Is Sentiment Genetic?
My daughter recently moved … again. That’s an essay in itself, but I’m still recovering from the ordeal.
Anyway, in the process, I was advising her to start letting go of some things she was holding on to. Moving is a great time to purge, and boy, do I love a purge.
She was going through her card container. I remember moving this a year ago. It is one of those plastic under-the-bed containers that needs two people to move because of the weight. All cards, some going back to her baptism, 33 years ago!
I suggested that this time around, she should go through the container to see if it could be lightened up a bit.
As she was going through the mountain of memories, she found a $ 100 bill in a birthday card from her aunt celebrating her 28th birthday. Okay, did this come at a good time with moving expenses, yes. Did it add to her argument for holding on to cards? Also, a yes.
One thing this did was spark my interest in going through some much smaller containers of my own. Apparently, the guilt of throwing away cards is genetic. Who knew?
I realized I had sympathy cards from the passing of my father 30-plus years ago. I read through them and was pleasantly surprised by some of the senders who haven’t been part of my life for decades. I read them one last time, gave them a quiet farewell, and purged.
Next came birthday cards, ones that made me laugh, brought tears to my eyes, and left me with a full heart. I’ll admit, some of those had to stay. I’m not quite ready to let go of my mother’s handwriting… or the love within it just yet.
As I sorted through the memories, I found myself thinking about the importance of the written word. I know so many people who no longer send cards because of the cost or because, as they say, “I’m just not into cards.” Fair enough. I can understand both, right up until that little voice in my head whispers, I’m not worth a stamp once a year?
But then I remembered what I had just been holding in my hands. What gets lost in those thoughts is the sentiment, the memories, and the tangible evidence that someone existed, that they loved you, and that, for a moment, they stopped what they were doing and put it into words.
I also have a container of cards from someone I never met in person, but who has been part of my world for over a decade. A fellow blogger who appreciates a good card, the written word, and the U.S. Post Office, like me.
As I sat on the floor reading those messages, I was reminded just how much human connection matters.
In a world where texting and disappearing messages have become”normal,” the power of holding a piece of someone’s thoughtfulness in your hands is profound. A card or a letter is so much more than paper and ink; it’s proof that someone took time from their day to say, “I’m thinking of you. I remember you. You matter.
I’ll never second guess sending a written note again.
No wonder my daughter has a hard time throwing these things away. It’s a wonderful notion to remember how much someone, especially those who are no longer physically here, loved you enough to leave a piece of themselves behind.
Looks like we’re not saving cards, we’re saving the love inside them, and somehow the weight of that container feels different now.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Plot Twist: I’m The Glue
A theme has been running through my head since just before Thanksgiving, and it even showed up in some of my recent essays. The feeling of how things once were. The idea that once my mother, the glue of the family, passed, our family dynamic changed. I lost something in my life, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Instead, I invited victimhood and resentment to enter my thoughts. Yes, this dynamic duo is powerful, loud, and moved right in. They have a way of bringing out the worst in me. Given enough airtime, they can turn a quiet moment of grief into a full-blown internal TED Talk on how unfair everything is.
As the holiday season went on, and nothing old was knocking on the door, the longing grew louder by the day. I became determined to identify exactly what I was missing, as if clarity might magically appear, bringing all my answers with it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
So I went inward. The people I think I’m missing aren’t the same people they were six or seven years ago. Truthfully, I don’t know who they are now beyond the occasional smiling square on social media or the obligatory “happy birthday” text. My house of thirty years? No. I genuinely love my new home. The city? Absolutely not. Nice try, nostalgia.
Which leaves me with the lingering question that refuses to leave the room: what have I been yearning for all this time? What unnamed absence cracked the door just enough for grief, and her exhausting friends V and R to wander in, kick off their shoes, and make themselves comfortable?
And then, quietly, the answer arrived. What I was missing wasn’t a person or a place; it was a feeling. The feeling of creating something and offering it to others. Of gathering, giving, and contributing in a way that feels alive and connective.
For decades, I was the one who did that. I was the “glue.” The planner. The one sending the texts, setting the dates, arranging the chairs, and making sure everyone had a place to land. Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing what had always grounded me, and apparently, my nervous system noticed long before I did.
I found the feeling again on Christmas Eve, standing in my own home, hosting. Cooking, arranging, welcoming. Creating space. And there it was, that familiarity. Not the past itself, but its essence. The part that still belongs to me.
I noticed it in my own voice when I talked about the evening later, more energy, more ease. Excitement. Joy. Dare I say passion? It felt good to recognize that part of myself again.
The longing didn’t vanish, but it softened. What I was searching for hadn’t gone anywhere; it was just waiting in the wings for me to show up and set the damn table.
As always … Enjoy the Ride, and have a Happy, healthy, peaceful 2026!
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The Ache of Familiarity
I can’t stop thinking about Rob Reiner. I keep asking myself why. His death has settled into me in a way I can’t quite name. We never met. We shared no friends, no blood, no history. We lived in different orbits, so why does his absence ache like something personal? Why does the knowledge of his death ache?
Yes, the tragic way he left this world weighs on me, of course. But that isn’t the root of it.
The truth came to me in a dream last night; it was familiarity. He had been an integral part of my life for decades, not in person, but in something just as intimate. He was flickering through television screens, filling movie theaters, shaping the background noise of my growing up. And that mattered.
My family watched All in the Family from the very beginning in 1971. I was seven years old, too young to understand the politics or the jokes, but old enough to absorb the feeling of it. The show became a mirror, reflecting my own home back at me. Loud fathers. Quiet mothers. Slamming doors. Arguments that somehow dissolved into laughter. It taught me, without words, that I wasn’t alone, that our chaos was shared, familiar, even lovable. We were the “different” family on the block, and that was okay.
So maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. Not because I knew him, but because he knew something about me. About us. About families and flaws and love that bangs around loudly before settling into laughter.
This feeling of grief that I’m having isn’t necessarily for Rob Reiner the person. It’s for what he gave that seven-year-old little girl in her living room the first time she experienced his work, the gift of recognition. The feeling of being seen before I even knew I needed it.
Rest in peace, Rob Reiner. You certainly enjoyed your ride and made mine better.
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Finding My Way Back To The Table
A group of people who only see each other on special occasions, or on social media, sit around a table for a holiday meal, each one quietly dragging in their childhood trauma like a plus-one. Is this the start of a bad joke, or simply what we’ve all agreed to call “the holidays”?
For decades, I hosted those holidays. I opened my door to everyone: roommates, significant others we never saw again, in-laws, outlaws, and anyone who needed a place to land. Then life did what it does best: it shifted. Everything familiar stretched, cracked, or disappeared altogether.
There were cross-country moves. There was death. There was a divorce. There was a pandemic. And then came the ultimate blow: the glue of the family had the audacity to die. And if your family has a “glue” too, you already know what happened next. Ours is far from the only one that unravelled once the person holding it all together moved on to greener pastures. It’s one of those realities, like menopause, that most people tiptoe around, even though it hits so many of us right in the center of our lives.
So here I am, approaching year five without the glue, still trying to navigate this new version of the holidays while doing my best to keep the connections intact. We’ve gone from everyone reliably gathering under one roof to everyone growing in different directions, at different speeds, with different needs.
My little family of four is now a family of seven spread across multiple states, with a daughter-in-law who brings her own blended family into the mix, plus two grandchildren. It’s been a lot to adjust to in a short span of time. It’s different. But it’s ours, messy, evolving, still figuring out its shape, and slowly, in its imperfect way, becoming a new kind of whole.
Each year, we get a little better at it—at redefining what togetherness looks like, at making the holidays our own, at seeing the beauty in the newness instead of mourning what used to be. And the upside? Fewer dishes to wash. Sometimes the small mercies carry more weight than they should. In this case, they go a surprisingly long way.
Love the ones around you this season. Enjoy the Ride!
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Double Digits
Good ole Merriam-Webster defines a mentor as “an experienced and trusted advisor.” That seems like a big shoe to fill, but nonetheless, these size 11s mentor two children at one of the local elementary schools.
This is my second school year participating in the program, and it is truly a learning experience for all of us. It is no accident that these two kids came into my life. Kids are wonderful teachers.
The boy I see, and I have something very odd in common. There is a significant age gap between our parents; his father had him at 57, just like me. Neither one of us could believe it!
Growing up, having an old dad wasn’t always easy for me; he experienced those challenges, too. While his friends have young, athletic dads right at home, he has an older dad who loves art and music, isn’t into sports, and doesn’t live with him. Being a bit different can be tricky, but it’s part of what makes our stories unique.
In January, my little guy turned 10—yes, double digits. He was excited about his birthday, mainly because he was going to his dad’s house to ride his mini bike. The following week, I was eager to hear about the festivities. We sat down together, and I said, “Okay, I want to hear all about turning 10!” In a whisper, he replied, “My dad passed away two days before my birthday.” Time literally stopped.
This was a moment that really changed everything for me. I was stunned and wrapped my arms around him in a tight hug. He must have noticed how shaken I was because he gently said, “It’s okay; he’s in a better place.” As we talked more, I found out there hadn’t been a service, he wasn’t sick, and his mom and sister were “okay, I guess,” and I was the only one he felt comfortable sharing this with. My head was spinning, but I felt grateful for his trust.
His dad recently taught him how to play a card game and shuffle the deck, so we played cards in his honor. He likes to talk while playing games and beats me every time. He loves to win.
After our session, I contacted the woman in charge of the mentoring program to inquire if the school was notified. His mother never contacted the school, and his teachers had no clue. He never missed a day. Are you kidding me?!
This little angel had been sitting alone for over a week with all kinds of emotions until he told me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m over the moon that we have this bond and that he felt comfortable sharing, but my heart was in a million pieces.
Needless to say, the woman in charge informed his teachers. Apparently, they noticed something was off but didn’t inquire. The other thing I learned was that there are all sorts of services available for him to process this grief professionally at this school, but, of course, he can’t receive them unless his mother calls to make that request. That’s not happening.
I’ve been shaken ever since. I’m navigating my schedule to see him more often, but there will be no contact once summer comes. So many barriers prevent this child from getting help while common sense and humanity sit on the sidelines, shaking their heads. It’s so frustrating!
Sometimes, rules just need to be broken for the greater good.
Enjoy the Ride, potholes and all!
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Adjectives Matter
In the last two weeks, we’ve had two shocking reports of deaths. You know, the ones that leave you saying, WHAT!? One was a young man by suicide, and the other was middle-aged who took a nap and never woke up. See what I mean?
While attending the first service, I noticed a common denominator: the room’s adjectives. Let me explain.
I would say both of these men were good souls. Did they always make the best decisions? Probably not because they’re human, and that’s what humans do. We make mistakes; sometimes we learn, sometimes it takes a minute. No one is perfect.
In life, for whatever reason, we tend to pass judgment first and think later, and it usually happens after the slightest infraction. We don’t just do this to each other; we do it to ourselves. No one is off the hook.
The negative dialog, whether in our heads or coming out of our mouths, is not only damaging, it’s contagious. Hence the current climate in this nation.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, we do not know what is or isn’t going on with someone, yet our eyes see a particle of a situation and turn it into a wave instead of being curious about what might be happening behind the scenes.
Be curious, not judgemental. Ted Lasso
Let’s get back to the point of those adjectives. For the record, there was no mention of a fat ass or career choice during the memorial service or in the Obituary. Why? Because they don’t matter.
The things I did read and hear throughout these events were words that do matter, such as loving, caring, kind, funny, intelligent, giving, compassionate, a son, brother, father, grandfather, teacher, a good guy, big heart, inspiring, young, passionate and creative just to name a few. It’s a choice.
Today, if you find yourself passing judgment in a moment, pause and see the good. This goes for what you see and how you talk to yourself. We’re all enough, warts and all.
Enjoy the Ride!
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It’s Complicated
Once again, the universe is knocking on my door. Hello, it’s me again.
This time by way of a post on addiction, alcohol to be exact that stirred up a memory I haven’t thought about in years, 10 to be precise. Our minds are complex places.
The memory is of my sister-in-law and her untimely death due to her prolonged use of alcohol. Her story, like everyone’s, is complicated. The big gray area does exist.
Her name was Debbie, she was 51 years young.
My first impression of Debbie was that she was beautiful, intelligent, fun, creative, and talented. She loved her baby brother very much, and she shared a birthday with my sister. A winner.
As we got to know each other better, I realized something was off, but not having any experience with alcoholism, I just thought she was a bitch. I was naive, and everyone around her was in denial.
I learned that when their mother died suddenly at 48 years old, Debbie was in the middle of a typical mother/daughter squabble, and they were not on speaking terms. Forgiveness also died that day.
Debbie and her siblings were grieving the loss of their mother individually, being left with a disabled father in disbelief and not much help. Two siblings had spouses for support, and three were left to their own devices. Grief is a complex emotion, and this was a recipe for disaster.
All three chose alcohol as the device to numb the ache. One escaped. One continues his imaginary competition with Keith Richards, and Debbie, wearing an anchor of guilt for two decades, was found dead in the melting snow 10 years ago this week. Free at last.
As I said, Debbie was intelligent and creative, two skills that come in handy when you’re keeping a secret of this magnitude from the world around you. Keeping it alive is another story.
Living a lie every dang day had to be exhausting. I can’t imagine trying to keep up with the responsibilities expected of me while strategically contemplating how I will sneak in a drink and keep my act together throughout the day. That is no joke; it’s a full-time job.
I know she wasn’t the first or the last to juggle this lifestyle. We’re only human.
Over the years, her intelligence and creativity grew exhausted, while the disease grew arrogant, insisting on vodka in her coffee, leaving the creamer on the curb. Acceptance? Blind eyes? Both?
As with everyone in her life, we grew frustrated trying to help someone who was not ready to receive the offers. She was in her own way.
Correction, she was ashamed, and shame is a powerful emotion. Seducing her with lies quietly convincing her she was worthless while blocking love like a linebacker. Vodka was her helmet.
So, we made excuses to justify the behavior and make ourselves feel better. Talk about creativity.
- She’s only hurting herself.
- She’s a functioning alcoholic.
- She’ll know when to stop.
- It’s not like she’s sitting in a bar all day.
- The list goes on …
After two turbulent marriages, endless lost opportunities, burnt bridges, and too many stints in rehab, the secret was sitting center stage, not Debbie, and it showed. You can only fall down so many times, literally, before surrendering or succumbing.
According to the coroner, she “succumbed” to her disease, alcoholism.
We are ALL worthy of being the best version of ourselves.
If you are suffering, please ask for help. There is no judgment. Make the call.
Do it for Debbie ❤
Alcoholics Anonymous — 800-839-1986.
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Remember….
Our country is grieving. Each child who has been slaughtered belongs to each of us and each slain adult is a member of our family. It is impossible to explain the horror to ourselves and to our survivors. We need to hold each other’s hands and look into each other’s eyes and say, “I am sorry.”
~Maya Angelou
Life With The Top Down 
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