the second time we met a few weeks later was the last time I ever looked at anyone else.

I was seventeen, he was eighteen and had just joined the Army National Guard. He was to leave for boot camp after we graduated high school. Graduation came in May and on July 29th we got engaged. A year later almost to the date we were married. Two crazy kids who against all odds will celebrate thirty four years next month.

Three and a half years later, we became parents. Much like my father, my husband is a hard working man with dreams of his own. We bought a restaurant three weeks after our son was born and it was like running into a hurricane every day. One step forward and someday’s, nine steps back. We were young, ambitious and hard working. We worked from sun up to sun down and our Son was with us all the while. Growing up in a baby seat on the counter of the kitchen or bar- Somedays being passed from customer to customer as we worked. This pace is not something anyone can put up with and God had other plans for how our life should look- soon we found ourselves living back at home with our folks, paying off restaurant debt and pregnant with our second child.

Now the father of two, and with most of the restaurant hurdles behind us my husband also found himself doing construction work to pay the bills. Fatherhood aside, our situation was about as far from a dream life as he could have imagined for himself, we were still living with my folks and had two kids in our room now. Our daughter in a crib on one side of the room, our Son on a fold out bed on the other. But here’s the thing about real men, they will always do the right thing. They will always do what’s needed for their family, and he did just that.

Eventually, life lifted up the pressure and we were living in our own home. In addition to his full time job my husband was taking classes, becomes a firefighter and an EMT. He became dive rescue certified and was coaching T-ball, baseball and eventually football for over a decade. (Remember, I have a history with hard working men)

Fast forward: Today our kid’s are thirty and twenty eight years old. They have grown with the same blessing I did, knowing that their Father is their biggest fan, close friend and that there is nothing he wouldn’t do for them. They have watched a man who has taken his responsibilities seriously and has treated their mother well. My husband ended up becoming a business owner as well, joining into the same field that my Father had followed. For twenty years he has worked this business to provide for his children and has been that example everyone should have. God has rewarded his life with Children who are his friends, and seven Grandchildren who light up his life. The love continues…

I can’t say enough about my husband. We have been through it- lot’s of it. For richer or poorer, better or worse, sickness and health. He has been the father that I prayed my children would have. He is our rock, our steady, our calm in a storm. There isn’t much more a family could ask for.

Chapter three: My Son & Son in law

This chapter of fatherhood is still fairly fresh, it’s book is just starting. It has all the makings to be a wonderful story. Men who are loving, accepting and hard working. Men who want their children to grow up to be productive, loving, members of society. Men who strive to bring stability, and laughter to their children.

I see the traits that have been passed on from generation after generation. They start with a foundation thats built on good strong ground. My Grandchildren will look back on life one day and know that they were raised by Men who loved them, and that above all else will be the building block for the generation of men who will be next- Wow, do I hope I’m still here to witness that.

It is with love and pride that I mention these men this Father’s day. I am a product of them all, I am who I am because of each one of them. So to My Men, I say “Thank you, and I love you.”

Till next time- Erin

My husband has asked me on more than one occasion why I sleep with my phone ringer on. It’s true that if you ever need me for anything, I can be reached at all hours of the night. This started when my kids were old enough to be out on their own, and was heightened when my Mom was sick. This became a cemented habit by the time my phone rang the night before she passed.
Just before two in the morning my phone rang, it was my Dad telling me that they were heading to the hospital. I told him to be safe driving as it was December in the mitten, which meant snow and ice, it was dark and I knew his nerves were already shot. His response was that he wasn’t driving, they were in an ambulance.
I quickly hop out of bed, calling my sister and throwing on a sweatshirt- I then waited outside for my sisters car to round the corner, and I honestly don’t think the car came to a complete stop, we were off. The drive there was quick and quiet we arrived about two a.m. and I caught my breath just long enough to say a prayer on the way through the doors. Sometimes, the prayers you ask for are not what manifest~ such was the case on December 21, 2011. I still have faith that what was suppose to happened did happen, regardless of my hearts wishes. It’s this faith I have at two a.m. that keeps me going.
My “all day faith” handles the easy stuff, when you’re up and praying at two a.m. that takes a special kind of faith…

It’s two a.m., coffee in hand, gas in the tank and half a days travel awaits. I always plan my trips to start at two a.m., it gets a lot of road behind me before the rest of the world is even awake. By the time anyone from home checks in I’ll be just outside of Nashville. Traveling by myself for thirteen hours and I have never felt nervous. I’ve felt excited as I head toward my loved ones, I’ve felt energized that I am in charge of these trips, where to stop (only twice each way) what plays on the radio (Pandora 1970s, books on tape, and country from each decade since 1950.) I have had many people tell me I’m crazy for making these solo trips at that hour but I know better~ I have faith in two a.m. and never once do I get a flat tire, run low on gas, encounter road rage or anything troublesome ~ my two a.m. faith has taken me far. My two a.m. road trips have come to an end as my loved ones now live here, just in time… months later and this pandemic has hit and travel even with my two a.m. faith wouldn’t have been possible.

It’s two a.m. and I’m nowhere near the required sleep I’m gonna need to wake up to another day of pandemic confinement. It leaves me anxious and I can can feel the panic rise up from my toes and travel through my body. I haven’t left my house in weeks except for a trip to the bank, that being said it isn’t the virus that is making me anxious, it’s what will be left once it has passed. My mind will not shut off with every scenario playing out in my head. It’s only when I close my eyes and say a prayer that I feel the tension start to ease. I can exhale. I can fall asleep, and I wake hours later with my hands still folded in prayer.

It’s two a.m., I’ve had three hours of sleep, this will be the eyes wide open portion of my slumber. I went to sleep crying, thinking of tacos, margaritas and family. You see, before it all changed the day before Easter meant the whole family would meet for Mexican food, everyone arriving as close to the agreed on time as possible as we were gathering from three different state. Three generations, loads of fun, matched only by loads of tequila and tortilla chips. We would eat out that night, and Easter would bring a home cooked meal from Mom.
I think of this at two a.m. That was years ago, before it all changed. Now the day before Easter finds us all in separate states, all with our own schedules~ no laughter over frozen drinks.

It’s two a.m… I can guess the time almost to the minute when my eyes open. My Fitbit says 2:02, it’s Easter morning. We have prepared the kitchen, family room and dining room with construction paper eggs that have been taped up. The grandkids who are living here will wake to search for them. The grandkids who aren’t with us will call to video chat today, it will barely be enough for me. I’m reminded of the Easter celebration we had when I was a kid. My brother and his girlfiend ( now wife of almost forty years) had not made it home for Christmas, so when they arrived for Easter time it was game on. My Mom put up a Christmas tree and put the baskets under it. She cooked breakfast and called us off of school. We all laughed as she explained to the office staff that her kids were home and we were celebrating Christmas and Easter.
I can totally understand where my mom was coming from, wanting a re-do on her holidays because her kids were not all home with her. Perhaps I will have a redo…I go over that in my mind at two a.m., I check my Fitbit again…it’s 2:50 ~ I’m exhausted. Things will be fine. I have faith in the two o’clock hour, I’m awake until the day ends, Easter is in the books.
Again, tears as I fall asleep.

Till next time~ erin

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, just know that if I don’t get back to what I love I will become less of who I am. So here goes-

Before all the madness hit, my husband and I had taken a few hour ride to check out a piece of property that was for sale. It had an existing business on it and it seemed like it was worth the drive to consider taking it on. The day was nice, stopping for lunch along the way and having conversation about the future. We have always been planners, we are not the “live for today” type, so we usually hash a lot of things out on these rides where it’s just us and the blacktop.

Half way to our destination, the idea of my ice cream shop was discussed. This is the same ice cream shop I’ve mentioned in a few of my other posts. It’s the one that I have the grand kids convinced we will have one day. We have our Pintrest boards filled with ideas and it’s name is picked out. But, during this particular drive it was determined that if we made it to this property and it wasn’t a good fit, we would make the Ice cream dream happen. The property and it’s existing business wasn’t what we wanted so on our ride home the ice cream/sweet shop idea was a hot topic. We figured out about a two year time line and by the time we were home I was feeling high on sugar dreams.

Not too much was said about this, I discussed it with the grand kids while we designed and colored pictures of what our ice cream cones would look like. A coloring project that is easy to get behind when you are between five and eight years old and your Grandma tells you she is going to open an ice cream shop. I told one friend about it and took photos of a building I would want it to be in, this building isn’t for sale but who knows what might change I thought. The building sit’s without an address, without any idea of who owns it so I started asking around while at night I tried to photo shop the pictures I took to see what it would look like once I was done with it. (Fantastic by the way) My husband contacted a man he knows whose wife owns a small ice cream shop, and I contacted her about picking her brain and maybe coming down to Ohio during Spring break when I wouldn’t be watching the little ones, doing a job shadow and being productive toward my goal… that has all fallen to the wayside.

Crazy. There’s no other word really. Instead of having fun thoughts about the future I’ve gone a bit crazy worrying about today. Fun idea’s about the future are so far off my radar that I can’t even remember what they look like. Wondering if there will even be any fun times ahead? I’m not sure of the answer. Wondering if the planning for the future attitude was all a waste? I don’t do good with the “out of my control” discussion that I have with myself no less than forty times a day. I want to remain a dreamer in action. I just don’t have it in me, I’ve been trying.

I really haven’t been able to write since the madness hit, my brain can not function on chaos and still be creative. Much like the fact that I haven’t been able to read a book since my Mom died, and that’s been eight years. I just can’t concentrate. I would hate to think that I would be stuck without being able to write, so I am forcing myself to get the dialog going again. Because eight years from now I don’t want to realize I haven’t written anything since the madness. That would be too big of a sacrifice.

So here it is…words on a screen. I’m writing because I just have to write. This is something I still have control over while the rest of the world is on fire around me.

I’ll sign off now because I really don’t have anything else to cover. Thank you for letting me just write, thank you for just reading.

Till next time- Erin

Why did this notion never hit me before? If given the chance to apologize to myself, what would I say?

First, a bit of back story… I used to hold grudges, I was proud of the grudges I held because I felt like it made me blatantly aware of who was on my side, and who wasn’t. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt me without pushing that window closed a bit. Imagine someone hurting you, you are on one side of an old farmhouse window. (You know the one that’s been painted two dozen times and gets stuck if there’s a drop of moisture in the air.) They are standing firmly on the other side…(in my imagination they are standing with their back to me, they have after all betrayed me somehow) You put both hands on top of the old window, pushing to fully close it- but it sticks a quarter of the way down, then the next time you’re hurt it inches down some more, until soon, it’s closed and shut…for good this time.

Today I realized I have accepted apologies from people who never apologized. As the saying goes “not because that person deserves it, but because my soul deserves peace.” I have evolved from holding grudges. I have reached out twice recently to folks I had given up on. Not for their sake, but for mine, and I’m learning just how well that works. In my pursuit of a passion filled life I can’t harbor old resentments. The two do not go hand in hand. But what I’ve never done is accepted and apology from myself. So it made me think, how would that apology go?

Dear Erin, It’s literally been a lifetime, and I’ve never gone out of my way to apologize to you for some things that weigh heavy on my heart. Please allow today to be the day I change that. I’m sorry that I let you question your worth as much as you have. For all the days you worked toward goals that never came to be, and you felt less about yourself because of it. I’m sorry for the Everclear back in ’86, sorry for not steering you away from leg warmers and spin class. Accept my apology for allowing you to talk to yourself in ways you would never talk to a friend, and worse yet, that you went on to believe those words. Oh, and sorry for not noticing that it is salt and not sugar that cousin Kate keeps in a bowl next to her coffee maker. Knowing that apologies are only as good as the spirit in which they are given allow me to say that I love you and I’m deeply sorry that I don’t always treat you the way you should treat someone you love. Erin

It would in fact go something like that. If I wanted to get more specific it would be that I haven’t always taken care of myself, not only physically (that’s the least of it) but mentally. I know we all get stuck. We wander away from our path of true center where our peace and calm live. Sometimes, if others that have led us down the wrong path we forgive them but seldom do we think of forgiving ourselves. Even when we know we are better than the words we’ve said to ourselves. We’ve let ourselves get depressed about things others have done, then we can’t forgive ourselves for not seeing it coming. Wishing that we had been smart enough to guard our hearts and prevent the heartache from the beginning.

So do yourself a favor in this pursuit of a passion filled life, write yourself an apology letter. It took me two days and about seven drafts to get mine where I wanted it. You might be surprised at what ends up on paper.

One final note to myself… “Erin, apology accepted.”

Till next time- Erin

One of the first things I saw after shuffling myself to the kitchen this morning was a nearly used bottle of sprinkles. My first thought…” not today sprinkles, not today!” This day was not a sprinkle day.

I woke with a slight panic, than realized it was more sadness. For a minute I thought about the days I was plagued by anxiety and seasonal depression… I inhaled, exhaled and said a quick prayer that the feeling would go away. It did, as quickly as it had entered. Then the sprinkles…

Jammies on, coffee brewing (albeit decaf, this is surely some kind of joke). No matter how your day starts you must go on. Even on hard days. Don’t we wish that all days could be sprinkle days? Don’t we wish there was always celebration, laughter, and reward in the form of a giant cupcake made by someone who got to celebrate with us, someone who knew we loved extra frosting and lots of sprinkles! But, that’s not how it goes.

Life. Sometimes you don’t get to have the cupcake and certainly no sprinkles. But, you know what… sometimes you do. After all, the sprinkle container is nearly empty, and truth be told, it’s got probably half a dozen sprinkle container friends in the cabinet with it, they are all half full at best. This means that there have been lots of celebration days. There’s been plenty of sprinkle shakin’ going on, and you have to remember that on a day when you can’t see past the garlic powder and red pepper flakes.

As mentioned earlier, I woke up sad. Today one of my daughters best friends was going to be leaving us. The rainbow bridge was waiting, and this beautiful four legged loyal boy was about to cross, while we, his people stay behind. It’s gut-wrenching. So yep, we’re all sad here tonight. Hopefully in the next few weeks we will get back to remembering the fun, the playfulness and the memories that were all sprinkle days. By the way…the fact that the sprinkles are rainbow colored has not escaped me. Thanks for taking care of my girl Benny Boy~ we’ll take it from here.

Till next time~ Erin

It’s Christmas time!

One week from today the “littles” will wake up to see what Santa has brought, there will no doubt be excitement.
I recall when the “littles” were my kids, and we were deep in tradition. The tree was decorated by the four of us, boys did the lights, girls did the ornaments. Undoubtedly this meant a trip to the hardware store for something, eventually even that became a tradition.

We would recount the story of nearly every ornament as they were placed. Grandma painted those, that was from Aunties birthday party, that one was a gift from your teacher who kept booze in her desk drawer. The clear ornaments have paint we applied with plastic forks one year when we didn’t have money to buy shiny new ones. They are all equally important.

I was always the one in charge of wrapping the white ribbon around the tree, and the angel made of raffia ribbon was always put on last.

Next, our book of bucket list items. We would all sit and read the list we’ve added to for years, if we accomplished the dream that years date was written next to the dream. My daughter wanted to swim with the dolphins, my son wanting to crowd surf…etc etc.

On Christmas morning egg casserole always baked while we opened our gifts, and gifts never started without Dad and Mom having a cup of coffee in hand, no matter how early my daughter woke the house.

The last few years the littles haven’t been my kids, they’ve been my Grandkids. Things change, and with change brings stunning beauty if you’re willing to see it.

Our tree is smaller now ( the hubby tweeked his back lugging the old one upstairs years ago) We’re older and wiser now so we follow my moms lead and put the tree away with the lights still on each year.

The Grandkids anxiously await their turn to place an ornament on the tree, and each ornament seems to have a new life through their eyes. Now the stories start with “Your Daddy” or “Your Mommy” as they are told, and the bottom of the tree is heavy from the little hands being in charge. It’s perfection.

I still place the ribbon, but the older Grand Daughters convinced me to replace the old raffia ribbon angel, we now have a grand gal with white feather wings and an illuminated dress that changes colors. She’s really too grand for our tree, and she seems to know it as she leans forward looking like she wants to jump off.

A lot of our other Christmas decor remains unboxed. Instead, the kids have made snowflakes and paper chains that decorate the house. They remind me of days long ago.

Simple. Child like. Perfect.

The bucket list never gets unpacked. I guess because looking around here, there is nothing else that we could possibly want. ❤️

Till next time~ Erin

It wasn’t too long ago I spent the day “killin’ time.” I had made so many trips to Hobby Lobby during the day’s I stayed with my son in law and Grandkids that my phones GPS just assumed when I got in my car that I was heading into Macon to spent an hour looking at things I had no reason to buy.
On this particular day, I wasn’t having it. I drove and drove (for awhile in the wrong direction) and eventually ended up in a tiny town called Bolingbroke. I found a quaint shop to peak around in. Stumbling across a suitcase of quotes- I knew I had hit my very own jackpot, a full suitcase of dollar quotes typed out on thick card stock!
Looking back, I should have bought more than ten quotes, guess a girl has to stop somewhere. I am with quotes, like some gals are with shoes, makeup or bras. They are collectors of the ones that make them fall in love, stir them all up inside like brownie batter- my husband I’m sure is glad that my taste is all about the one dollar quotes in a suitcase. So am I.
This particular card hit me.

I’ve always believed it to be true.

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”- Robert Brault.

Let’s talk about… “Pudding with a crust.” This was the cook and serve pudding my mom would make. As it cooled, the top became crust like, and therefore us kids referred to it as such. That phrase is still going strong in our family tree fifty years later. I still make cook and serve pudding, I still call the top rubbery layer, “crust.”

Dancing while bread toasted… Now this would have been a fun memory if my sister and I had put this into motion, it’s made only more fun by the fact that it was our Dad, our giant hero among men, who would put his finger on his head and spin like a ballerina while his bread toasted and his daughters belly laughed.

Our “second parents” … these were my folks great friends. They never had children of their own, but, what they did have were friends with five kids who they could spoil, tease and laugh with. We were blessed that from time to time they would allow my sister and I to stay at their house with our cousins and the daughter of another close friend. They would teach us military cadences and have us march in lock step to the root beer stand down the street- than it was leap frog home and penny candies from the corner store till we were literally sick. We would later read Cinderella from the real Grimms’ Fairytale- anyone else recall that those step sisters were willing to cut off toes to fit in that damn glass slipper?
oh the memories….

I’m not sure what my kids would tell you their little things were… that’s up to them to recall and reflect. I pray they hold several in their hearts. Now that I’m blessed to have so many Grandkids, I have to say that I hope our everyday interaction will result in the small things becoming the big things some day. You can’t force the happenings- what people will remember and cherish are not the elaborate purchases, extravagant parties and alike. They’ll remember perhaps that you could spin like a ballerina, or that you were fed penny candy till you literally couldn’t eat another piece.
Today, reflect. Give thanks to those who have added to your little things.
Til next time– Erin

Not long ago, I discussed with a friend the difference between my eighties wedding and today’s weddings. This brought up some fun and interesting topics and gave me the platform for this post…..

My wedding photos didn’t get a single “like” on Facebook. There were no heart emojis…not a single comment.

For this, I am forever grateful.

I don’t know how brides nowadays handle the pressure, between Facebook and Pinterest there‘s a lot of pressures to be met. As much as I enjoy both platforms I think they’ve ruined today’s weddings.

This summer I celebrated thirty three years of marriage. It’s hard to wrap my head around that number. My Dad has always said “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” If I look at time passed from that perspective, I honestly would say it feels like maybe twenty years had passed. It’s a blessing to be able to say it’s been thirty three (Thirty good, the other I shall refer to as character building)

In today’s Facebook/Pinterest world brides are sold the fairy tale early. There are boards being made that are beyond reality and certainly over budgets. The thought of it is depressing.

Brides in the eighties were not worried about what the world would see on social media, and can we all give a big “Thank you Lord” for that! Can we also all agree that eighties bridal wasn’t really Facebook worthy? So, if your biggest concern is what the world will see while viewing your photos on social media… seriously stop yourself. If at the end of the day you’re married to the person you couldn’t live without ~ your day has been a success.

My wedding was July 1986~ I was eighteen and my husband was nineteen. That in itself is a challenging way to start a marriage. The cards were stacked against us, boy is it good that we are both stubborn.
I do not recall having a budget for our wedding, to this day I have no idea what our wedding cost. I know I mentioned that I “kind of sort of knew a lady who baked“ she quickly became our cake lady. I made all the silk flower bouquets- except my own, and my mother in law hand wrote our invitations then they were printed at the printer. I paid for my own dress with my waitressing tips, and I really only recall one conversation about pricing for a banquet hall, it was new, beautiful and twenty two dollars a plate~ that wasn’t going to happen.

During our pre marriage counseling that was required by our church I remember the pastor asking “What do you think you’ll do on your twenty fifth anniversary?” I of course went immediately into party mode. I would plan a great party…yadda yadda …. when I got done with all the details the pastor just smiled and said “Just knowing you see yourself together in twenty five years is encouraging.”

The day of our wedding the air at our church went out. Our guests waited in a hot, sticky chapel. I still remember being anxious to “get on with it” as we waited for my husbands Great Aunt and Uncle to arrive. They of course finally did, and it was game on! As soon as the door to the chapel opened I remember seeing my husband at the front of the church – I saw no one else. I was immediately calm.

We drove to our reception in my folks old Cadillac, tin cans and all. Our reception was held in the top floor banquet room of a Chinese restaurant, there was no theme, no decor unless you count that each table had a table cloth. There would be food, we would sit, we would eat we would partake of under age drinking…we never gave the rest a thought. Phil, the owner of the restaurant had become a first time father that week so our guests pulled in and we’re greeted with a marquee that read “ITS A GIRL” in big block letters. This caused much laughter (and questions). I’m sure some of our guests were surprised that our first child, a son would arrive three and a half years later.

The wedding cake we had commissioned from the gal who worked out of her home fell short of what we expected. It had been all the rage in the eighties to have three cakes that connected by stairs (I have no idea why) our gal of course forgot our stairs, and there sat our pathetic unconnected cakes. We ate it anyway, not a word was spoken about the missing stairs.

I think back to my wedding day often, it was a great day! So many great family members and friends, but not a single thing about it would pass the grade today. There were few requirements back then. Good food, fun music, open bar… that was good enough. I wonder, what would I change from that day if I could? All I can say is I would have stood still more. I would have let it all sink in for just a few minutes~ because the day flies by.

So I look back, I have no regrets that there aren’t any close up photos of the lace on my dress, our rings or my rockin hat. No “first look” photo or anything you’d see today. Today, I can’t even find my wedding album, ya know the one I thought I’d treasure forever. I do have a small brag book filled with Polaroids my husband calls our “poor mans pictures.”

So, I’m glad I didn’t get a single thumbs up, but instead got the man of my dreams, and a lifetime of simple memories. It’s reflection like this that reminds me what’s important in this life that I’m so passionate about.

Til next time~ Erin

So, here I am trying to figure out the extended passion I’m looking for. This blog has become a lifeline to my soul- it has given me a reason to look at things going on around me longer, and more closely then before- it’s caused me to truly want the best for myself and others because I feel like a weight I had hanging around my dreams has been lifted.

Since writing again I’ve watched life more closely- I’ve paid attention to myself more closely. What I would usually brush aside I don’t- what used to rattle me, I won’t allow.
Here are a couple realizations about strangers, and openness.

Life has given me plenty of opportunity for reflection lately. I had my oldest child get married the first weekend of October. That’s an eye opener. Talk about reflection and having the Kenny Chesney song “Don’t Blink” playing on a continual loop inside your brain. Watching a child get married will cause such a phenomenon.
I also had my youngest child and her family move “home” from halfway across the country, a blessing we never thought could happen but is now a reality! To reference another country song “I’ve learned to never underestimate the impossible.”

Then, a phone call from University of Michigan hospital yesterday to report some not great news on my heart which has been giving me trouble since May….so yes, I’ve been on reflection overload.

So, let’s get back to looking at life closely, really closely. I know it’s easy to just keep things status quo. What’s not easy is to look back in a year, five years or twenty, and see that you’ve not lived your passion. Knowing that you only get one chance at life-ONE! Knowing you didn’t feel like you were worth the effort it would take to be passionate about life is…sad.

I submit exhibit one… I had to travel last month, two flights between Georgia and Michigan. My longest flight found me stuck next to a couple who wanted nothing to do with eye contact let alone conversation- so I napped with my headphones on. For my shorter flight I flew seated next to the sweetest gal, the same age as my daughter. She was on her way back from a business trip in Utah, and we struck up a conversation about work. She is in sales although she really wants to be a teacher. I told her my daughter is a teacher, and she and I spoke about how her mother had taught for thirty plus years, but it’s her mother who had encouraged her NOT to teach because she wouldn’t earn a “healthy paycheck. “
Toward the end of our flight this sweet gal says “I really should teach, right?” It was said out load, as a question but really not directed to anyone. I think she was throwing it out to the universe. She followed that with, “I mean who wants to go through life and not try to fulfill their passion.” She literally says this, to someone whose writing about “passion!”
Kismet!

Here’s hoping she does what her heart tells her to do. Since when was a paycheck with a bigger number on it worth more than a soul that’s fulfilled?

So, visualize your on a plane and you’re talking to a stranger you’ll probably never see again…what’s your best airplane seat realization? What do you admit out loud to strangers you’ll never see again? The realization might startle you. Things we speak out Loud are powerful.
Things we speak out loud to strangers are sometimes more powerful!

I submit exhibit two…. Recently I was invited to join a Facebook group for folks who have had open heart surgery. A week or so ago a gal asked the question “What do you not admit to your family?” The response was startling! I can’t recall how many folks commented, but it was well over one hundred- all willing to tell strangers things they wouldn’t tell their families. The reasons all varied, but very few people said they were an open book to their own families. Me included.

So listen to what it is you tell yourself…listen closer to what you tell a stranger.

Till next time~
Erin