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Sunrise at Long Key

A Ray of Sunshine

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We’ve been friends since the moment we connected on a beach somewhere between Galilee and Jerusalem in the summer of 2021. His name is Ray. Smart. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Single again.

When I told him about my dream to ride in 50 states, he encouraged me to go where my heart led me. “Follow your dreams,” he said. Being from Connecticut, he was familiar with Galilee and Jerusalem, Rhode Island. He gave me directions to a lighthouse and suggestions on where to camp in my motorhome. 

Since I started writing Finding Joy, my memoir about riding my bike in every state, which includes the people I meet, the places I visit, and the challenges I overcome as I travel in my RV, he has supported me 100%. He supports me by reading my blogs and the articles I have written for Calhoun Magazine and posting comments on my Facebook page. He will be in my second book, where I will write about my adventures on the east coast. 

Ray texted, called, and emailed regularly for 2 ½ years. This past fall he invited me to come visit him in the sunshine state, where he often winters. 

When January rolled around, Ray and I talked more seriously about making such a visit happen. He measured his driveway. I sent him all manner of measurements of my motorhome. When it was clear the driveway wasn’t going to work, we talked about a nearby $6.00 a night parking spot, and then state parks within 30 miles. No dice on the parking lot and no vacancies at the state parks. We kept at it—discussing options every few days until finally I secured a site for an entire month in his same complex. 

After a week of driving, visiting friends on the gulf, and a night in the Everglades, I arrived in Long Key on March 1st. Ray met me at the gate to the complex and escorted me to my site via a golf cart as though he were the owner of a KOA. Within the hour, Ray took his daughter and me to dinner at an outdoor bar and grill with live music. He picked up the check. 

On Saturday, Ray gave me the royal tour of the resort, complete with a visit to the gym, the pool, and the library. Because I could not get a Wi-Fi connection at my site or the library, Ray invited me to his place so I could send a few emails. While distracted by emails, I heard Ray talking to his television. “ESPN. ESPN 2. Women’s basketball.” When I looked up, he and his daughter were watching a women’s U Conn basketball game. I discovered he keeps up with college and pro ball, especially the women. And by “keeps up with” I mean he goes to games, and he knows the players, their stats, rankings, schedules . . . everything. 

Sunday, he took us to Key Colony Beach Days, a festival with live music, food and 60 vendors. We watched more women’s basketball Sunday night before discussing our plans for the week/month. He wants to support me as I make time to write and ride my bike. Monday I would ride and join him and his daughter at the pool before the men’s basketball games start on TV. Tuesday: poker plus an RV repair appointment and shopping. Wednesday: a cornhole tournament. Thursday: The No Name Pub plus deer and alligator hunting. Friday: Sombrero Beach. Saturday: another festival. Sunday . . .

Then before another daughter comes to celebrate his birthday on March 27th with a boat tour and train ride in Key West, we have to fit in golf, fishing, a nautical flea market, a seafood festival, a sea turtle hospital and a dolphin research center, the Butterfly Building in Key West, a movie, the Hemingway House, a boat ride to Dry Tortugas National Park, a play at the Marathon Community Theater, and as many days at the beach and pool as we can fit in. On top of this, I am supposed to write and ride my bike six days a week? This man is going to wear me out! Next year, he plans to go skydiving for his birthday . . . his 95th. 

I think I’m going to be busy that day. 

Books on Table

From the Competitive World to the Cooperative World

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I spent the better part of my physical education teaching career fighting against the competitive nature of sports and fitness. In my classes, children learned cooperative games and activities which still had a competitive aspect but focused on teamwork. For example, partners might count how many times they could hit a ball back and forth, or how many passes they could complete in thirty seconds. Students played small group games such as 2-player kickball, or 2-on-2 soccer. There was no “standing around” waiting for a turn in my gym. My philosophy was that if children learn by doing, then they need to be doing. 

In class, I taught students games they could play at home or at recess to improve individual skills, but the concept did not resonate with many of them. My students rarely played the games I taught them outside of my class. It felt like a losing battle. The world teaches us to be competitive even in non-competitive tasks. Who can read the most books? How fast can you recite your times tables? Who is the best speller in your school? Don’t just play the trumpet, be first chair.

Now that I have begun a second career as a writer, I believe I have found my niche. Writers support writers! Last weekend I attended the Georgia Writers Museum Writers Retreat in Eatonton, Georgia and you could not find a more diverse group. Attendees and presenters came from all walks of life. In attendance were more women than men, more Baby Boomers than Gen Zers, more fiction novelists than non-fiction writers, and more experienced writers than newbies and  every one of them was there to learn, encourage, help, and teach, for the weekend and beyond. Lou Benjamin, co-founder, and current president of the Georgia Writers Museum said he’s never encountered a more supportive group of people than writers. 

On my way to the retreat, I received the book Boys in the Boat, by New York Times bestselling author, Daniel James Brown, from Bob at The Crazy Book Lady Bookstore, where the owner, Stacey, shows her support of local writers with a collection of area writer’s books displayed prominently for all patrons to see. There is no finite number of successful writers. We know most of us will never achieve Nora Roberts, Stephen King, James Patterson, or J. K. Rowling’s status, but the success of my fellow writers does not mean I cannot succeed too. In the writer’s world, there is always room for one more book on the shelf. 

Once home, I emailed a few presenters, thanking them for their time and information. Every single one of them responded within hours with more encouragement and a promise to help me in any way they can. Writers make me proud to be one of them. If somehow, in the algorithms of the world wide web, I can repay them, I want to express my gratitude to the writers I had the privilege of learning from last weekend. Thank you to these writers who have embraced me in their cooperative world—a world where everyone can be a winner. Please check out their sites. 

Keynote Speakers: 

Joshilyn Jackson, www.joshilynjackson.com

 Love Hudson-Maggio, www.lovehudsonmaggio.com 

Jennifer Moorman, www.jennifermoorman.com 

Presenters: 

Kristine Anderson, Crooked Truth, www.kristinefanderson.com 

Beverly J. Armento, Seeing Eye Girl: A Memoir of Madness, Resilience, and Hope www.beverlyarmentoauthor.com 

Chip R. Bell, Inside Your Customer’s Imagination plus 23 other books on creating innovative customer experiences www.chipbell.com  

Melinda Farris, first novel almost ready for publication, www.melindasfarris.com 

Rona Simmons, A Gathering of Men and The Other Veterans of World War II: Stories from Behind the Front Lines www.ronasimmons.com 

Samantha Sorelle, The Gentleman’s Gentleman and five other M/M historical romances www.samanthasorelle.com 

Friends: 

Millicent Flake, Moving Beyond: Journeying Through Life’s Changes www.underthemagnoliatree.com

Ann F. Beach, MD, ready for publication, Sick Kids: Solving Medical Mysteries in Children (50 true stories of pediatric patients who arrived at the hospital with one diagnosis, and went home with another) www.annfbeach.com 

Editor: Mari Ann Stefanelli www.thewritershigh.com  What have you experienced in your line of work? Do you see more competition or cooperation? Please scroll down to comment. 

owl in the night

I Can’t

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“3 am is the hour of writers, painters, poets, musicians, silence seekers, overthinkers and creative people.

We know who you are. We can see your light on. Keep on keeping on.”

Author Unknown

We teach children to never say the words, “I can’t.” Do we ever reach an age where we are allowed to say those words? Because, frankly, I think I have earned the right.  

I have been working on my first book for two years now. Finding Joy is almost ready for an editor, but I have been editing it for so long, a few friends have said, “Oh, I thought you already finished that book.” 

Since my Consistency post, I have written almost every day. My intent was to write in the morning every day, so that if something else took my time later in the day, I would have already completed my most important task. Although I have had periods of success with writing in the morning, I have yet to make it a habit and I doubt my ability to make it as a morning writer. Like an alcoholic who wants to quit drinking, I long to be a morning person, but I just can’t make that happen.

As the youngest in my family, I never wanted to go to bed for fear of missing out on something. Back then, I didn’t know FOMO (fear of missing out) would become a psychological condition and I would be the poster child. Not having a bedtime wasn’t a problem until I turned five and had to wake early for school with the rest of the family. 

Most nights from age 5-18 I stayed up with Dad to watch the 11:00 news and Johnny Carson. For you Baby Boomers, we often watched through the end of the National Anthem until we saw the snow—the official “time to go to bed” signal. Not surprisingly, I struggled to stay awake in school. Sometimes in high school, I skipped Johnny to study for a test or write a paper. In college, I hung out with my suite mates until they went to bed and then I would sit in the quiet hallway to study or write a paper. 

When did I work on my dissertation? You guessed it. Research and writing happened late at night. By 10:00, I would plunge into hyper-focus and write with vigor, counting the hours before time for work. Nearly every paper—including my dissertation—I wrote in the wee hours. Now, as I type, my mantle clock just struck two times, and the sun is not shining through my windows. 

Five months ago, I cut out sugar and caffeine. I thought that would fix me. On and off for years, I unabashedly used caffeine as a sleep substitute. Not consuming caffeine and sugar, I thought, would allow me to sleep better and finally get myself on a schedule like normal people. So far, it hasn’t worked. When I set the alarm and wake before my body says it’s had enough sleep, I don’t sleep well because I know the alarm is about to startle me awake and then I nod off in front of my computer. My mother told me and now studies have affirmed her wisdom by proving we get our best sleep from 10pm to 2am, yet that seems to be my natural writing time. 

Last fall I read the book Miracle Morning for Writers by Hal Elrod, Steve Scott, and Honoree Corder—twice! The authors recommend setting an alarm, keeping a consistent schedule, and writing first thing in the morning. They suggest first to splash water on your face, brush your teeth, drink water and coffee—if you drink coffee—exercise, shower and then write while you are fresh. Authors Jerry Jenkins and Stephen King suggest similar routines. Jerry says he usually checks his email before he writes so he can then focus on his writing. Now, if I exercise, shower, and check email before I write, I’m ready to eat, which makes me sleepy. My morning writing routine promptly goes out the window.In If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Numeroff, I’m the mouse. 

I am like an addict who still believes she can drink like normal people. The age-old definition of stupidity rings in my head: “continuing to do what you’ve always done, expecting different results.” Is it possible for me to become a morning writer without going back to an alarm and caffeine and sugar? Or after over 50 years of trying, am I allowed to say, “I can’t?” 

Do you have a similar struggle? Please scroll down and share below.

George and Joy

George

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I

In the summer of 2019, I was riding my bike on a bike path in Austin, Minnesota. I had only gotten lost twice before I passed a white-haired gentleman on a three-speed trike, stopped at the foot of a slope. I made a U-turn and asked if he needed help. The man said he could not change gears. He dismounted, and I rode his bike down the hill to change into an easier gear. A push up the hill gave him momentum to keep the pedals turning.

We exchanged names and “good days” and rode in opposite directions. After ¼ mile, I turned back. Sure enough, he needed another push. Riding alongside him, I pushed my new friend up the hills of Austin for the next twenty minutes. We chatted as we pedaled. George said he loved Austin—told me he never wanted to live anywhere else. He said he used to play tennis and told me he knew Jan, the owner of Rydjor Bike Shop, where I had just taken my bike for a brake adjustment.

As we rode up to a massive three-story white brick building, George thanked me for helping him get back home. My mouth dropped open when I read the massive sign in front. It said, “Cedars Senior Living Community, A Place to Call Home.” George lived in an assisted living/nursing home. 

George and I chained up his bike, walked through the dimly lit garage, and slipped into an unlocked back door. He plopped into a cozy, orange tweed chair in a sitting area outside the dining room, wiped his brow and gulped a glass of water. As we sat together, George shared his story with me.

“You know, this building we’re in was originally a hotel. My wife and I stayed here on our honeymoon. It was the nicest place in town then. This is where we began our lives together . . . and my dear bride took her last breath here in December, a week before Christmas. We moved here last summer when I could not take care of her by myself anymore. It’s been hard, but I’m thankful I was here with her, holding her hand when she passed. I miss her, but I know she’s in a better place.”

Nodding, I told George I hated to go. We hugged, took a couple of selfies, and said goodbye. My heart ached.

His head dropped as I turned to walk away. I could have and should have stayed to listen to more stories—sat and held his hand a little longer. I think of George often. How he had gotten so far from home, I will never know, and I still wonder what he would have done had I not been riding by.

Months later, when I looked back at my photos, I realized George’s story might not be entirely true. The building where he lived did not look that old. I looked at the website and learned The Cedars Senior Living Community building was only 30 years old. Disappointed, I realized George must have been mistaken about him and his bride staying in the same building for their honeymoon. It made for a sweet story, though.

However . . . upon further investigation, I discovered they built the new assisted living addition to connect to the old motel in town. What used to be the Red Cedar Inn has become the memory care unit of The Cedars. George’s story was true!

George died at The Cedars last year. I thought you should know the world lost a good man. Rest in peace, George. Rest in peace. Is there someone in your past you wish you had spent a little more time with? Please scroll down and share below.

Start

Starter’s Day

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Friday, January 12th has been called “Quitter’s Day.” By Martin Luther King Jr. weekend, most people have quit on their New Year’s resolutions. To keep from being a statistic, many don’t set goals. “If I don’t set goals, I can’t be accused of quitting,” goes the logic. Some say, “It’s too hard to keep them, so why bother setting goals or New Year’s resolutions?”

 I say let’s call today, “Starter’s Day.” For twelve years, I have been choosing a one-word theme to focus on for the year. My word this year is focus. I’m focusing on the most important things: relationships, writing, reading, fitness, food, and fun. If I don’t determine this is the year to do XYZ, then where will I be next year? You might think I would be right here, stuck in the same place. However, life doesn’t work that way. If I don’t work my muscles, they atrophy. Next year may be too late to start eating healthier. If I don’t finish the book this year, it may never get written. 

 After my One Word Can Change the World blog, many of you mentioned you were going to pick a focus word for the year. If you did that, kudos to you. If you still know what word you picked but have not focused on it as much as you had hoped, you are not alone. Most people did not pick a word, set any goals, or resolve to do anything different. And the ones who did, have already quit on their goals, but as Jon Acuff says, “You are not most people.” 

For the first two weeks of this year, I have focused so much on my book Finding Joy, that I have not been riding my bike. And for no better reason than “it’s the holidays,” I have slacked on the “no sugar” pact I made in August. Even though I am holding firm on no caffeine, I allowed sugar to creep back in via its cousin maple syrup. 

My priority is to finish my book and keep this blog going, which means my life may get a little out of balance for a time. Still, my health, fitness, and relationship goals are very important. I can’t say, “I will ride my bike and spend time with my family after I publish all the books I want to write.” Somehow, all the plates need to keep spinning, even if some of them spin a little slower for a time. 

If this is you, I say, let’s re-focus, reset, start again. It is never too late to get started or recommit. Doing something is better than doing nothing. If you set some goals, take this time to re-evaluate. Make your goals realistic and based on your past. If you finished three books last year, maybe your goal to read 52 this year is a bit too ambitious. Can you combine two goals like exercising with someone you want to spend more time with? 

Let’s focus on our why. My why is, I said I was going to write. I want to be the person who does what she says she is going to do. If you picked the word healthy because you want to be around to play with your grandchildren, it makes staying focused easier. Let’s also focus on daily, weekly, monthly, and quarterly tasks and chart our progress with something visual, like a calendar. 

If your word is organized, you may pick an area of your home to get in order each month, so December doesn’t sneak up on you and you find your house looking the same as it does today. Also, preparing for setbacks and distractions will help us stay on track. Appointments and errands arise, pipes break, and friends call. If we plan to get a task finished by Thursday and something comes up, we still have Friday to get it done.

Are you in? Are you ready to do this? Let’s start again today. Let me know how your year is going in the comments below, or feel free to email me. Here’s to a new year, a new you, a new start. Happy Starter’s Day!

Focus

One Word Can Change the World

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In January 2012, I heard a morning DJ talk about picking a one-word theme for the year rather than making a bunch of New Year’s resolutions she could not keep. Her idea resonated with me. That very day I picked the word organize to be my word for the year. Getting organized was not easy for me, but picking that word to keep in mind was doable. One word continuously on my mind was much simpler for me than a half dozen goals. 

That year, I focused on getting every part of my life in order: my work desk and routine, dressers and closets, the bills, the garage—everything I could think of. At the end of the year, my world was far from perfect, but it was way more organized than if I hadn’t focused on getting organized.

The following year, I moved organize to the back of the filing cabinet of my mind and focused on the word balance. I attempted to maintain balance in my life while remembering to keep things organized. 

2014 brought on the word efficiency followed by health in 2015. Each year, as I add a word, I try to keep the previous words in mind. Thus, becoming better and more focused with each passing year without the pressure of setting and fulfilling or not fulfilling goals or resolutions. 

Early in my focus-word journey, I shared the idea with others who told others. Certainly, if I could, I would go back to that DJ and share with her how that one concept she shared with her listeners on that cold winter commute has changed how I and so many others approach the new year and our lives.

In 2009, Andy Andrews wrote a short, yet powerful read called The Butterfly Effect, How Your Life Matters. Andy’s book is based on the theory presented in 1963 by scientist Edward Lorenz. He hypothesized that a butterfly flapping its wings would move molecules of air, which would move more molecules of air, and so on, which, over time, might start a hurricane on the other side of the world. The point is that everything we do affects the world in some way. Everything we do matters. 

Six months ago, with the help of my friend Kathy, I started this blog. My intent was twofold: to gain experience writing, which will help me in writing my book Finding Joy, and to make a difference in the lives of those who read my blog. What I didn’t expect was how much your support would affect me. The simple acts of reading, commenting, encouraging, and passing along my web address to others have inspired me to do more, to keep flapping my butterfly wings. 

Today I write this post to say thank you for your support. Thank you for flapping your wings, for making a difference, for changing the world. After 12 years of focus words, my word for 2024 is in fact: FOCUS. I intend to focus on writing Finding Joy and this blog. But more importantly, I want to focus on you. If there is anything I can do to support you, please let me know. May 2024 be all that you hope for and more. 

What are your thoughts on New Year’s resolutions, focus words, and the butterfly effect? Please comment below. 

Santa Claus

A Heartbreaking Christmas

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Christmas Eve, 1972

The family was rushing around, getting ready for Santa’s arrival. Santa always scheduled his visit to the Walker family shortly after they returned from church on Christmas Eve. My older sisters told the rest of us not to go into their room. Presumably, they were wrapping gifts. Mom said she had the kitchen under control. 

So, my twelve-year-old sister and I hung out in our bedroom, conveniently located in the front of the house. Someone had told us Santa might not stop at our house if he saw us peeping. The crab apple tree on the front lawn would block Santa’s view of our windows, we reasoned. Cathy and I promised each other we would run away from the windows as soon as we got a glimpse of the reindeer. We just needed to see how they would land.

After lying at the foot of our bed for an eternity with no outside activity detected, I left Cathy on duty, with strict instructions to yell “Santa’s here!” if he arrived before I got back. I told her I could peek out the bathroom window if necessary. While I was taking care of business, our wise, middle sister slipped in and caught Cathy peeking out the window. She seized the opportunity to tell Cathy “the truth”. 

“You’re too old to still believe in Santa Claus,” she said. Sandi told Cathy our parents paid Santa to come open presents with us. He was the same guy who “played Santa” at Wolf and Dessauer downtown, she explained. 

Cathy protested. “I know. That’s why I know he’s real.” 

“Since you and Joy still believe, mom and dad have to keep hiring the man to come to our house. Haven’t you ever wondered why he always makes excuses about why we can’t see the reindeer or his sleigh? He pulls up every year in that beat up old station wagon and tells us he left the sleigh at the park or some such nonsense. Just think about it for a minute, Cathy. There’s no way one man could get around the whole world in one night. There’s no such thing as magic. Don’t tell Mom and Dad I said anything. I just thought you should know before he gets here.” 

And with that, Sandi slipped out as stealthily as she slipped in.

When I returned from the bathroom, Cathy had to tell me the entire story. Everything Sandi told her, she repeated to me. Cathy couldn’t bear to keep the news to herself, and she didn’t think it would be fair to keep news that big from me. The problem was that I was an eight-year-old second grader with the naivety of a kindergartener. 

Santa had been coming to our house every year of my life. Days earlier, I had taken a picture to school of first grade me in my living room sitting on Saint Nick’s lap. With my friends, I had gained celebrity status. The picture of me sitting with the big guy with the white beard at my house was all the proof we needed.

Cathy and I were now in this thing together. When Santa arrived, we tried to act excited. The two of us went through the motions, but our faces told the truth. We were no longer innocent believers. We sang carols with Santa and answered his questions about the true meaning of Christmas as we always did, but it wasn’t the same. Each of us opened a gift or two while Santa watched. More than once I said, “Oh, thank you Mom and . . . I mean, thank you Santa!” 

Cathy and I had to continue with the Christmas tradition as though our world had not just been uprooted. Our Santa hugs and goodbyes were no longer genuine—no longer were they from the naivete of childhood. Cathy and I had grown from innocence to omniscient in the flash of an evening. 

Now I look back at that Christmas as the most memorable of my childhood. But it was not until I thought about writing this blog that I considered my parents. Mom and Dad never asked us why we no longer believed in Santa. They never mentioned that the end of this tradition—a tradition that had started with my mother’s family when she was a girl—had broken their hearts, too.

Their babies were growing up. That had to be difficult. Santa would not return to the Walker home until grandchildren arrived many years later. The Christmas with the saddest memory for Cathy and me was perhaps the most heartbreaking for our parents as well. 

Do you have a similar story of family traditions? Please share below.

Bison walking

There, but by the Grace of God

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In the process of editing my first book, Finding Joy, I re-read this story about a memorable bike ride at Teddy Roosevelt National Park in South Dakota. I thought I’d share it with you. Before you read my story, here are four random facts you may or may not know: 1. Bison are generally docile, until they are not. 2. The males weigh 2000 pounds. 3. They can run over 30 mph if they get inspired. 4. Bison do not like to be challenged.

 Twelve miles into my ride, an older couple in a white GMC Denali passed me going up a hill and then grinned and waved as I passed them on the way down. I descended at an exhilarating 30-plus-mph pace in the 25-mph zone. But as I neared the bottom of the hill, I noticed three bison on my left. Cars stopped. People were taking pictures from their windows. I squeezed the brakes hard. Ahead of me stood a lone bull, eating on the side of the road. He was facing me. 

He was closer than 50 yards and several members of his family ambled close behind. I stopped, pulled out my phone, took a picture, and then started a video. Two seconds into the video, the bull looked up and started walking toward me. I didn’t figure he was approaching because he wanted to lick my face, have me pet him, or join me for a selfie. My phone made its way back into my jersey pocket in a flash, and I whispered a sincere apology for having taken a photograph without his consent.

Now, I know there is a fine line between brave and stupid. A has-been amateur cyclist standing at the bottom of a hill in the wrong gear, facing a bison, seemed much closer to stupid than brave. The bull told me I had crossed the line when I pulled out my phone. Please don’t ask me what I was thinking. I obviously wasn’t. 

Monitoring his movements, but not making direct eye contact, I did a 180 with my bike. No longer interested in grazing on the lush grass, the bull lumbered in my direction. After awkwardly shifting gears, I climbed the hill I had raced down at 30 mph seconds earlier. I glanced back. Now on the pavement, the bull walked directly behind me and commenced to close the gap. Forty yards. Thirty yards. Twenty. I kept climbing at a slow, labored pace, looking back every few pedal strokes to watch him still lumbering toward me. 

He wasn’t charging, but was he walking faster? I couldn’t tell, but he was tracking me. Of that, I was certain. As I continued, I inched past the three bison, now on my right. They heard my heart beating, for sure. It not only beat in my chest; it thumped in my ears faster and faster as a timpani crescendo in the last few measures of a symphony. 

After two minutes, and what seemed like ten, the gap was too close for comfort. I picked up my pace—as much as a retired girl with bad knees and aching feet can pick up the pace on a 10% grade without bison assuming she wanted to play tag. The bull continued at his same labored pace. My wobbly legs somehow gained a few yards on him, and then a few more. And then . . . a few more. It was not until I crested the climb and began a lightning-fast descent that I felt safe. 

That was way too close for comfort. I thanked God that the bull didn’t pick up speed and come after me.

It killed me to not get more pictures and videos. However, if I had stayed for more photos, perhaps the bison would have killed me. My heart continued to race long after I topped that hill, but I was alive. I have seen many stories involving bison and stupid people on national news feeds and YouTube videos of bison goring and stampeding spectators. As the saying goes, “there but by the grace of God, go I.”

Have you had any close encounters with bison or any other animals? Please share below.

 

Helen Bracelet

Lessons from My Mom

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Her name was Helen Margaret Koenke Walker. Today, Thanksgiving Day, would have been her 95th birthday. She was a teach-by-example kind of mother. Helen taught her children to be good parents and teachers and workers by being a good parent and teacher and worker. 

One of my sisters said there are two kinds of moms: bike-riding moms, and moms who stayed home or watched. Our mom was a bike-riding mom. She had a zest for life—always ready for a new adventure. As her children, we were both grateful and proud of that. Mom was a curious, lifelong learner before that was a term. Helen instilled in her children compassion, and a love of God, people, nature, water, travel, music, and knowledge. Following are some life-lessons from a wise, wise woman. 

Pray about it first–This was mom’s advice every time we came to her with a problem or for guidance on a difficult decision we had to make. 

Don’t quit—It’s okay to try, and fail, but it’s not okay to quit. It’s not okay to not give it your best effort. Walkers are not quitters. 

People are more important than things—When someone needed her advice, our mother gave them her undivided attention. She could always clean the house later. If an heirloom got broken or an accident totaled a car, her first concern was the safety of the people involved. We can replace cars. We cannot replace people.

Work while you are on the clock—It seems like a given, but it would surprise you to know what people do at work that is not work, and how bosses notice when you are working. Don’t steal your company’s time. If you are at work, WORK.

Leave things better than you found them—Campsites, parking lots, and public restrooms always looked better after mom left. If she borrowed something, it was cleaner, full of gas, or repaid two-fold upon its return. 

Listen—Mom was as good as they come when someone needed an ear. She heard what a person was saying and what they were not saying. Yes, she gave advice, good advice, but mom was not thinking about what she wanted to say while the other person talked. She listened. 

Keep your promises—If you tell someone you will be there, BE THERE. When you promise to take your child to the park, TAKE YOUR CHILD TO THE PARK. If you say you will pay them, PAY THEM. 

Be a problem solver—Mom taught her children to figure out how to make it work. Whether it was a problem of transportation, finances, health, childcare, or whatever, her approach was “how can we?” not “we can’t.”

Love is a verb—Mom’s love was never in question. We received her love not only with hugs, kisses, smiles, and laughs, but with her every action. Our mother taught us to cook, clean, get stains out, sew on buttons, share, drive, use a map, read, and more because she loved us and wanted the best for us. She wanted us to enjoy life, but also to be ready for the challenges of the world.

Make every minute count—Helen loved and taught and worked with intention. At age 79, she left this world too soon. She left few material things like clothes, jewelry, and books. Most importantly, Helen left values in her children that will hopefully live on in them and the people they touch. There is a little Helen Walker in all six of her children. And for that, I am forever grateful.

Always say thank you—Thank you, mom for teaching us how to live. And thank you for taking the time to read this blog. You are the reason this blog exists. Thank you for your support. 

What are some lessons you learned from your mother? Are you passing on lessons to the next generation? Please share below.

autumn squash

Thank God for Cold Food

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Thanksgiving is but a week away. I so often get caught up in celebrating the holiday that I forget the purpose of the holiday. This year, as we go around the table sharing what we are thankful for, I hope I can express my sincere gratitude. I pray my food gets cold when we say our prayer of thanksgiving, for I have so much for which to be thankful.

To make this a short story rather than a novel, I cut my list of people, places, things, and ideas for which I am thankful to people only. Yes, I am thankful for my home, my tiny house on wheels, and my bicycles. I live in a safe neighborhood in a free country with hundreds of state and national parks to visit. My pantry and refrigerator are full, and my relationships fill me with what matters most. I’m thankful for more than I could write in a 500-page loose-leaf notebook, but I will start with my parents . . . and their parents . . . and theirs. For without them, I would not be alive to write this list. 

Now that I think about it, though, without you, I may not have seen the need to even write a list. So, maybe I should say, I am most thankful for you. Or maybe my thanks should go to my third and fourth-grade teachers who inspired me to write. Or should I say my debt of gratitude is to my siblings, and my kindergarten, first and second-grade teachers, for they are the ones who instilled the love of reading in me? Now, I cannot forget the doctor who delivered me into this world. Should he get the biggest praise?  Or perhaps my thanks should go to . . .

Well, how about we have an understanding that I wrote this list in no particular order, no order of hierarchy, no order of importance? I am thankful for everyone on this list. So here goes. 

I am thankful for: 

  • my siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and friends
  • people who make me think, and those who challenge me to be better tomorrow 
  • the friends and family members who allow me to park my tiny house in their driveways
  • writers and podcasters who go before me
  • the friends I have met while traveling 
  • my friends and family members who review my rough drafts before they are presentable
  • the guys who change my oil
  • people who scan and bag my groceries
  • former coworkers, teammates, and classmates
  • the employees at Dollar General who always help me find impossible-to-find things
  • neighbors who stay in touch even when I’m traveling
  • bosses, business owners, entrepreneurs, and hard-working employees 
  • my students, teachers, professors, coaches, and mentors
  • upfront and behind-the-scenes staff
  • mechanics, trash collectors, carpenters, bricklayers, and road construction workers
  • writers, readers, editors, publishers and everyone else in the world of the written word
  • chiropractors, dentists, therapists, doctors, nurses, and technicians
  • scientists, plumbers, electricians, politicians, and lawyers
  • white collars and blue collars who hold this country together
  • farmers, military personnel, athletes, entertainers, firefighters, EMTs, and police officers
  • Instagram and Facebook friends
  • the people of Calhoun and Adairsville, Georgia, who have embraced me as one of their own
  • and you who are reading this blog. I cannot express how much your support means to me.

Thank you for honoring me with your readership. I hope you, too, have much to be thankful for. May all of you be blessed with an abundance of cold food this Thanksgiving. 

I would love to hear who or what you are thankful for this year. Please share below.

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