Temperatures in the low 50s greeted me as I quietly closed the front door, trying not to awaken my slumbering husband. The air had that first delicious crispness to it, and everywhere I looked, little signs of autumn were beginning to reveal themselves.

Small clusters of yellow leaves are stippling the aspens and cottonwoods while the pines hold steadfastly to their deep olive green. Yellow, gold and green. Colorado seems to know exactly how to coordinate a seasonal wardrobe.

Even our hummingbirds appear to have had a shift change. We heard recently that the mature birds are beginning their long journey south while the younger generation hangs around for a few more weeks, growing stronger and taking advantage of the flowers still in bloom and the sugar-rich feeders we humans dutifully keep filled.

Then came another unmistakable announcement of the season. The bugle of a bull elk pierced the morning air, warning off competitors and summoning prospective lady friends. If you have never heard an elk bugle, it begins with an eerie high-pitched call and ends with a sound remarkably reminiscent of the creaking door in a haunted house. Romance, apparently, sounds different in the mountains.

Bull elk bugling in Evergreen, Colorado. Video credit: Karen Loucks Rinedollar

Fall is coming fast. And for the first time in a very long time, I think I am ready for it. I love summer. I love bare feet and gauzy dresses, dinners outside, travel, visitors and long evenings when darkness seems reluctant to arrive. But I have already plunged into my sweater stash, happily adding a little coziness as our evening temperatures begin their nightly descent.

More importantly, I am ready for something else fall seems to bring me: Productivity. Somewhere along the way, summer quietly put mine on hiatus.

My treasured morning writing routine was interrupted by the necessity of getting onto the pickleball court before it became too hot. Trips and adventures with friends and family disrupted my weekly Zoom gatherings with fellow creatives. My goal of publishing only two Substacks a week, carefully calibrated so I wouldn’t wear out my welcome in your inbox, dwindled to one. I was officially on Summer Hours.

And while I was having plenty of fun, there was also a strange feeling of simply trying to keep up. I found myself almost giddy when something on the calendar was canceled. Suddenly I had been handed two unexpected hours to tackle the list of things patiently, or perhaps impatiently, waiting for me.

Here's my tip jar!

Then September arrived. I greeted the new month with the enthusiasm of someone punching a giant RESET button. I felt a bit giddy, like I used to on the first day of school after a long summer and being among one’s friends again.

Yesterday, I picked up oodles of colorful, beautifully crafted quilts from Fabric Play, one of my most prolific Project Linus blanket drop-off locations. I listened as the women talked about the holidays already being around the corner and how they were quite literally putting the pedal to the metal of their sewing machines to finish projects before the calendar flips to another year. Apparently I am not the only one feeling the seasonal nudge.

Then I worked up the nerve to do something I had been contemplating for quite some time: walk into Denver’s beloved bookstore, Tattered Cover, with four of my children’s books in hand and pitch myself as a local author. Ugh, talk about vulnerability.

Yet, a kind store manager named John Michael immediately put aside what he was doing. He took time to carefully peruse every page of each of my four books. And then came a little September magic. Addie and the Sketchbook of Dreams was selected as the beginning of what I hope will become a treasured relationship with the store as a local author. Just as valuable, I received thoughtful feedback that serves as useful tools to help me strengthen the growing collection of children’s stories currently waiting in the wings.

Another step forward and no steps back. And perhaps that is what I am appreciating most about this change of seasons. Summer was not wasted time. Far from it. There were grandchildren to cuddle, friends to laugh with, places to visit, pickleballs to chase and long evenings to enjoy. Productivity isn’t the only measure of a life well lived.

But seasons serve different purposes. Summer invited me to wander. Fall seems to be inviting me to focus. Already, another unexpected writing project has landed on my desk, one that went from a conversation among writers to a book project almost before I realized it. More on that later this week.

For now, I am enjoying the return of my creative rhythm. The sweaters are coming out. The aspens are beginning their transformation. The hummingbirds are changing shifts. The elk are bugling. And my to-do list suddenly doesn’t feel like something chasing me. It feels full of possibility.

Maybe that’s the real gift of September. We don’t have to wait until January for a fresh start. Nature gives us another one every fall.

So goodbye, Summer Hours. It was lovely. But I’ve got things to do.

I keep thinking about the word astrolabe - an ancient, compact instrument once used to observe the stars and determine one’s position. It came before GPS, before instant answers and before the illusion of certainty. It is a pocket sky-reader, quietly helping travelers orient themselves when the horizon offered no clues. That’s what I’m longing for right now. Not a map, not a manifesto, just a way to know where I’m standing.

So much of what surrounds us demands allegiance - pick a side, declare a position, speak quickly, loudly, and with assuredness. But inner life doesn’t work that way. I move at my own pace. Sometimes in a flat-out gallop, sometimes a carefree canter, and still other times at a complete halt as I reflect deeply on the moment. I circle questions, and sometimes I sit with contradictions longer than is fashionable.

Some people find it frustrating that they can’t neatly wrap me up and place me in one of the boxes they use to make sense of others. I’m not uninterested. I’m not disengaged. I’m simply wary of certainty that arrives before understanding. I distrust conclusions that require me to flatten nuance or dismiss others' lived experiences. I’m seeking orientation, not victory.

An astrolabe doesn’t shout. It doesn’t argue. It doesn’t insist. It quietly measures - inviting patience, humility, and attention. That feels like the posture I need right now.

Virtual Tip Jar

I don’t know what the right answers are. I only know that shouting them hasn’t brought us closer to one another. And so, for now, I’m choosing to keep my eyes on the stars - on values older than headlines: compassion, restraint, curiosity, and care. Maybe clarity comes later. Maybe direction follows attention.

Astrolabes are uncommon today, but they haven’t disappeared entirely. Teachers use them to show students how the sun and stars move across the sky. Historians study them to better understand medieval science, and some survivalists keep them as a backup in case modern technology fails.

I’ve watched my husband, Gary, don his Mr. Science hat, especially during a meal with friends, and explain how celestial objects relate to one another- using bottles, drinking glasses, and salt and pepper shakers as props. Perhaps orientation has always required equal parts curiosity, ingenuity, and whatever happens to be within reach.

Copernicus changed our understanding of the universe by questioning what appeared obvious. The Earth was not standing still at the center of everything; it was spinning on its axis, traveling around the sun, and participating in something far larger than itself.

Perhaps finding our bearings begins there - not by insisting that the world revolve around our certainties. But by accepting that we are still moving, still learning, and rarely standing at the center of the whole truth.

For now, I will hold my questions carefully, like a traveler pausing beneath a wide sky. I may not know the way forward, but I can keep looking up, checking my bearings, and remaining humble enough to change direction when the stars reveal something I had not yet understood.

We arrived in her hospital room about four hours after her birth, just as a nurse came in to take her vitals and give her a feeding. There were many things that could cause concern at her size- but our little warrior seemed to take on each challenge with the bravery of a fearless gladiator.

Temperature? Holding steady. Blood sugar? Respectable. Appetite? Vigorous!

When the nurse offered her two-teaspoon allotment to her cherry-sized stomach, Juno latched onto the feeding syringe with the same enthusiasm her mama Jia displayed when her long-awaited sushi request arrived. Slurp. Gone!

We were all delighted. Best of all, those encouraging signs meant Juno could remain in the room with her mom instead of heading to the NICU. Soon, mother and daughter will head home, where something extraordinary is waiting in the freezer. Liquid gold. And the donor isn’t an anonymous stranger. She’s Juno’s very own Aunt Kristen.

Earlier this year, Kristen did something pretty remarkable herself. She agreed to serve as a gestational surrogate for friends and gave birth in April. Afterward, she continued producing breast milk, which she shares with a milk bank. She is providing nourishment for babies whose own mothers, for any number of reasons, couldn’t provide enough milk themselves.

For months, somewhere out there, babies Kristen would never meet benefited from that gift. And then one of those babies turned out to be her own niece. There is something beautifully circular about that. One woman carried a baby for another family. Months later, her body continues to bring nourishment, including to her own family member. Talk about a family food chain!

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It also made me think about something much larger: the complicated history around one of the most basic acts of human survival, feeding a baby.

For generations, women have received a dizzying assortment of messages about breastfeeding. At various times they have been encouraged, discouraged, pressured, shamed, praised and second-guessed. Some mothers cannot breastfeed. Some choose not to. Some babies require specialized formula. Some families combine breast milk and formula. Fed babies and healthy mothers are ultimately what matter.

But parents deserve something else, too- accurate information. And that hasn’t always been the case.

During the 1970s, aggressive marketing of commercial infant formula in developing countries became an international controversy. Critics charged that breast-milk substitutes were being promoted in ways that discouraged breastfeeding, sometimes in communities where families had limited access to clean water or enough money to continually purchase formula.

The consequences can be devastating. Powdered formula requires safe water and careful preparation. Families struggling financially might stretch an expensive container by adding extra water, unintentionally depriving a baby of needed nutrition.

The controversy eventually helped lead to international standards governing how breast-milk substitutes should be marketed. Decades later, questions about how companies market food to the world’s youngest consumers haven’t disappeared.

A 2024 investigation by the Swiss organization Public Eye and the International Baby Food Action Network examined Nestlé baby-food products sold around the world. Their investigation reported that many infant cereals and growing-up milk products sold in lower- and middle-income countries contained added sugar, while comparable products in Switzerland and several major European markets did not.

Nestlé has said its products comply with applicable regulations and that it has been working to reduce added sugars.

For me, the larger question isn’t really about one company. It’s about what babies deserve from all of us. They deserve good science instead of clever marketing. Parents deserve information rather than pressure. Mothers and families deserve support whether they breastfeed, pump, use donor milk, rely on formula, or need some combination of them.

And women who donate their breast milk? Perhaps they deserve a little more recognition than we give them. Milk donation isn’t quite as simple as dropping off a carton on the way home from Costco. It represents hours of pumping, including in the middle of the night when the rest of the world is sleeping. It is also about storing, labeling, cleaning equipment, and giving away something your own body worked rather hard to produce.

There is no shiny trophy for it. No medal. Usually there isn’t even a thank-you from the baby whose tiny tummy receives it. But somewhere, a fragile newborn grows a little stronger because a woman she may never meet decided she had something valuable to share. That feels like nothing short of heroic to me.

And now our little warrior has her own supply waiting at home, provided by an aunt who couldn’t possibly have known, when she began donating months ago, just how close to home one recipient would eventually be.

Someday Juno will hear an exceptional family story. She’ll be told that before she even came home from the hospital, her Aunt Kristen had already given her the extraordinary gift of liquid nourishment.

Little Juno- four pounds, eight ounces of determination. She was surrounded from her very first day by something no factory has ever figured out how to manufacture:

Love.

The rules were surprisingly simple: If you got thirsty, every house had a garden hose or outdoor spigot. Be home for dinner, whether summoned by a whistle, a parent’s beckon, or, in our family’s case, the ringing of a triangle. When the streetlights came on, it was time to head home. And above all, make good decisions...or at least good enough that your parents wouldn’t hear about the bad ones before you got home or hopefully ever. It was a marvelous system.

Without realizing it, our parents had assembled an entire unofficial teaching staff, the older kids. They taught us how to climb trees without falling...most of the time. How to put a bicycle chain back on after it slipped off halfway through an adventure, how to skip rocks, how to build a fort, how to negotiate playground disputes without hiring an attorney.

And, as it turns out... they also straightened me out when it came to the birds and the bees.

Not that my parents hadn’t tried. Like many homes in the 1960s, ours contained the parenting bible of the era: Dr. Benjamin Spock’s The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care. Before the days of Google, Dr. Spock was who nervous parents turned to when they wondered whether their child was normal. However two chapters it did not include were conception and childbirth. I was most interested in the latter.

The 1960s were a time of baby bumps galore. It seemed as though pregnant women were everywhere. Naturally, I wanted to know how the baby got from inside Mommy's tummy to the outside world with the rest of us. Since Google wouldn't be invented for another few decades, I did what any inquisitive child would do. I marched into my parents' bedroom one morning with what I thought was a perfectly reasonable question.

As I sat on the edge of my parent’s bed, I asked, “How do you have a baby?”

Looking back, I can almost see the silent exchange between my parents. “Is it already time for this conversation?” The question I meant to ask was how the baby actually got from inside Mommy’s tummy to the outside world.

The question they thought I was asking was.....something else. So my mother calmly explained how babies are conceived through the act of sex. “Oh.” I nodded. “Got it.” Except... I absolutely did not get it. Unknowingly, I was more confused than ever.

Not long afterward, I remember watching Truth or Consequences, a television show that frequently reunited soldiers returning home from Vietnam with their families. Every now and then, a wife would proudly introduce her husband to a baby born while he was overseas.

This created a rather significant problem in my young mind. If Dad had been in Vietnam.....how had the baby gotten out? Naturally, I asked my parents. “Oh,” they explained casually. “The doctor did it.” Perfectly clear… or so I thought. In actuality, the birthing waters were getting muddier by the minute. From that moment on, I believed obstetricians had an extraordinarily unusual job responsibility. No wonder they were all men, at that time.

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Then one afternoon I proudly shared my newfound understanding with the older kids on our street. Silence. Then... explosive laughter. The kind where older children laugh so hard they can barely breathe. Once they recovered, they very kindly untangled the entire sequence of events.

First, the husband and wife have sex. The wife becomes pregnant. Nine months later... the doctor helps deliver the baby, with his hands, not other body parts. No additional sex required. Suddenly, everything made sense. Thank goodness for the older kids.

Looking back, I realize they taught us far more than we ever gave them credit for. They explained playground politics, translated confusing adult conversations, demonstrated how to survive a neighborhood football game against someone twice your size, shared the latest jokes, passed down bike repair techniques, introduced us to music our parents didn’t understand and occasionally corrected spectacular misunderstandings about human reproduction.

Were they always right? Absolutely not. But neither were our parents. Childhood wasn’t curated. It wasn’t fact-checked. It certainly wasn’t AI-generated. It was wonderfully, gloriously messy. We learned through scraped knees, trial and error, backyard science experiments, and conversations with kids just old enough to know slightly more than we did. Sometimes they were wrong, sometimes they were hilarious and most of the time...they were exactly what we needed.

Today, children can ask Google almost any question imaginable. They can watch a YouTube video explaining virtually every skill. And they can still go to a parent or adult with a question.

But I sometimes wonder if they’ll ever experience the pure joy of having an older neighborhood kid patiently explain something...while trying not to laugh too hard. There was something magical about learning from people instead of screens.

Especially when the lesson began with, “No, Karen...that’s not how babies are born.” And somehow, between the bicycles, the garden hoses, and the streetlights signaling it was time to head home, we all managed to grow up just fine.

I love that quote because it reminds me that the people who have helped steer my life rarely chased after me. They simply stood where they were, shining brightly enough that when I found myself navigating rough waters, I knew exactly where to look.

Although I grew up on the East Coast, I wasn’t raised near an official lighthouse. The closest thing we had was the Washington Monument. To a little girl growing up in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., that soaring obelisk felt like a lighthouse. It was the tallest structure in the city, visible for miles in every direction, quietly reminding me that home was never far away.

It wasn't until 2017 that I truly fell in love with classic nautical lighthouses. Gary and I were planning a motorcycle adventure through New England and Canada's eastern provinces, but first I was taking my mother back to her homeland for what would be her final visit. I had my motorcycle shipped to Vermont, while Gary rode his all the way from Colorado to our cousin's summer home in the Laurentians, just north of Montreal.

After a wonderful week at the Elvidge family reunion, Mom headed back to her home in Virginia with my brother, and Gary and I prepared for the next chapter of our adventure. We loaded his bike Beverly Hillbillies-style with our luggage and headed south to Vermont to pick up mine. From there, with two motorcycles and the open road ahead, our journey together began.

For this Colorado mermaid, the Atlantic coastline felt like coming home. Our first stop was Maine, my fiftieth state. The scenery was spectacular, the seafood unforgettable, and we quickly adopted the philosophy that if a restaurant offered multiple sizes of lobster, ordering the largest one was simply the right thing to do.

West Quoddy Head Light, is the eastern most point in the United States. perched dramatically above the crashing Atlantic. Pemaquid Lighthouse is the image famously featured on the back of the 2003 quarter representing the great state of Maine. There was something comforting about a lighthouse’s steady presence. Storms had come and gone. Ships had arrived safely because of its faithful beam. The lighthouse wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It simply did the work it had been created to do. Since that trip, I’ve become fascinated with America’s lighthouses.

The oldest still standing is Sandy Hook Lighthouse in New Jersey, first lit in 1764. Cape Hatteras rises nearly 200 feet above the North Carolina coast as our tallest lighthouse. Pocahontas Light in Maine stands only six feet tall, proving size doesn’t always matter. Surprisingly, the Statue of Liberty served as a lighthouse from 1886 to 1902, welcoming generations of ships and immigrants arriving with little more than hope in their hearts. It was the first lighthouse in the United States to use electricity.

The older I get, however, the less interested I become in the buildings themselves. I’m far more fascinated by the people who resemble them. Those who share their welcoming light and hope with a quiet, respectful presence.

Turn on the news or scroll through social media and it’s easy to believe the world has become darker than ever, as though we’re surrounded by one storm after another. But perhaps the light hasn’t disappeared. Perhaps we simply need to look toward it and the humans who serve as beacons.

If you’re navigating rough seas today, look for your lighthouse. Chances are it has been there all along. It may be a parent, a teacher, a mentor, a neighbor, a coach, or a friend. Someone who believes in you even when you’ve temporarily forgotten how to believe in yourself.

And if the waters around you happen to be calm at the moment, become that lighthouse for someone else. You don’t have to rescue every boat. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to chase people down: simply stand where you are, shine a little kindness, offer a little encouragement, and remind someone they matter. Hope has a remarkable way of multiplying.

August 7 is National Lighthouse Day. Whether you spend it or any other day of the year visiting a lighthouse, admiring one from afar, or simply remembering the people who have illuminated your own path, I hope you’ll pause to give thanks for those sources of inspiration.

After all, the brightest light we experience isn’t always the one that guides us safely home. Sometimes it’s the one we shine for someone else.

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Sometimes milestones like that make me wince just a little. Forty years? How did that happen? But more often, they invite me to look backward, and this little plastic card carried me all the way back to the summer of 1986.

I had graduated from the University of Maryland, spent a year working in Washington, D.C., and was beginning to suspect that adulthood, my adulthood, wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

The realization came one morning aboard the Metro during the familiar commuter slog into the city. I looked around the crowded train at the sleepy faces preparing for another day at the office. I had watched my father make that same commute for years, working in Hazardous Materials at the Department of Transportation. He genuinely enjoyed his work and his routine. I had hoped I would too. Instead, something inside me whispered, There has to be another way.

With my bright yellow Walkman headphones on, the Talking Heads singing Stay Up Late, and the latest issue of Sports Illustrated open in my lap, I noticed that, once again, there was one obligatory story about a female athlete while the rest of the magazine belonged to the men. Around me, everyone looked like they were marching toward the same destination.

Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall drifted into my thoughts. I didn’t want to become another brick in the wall.

Each morning I followed the same routine of other female commuters. I carried my work pumps in a shopping bag while wearing white high-top Reeboks for the walk to and from the Metro station. I was headed toward what felt like “the factory,” working for “The Man,” wondering if this was really how the next forty years were supposed to unfold.

That evening I shared my frustration with my father. He could have told me to grow up. He could have said, “Welcome to adulthood.” Instead, he quietly changed the trajectory of my life.

“If you don’t like this lifestyle,” he said, “you’re going to have to figure out a Plan B.” Not many parents give their twenty-three-year-old daughter permission to imagine a different life.

At the time, I was working as an assistant to the vice president of Cardillo Travel, helping open travel agencies along the East Coast. As luck would have it, shortly after my Metro epiphany, I was offered a free airline ticket anywhere in the continental United States. California? That sounded about as different from Washington as I could imagine.

My friend Brenda was finishing school at UCLA and invited me to visit. Ten days later I was completely captivated. Fresh lobster dinners in Rosarito Beach. Surfers riding endless waves off Malibu. The wonderfully quirky energy of Venice Beach. Even an unexpected encounter with Robin Williams and his young son in an ice cream shop on Melrose.

California didn’t just feel like another place. It felt like possibility. Brenda and her roommates offered me a spot on their fold-out couch in their basement, and suddenly my Plan B had an address.

I flew home, packed my meager collection of twenty-something possessions into Huey, my faithful red Datsun 310, and prepared to head west. My brother Glenn agreed to make the cross-country adventure with me.

Just before we left, my grandparents handed me a gift. A AAA Plus Membership. At first glance, it seemed practical enough. If the car broke down, someone would come help. At twenty-three, that’s all I thought it was.

Our first stop was Indianapolis to visit a college friend who happened to be playing for the Colts. Then came St. Louis and its iconic Gateway Arch. We shared the tiny elevator with another brother-and-sister duo. They were headed in the opposite direction, trading California sunshine for an East Coast college education.

They gave us one important piece of advice. “Fly through Kansas.” We eagerly complied. By bedtime, we had reached the Colorado border and couldn’t wait to wake up to towering Rocky Mountains.

When morning arrived and I opened our motel door to take a run, I was shocked to see the landscape. Still flat. Still farmland. Still sunflowers. It turns out the Kansas-Colorado border is only the beginning. We drove another 181 miles before Denver finally appeared and, beyond it, the majestic Rockies rose into view in all their purple mountain majesty.

Construction delayed us through Colorado, but sitting in traffic somehow felt less painful while winding through Glenwood Canyon. By evening we limped into Beaver, Utah. Huey was coughing. Badly.

Time to pull out that shiny new AAA card. I imagined help arriving within minutes. Instead, the gentleman answering the phone sounded mildly irritated that we had interrupted his dinner. He informed us he’d see us the next morning.

So we spent the night at a truck stop. I reclined Huey’s driver seat as far as my bedside table and suitcases would allow. Glenn stretched out beside the car, hoping no semi would accidentally mistake him for a speed bump.

The next morning our tow truck driver arrived right on schedule. His bedside manner left a little to be desired. “That’s what happens when you drive one of those Jap cars,” he informed me. Wonderful. The nearest Datsun dealership was 107 miles away. My AAA Plus membership covered 100.

Fortunately, somewhere during our two-hour drive together, Mr. Happy warmed to us enough to overlook those final seven miles. The repair turned out to be minor. Soon Huey was humming again, and we were back on the road with California calling.

We rolled into Los Angeles after just four days, somehow arriving a day earlier than planned despite our unexpected delay in Beaver.

Virtual Tip Jar

Over the decades, my AAA card has come to the rescue more than once. Flat tires, dead batteries, running out of gas...more than I’d like to admit. And the occasional tow.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that little card had become something much larger than roadside assistance. It became a reminder of my grandparents. When Opa and Barbara handed me that membership forty years ago, they weren’t simply buying towing coverage. They were giving an excited twenty-three-year-old permission to be brave.

Every time I tucked that card into my wallet, I carried the quiet reassurance that if life threw me a flat tire, there were people who believed I’d figure it out. That may be one of the greatest gifts we can ever give someone. Not the promise that nothing will ever go wrong. But the confidence that they’ll have the courage, and the support, to keep moving forward when it does.

Gary and I now buy AAA memberships for our own kids. Someday they’ll probably think of them as nothing more than another card tucked into a wallet. I hope that years from now, as one pulls out their card and notices their milestone, they’ll remember that long before roadside assistance ever arrived, there was a family quietly saying:

“Go explore. Chase your dreams. And wherever the road takes you, you’ll never be traveling alone.”

Artists don’t apologize for selling a painting.

Musicians don’t feel guilty when someone buys a concert ticket to their show.

Furniture makers don’t wince when someone pays for their pieces.

Bakers don’t feel bad when someone purchases a loaf of their bread.

Creative work has value.

So why do some Writers feel guilty when others want to honor their efforts with monetary compensation?

If a story makes someone laugh,

Gives them hope,

Inspires them to begin something bold,

Or simply makes their day a little brighter,

There’s nothing wrong with leaving a little something in the tip jar.

It doesn’t cheapen the art.

It honors the hours, the heart, and the courage it took to create it in the first place.

And every now and then,

Knowing someone believes in your work enough to buy you a coffee

Is exactly the encouragement needed to write the next story.

Buy Me a Beverage

Restaurants are easy. If dinner is mediocre, at least everyone enjoyed an evening out. Movies require only a couple of hours of commitment. But a book? A book asks someone to invest days of their life based solely on your assurance that the journey will be worthwhile.

This coming Wednesday evening, I’ll be hosting our monthly book club on our back deck. Part of the reason is practical. I live at the bottom of a steep driveway in the Colorado foothills. In July, it’s a lovely stroll. In January, it can resemble an Olympic bobsled course. Hosting in the summer seems much kinder than asking my friends to test the laws of gravity in the middle of winter. Short of a monsoon rain, we can gather together on our back deck without the fear of blood-sucking mosquitoes or frostbite.

The other reason we’re meeting at my home is that this month’s selection was my idea: David Sedaris’ Calypso. But in the early hours of Sunday morning, I was second-guessing my recommendation.

I first discovered David Sedaris years ago while listening to NPR. His gentle Southern drawl, shaped by a childhood in Raleigh, North Carolina, makes every story sound as though you’re sitting on a front porch with a refreshingly candid friend and a glass of sweet tea in your hand. He has a gift for saying the things most of us have thought but wisely decided to keep to ourselves. In fact, he’s figured out how to make a career out of it.

For me, audiobooks are the only way to experience Sedaris. No voice inside my own head could possibly match his timing. Reading him in print is enjoyable. Listening to him is performance art.

As our book club date approached, I decided to listen to Calypso again, partly to refresh my memory of the myriad of stories and partly to inspire a menu ideas for the evening. That’s when the panic set in. I’d forgotten how dark the book is. Addiction. Suicide. Family dysfunction. Homosexuality. Aging. Mortality. Triggers galore. Not exactly the ingredients for a carefree summer book club read... or were they?

One of the early stories involves David’s sister who, under the influence of a prescription sleep medication, wanders into the kitchen in the middle of the night and devours a container of turtle food made from compressed insects. If you’ve ever wanted to hear someone describe eating bug crackers with complete sincerity, David Sedaris is your man.

The book bobs and weaves through a collection of deeply personal stories. At one point, David writes with startling honesty about his sister’s suicide, recounting the uncomfortable conversations and awkward discoveries families quietly navigate after losing someone they love. He even reads inscriptions from her high school yearbook.

“Party Hardy!” “Stay Cool!” Messages that probably seemed innocuous at seventeen. Messages many of us probably have tucked away in our own yearbooks. Yet after a lifetime marked by her mental illness and addiction, they echo very differently decades later.

Lying in bed that morning, I began questioning my decision. What was I thinking? Had I just assigned my unsuspecting book club, who had specifically requested something funny, a summer reading list featuring turtle crackers, addiction, and suicide?

Would everyone politely sip their drinks Wednesday evening before collectively deciding I’d completely lost my mind? Then David began talking about ordinary things. Foreign driver slurs, his diminutive height, awkward airplane encounters, impulsive shopping sprees in Japan. Nothing particularly remarkable.

Yet somehow... I started giggling. The giggle quietly matured into a full-blown belly laugh, followed by the kind of mattress-shaking laughter that threatens the sleep of anyone sharing your bed. Before long, I quietly slipped out of bed so I wouldn’t wake Gary.

And just like that, I remembered why I’d chosen the book in the first place. David Sedaris doesn’t write funny stories because life is funny. He writes funny stories because life is true. Families are messy. People are complicated. Grief and absurdity often arrive together, carrying matching luggage.

Given enough time, enough perspective, and the right storyteller, even life’s most painful chapters can become stories we tell around a dinner table, usually followed by someone saying, “You can’t make this stuff up.”

And maybe that's why humor feels so healing. It doesn't erase the hard things. It simply reminds us that the hard things don't get the final word. Life hands each of us moments of breathtaking absurdity. Given enough distance, they often become the very stories that leave us laughing the hardest.

By the time my book club gathers on the back deck this Wednesday, there will be a North Carolina-inspired beach menu featuring pulled pork sliders, Goldfish crackers, watermelon, saltwater taffy, and probably more snacks than anyone needs. There will even be a bowl of marshmallows, a playful nod to one of the book's more memorable stories about a lipoma. Leave it to David Sedaris to turn a benign fatty tumor into a memorable comedy routine.

It takes a special kind of talent to uncover humor in life’s most uncomfortable moments. David Sedaris has that talent. We’ll laugh over favorite passages, compare opinions, and someone will almost certainly dislike the book. And that’s perfectly fine.

Books aren’t meant to please everyone. They’re meant to start conversations. If, by the end of the evening, we’re laughing together while swapping stories about our own wonderfully imperfect families, I’ll know I made the right recommendation.

And if not... I hear turtle crackers are surprisingly high in protein.

When my neighbor Jill dropped me off after the gathering, only a few raindrops dotted the driveway. The porch light glowed, but the rest of the house was unusually dark. I followed the sound of voices to our bedroom, where Gary and Jaxson stood in front of the large window facing the lake, performing what appeared to be a highly enthusiastic rain dance.

Not one to resist a dance party, I joined them. Unfortunately, I did not see Jaxson’s foot in the darkness. Crunch. I stepped on the foot that may someday become a size 15, but for now was still small enough to disappear beneath my own clodhoppers. Fortunately, it was more interruption than injury. He barely missed a beat before returning to his dance. This may have encouraged him to believe that our combined choreography possessed genuine meteorological power.

Soon, the soft plinks on the skylights became pounding rain. Copious amount of water began to flow, peppered with pea sized hail, lightning that flashed with the frequency of a strobe light, and thunder powerful enough to shake the house. Opa raced outside to rescue the flowers on the back deck, and then we all watched the wrath of the storm from the safety of our dry home.

Fortunately, the hail remained small, so no major damage was done. We joked that the hail was the unplanned aftermath of the foot crunch. After about twenty minutes, the storm subsided, and the radar appeared to be telling us the show was over.

Jaxson briefly positioned himself in the middle of our bed, apparently believing Oma and Opa offered premium storm protection. Opa quickly relocated him to his sleeping bag on the floor.

Ten minutes later, an enormous thunderclap rattled the room. We looked toward Jaxson, expecting him to launch himself into our bed. He had not moved. Children can apparently sleep through the apocalypse as long as someone remembers the night-light.

Multiple storms rolled through over the next two hours. Rain struck the windows in powerful waves, as though someone had aimed a fire hose directly at our house. Local authorities later reported that nearly six inches had fallen, far too much for our drought-dry ground to absorb. Torrents of water rushed down the mountainsides into nearby creeks, rivers, roads, and, unfortunately for some, basements. We live on a hillside, so our property escaped with displaced mulch and a driveway newly decorated with rocks, dirt, and debris. Others were not so fortunate.

The next morning, I awoke to a familiar scraping sound we usually hear only in winter. For one confused moment, I wondered how much hail had accumulated overnight. It was not a snowplow clearing snow. It was a plow pushing mud, rocks, and debris from the road.

After Swedish pancakes, we changed into what could best be described as exploration clothes. We drove toward the stream where Jaxson had spent the previous two afternoons hopping across rocks, balancing on fallen trees, and splashing in the clear water. The landscape had changed overnight.

Evergreen Lake post-flood destruction. Video credit Karen Loucks Rinedollar

Roads were coated with mud. Culverts overflowed. People with shovels worked outside our local watering hole, Cactus Jack’s Saloon, removing water and debris. Our normally pristine lake had turned cocoa brown- its surface carrying silt, branches, and assorted mystery matter.

The golf course was littered with logs, a giant root ball, and someone’s turquoise patio furniture. The gentle stream where Jaxson had played was now an angry river. His favorite bridge tree had been swept away. Familiar rocks were submerged. Along the bank, we found a sprinkler cover, a small tire, and silvery fish stranded when the flood water had receded.

Jaxson studied the transformed landscape with solemn curiosity. Then he announced, with complete confidence, that our rain dance had worked. Perhaps a little too well.

Upper Bear Creek the day after the flood. Video credit Karen Loucks Rinedollar

Life can feel that way. There are seasons we pray, hope or meditate for ‘rain’. Rain to restore, to cleanse, to renew, to nurture or to soothe. Rain for our finances, for our relationships, for careers, for health, for an answer, a friendship, a breakthrough or simply some proof that the dry spell will not last forever. Then one day the clouds finally open...and we discover that even answered prayers can arrive with enough force to rearrange the landscape.

The very thing we hoped for may arrive with unexpected force and form, overflowing the neat channels we built for it. Dreams bring responsibility. Love brings vulnerability. Success brings new challenges. Change carries debris along with possibility.

We do not always get to choose when life delivers drought or flood. We can only choose what we do next.

That afternoon, Gary changed clothes and helped friends shovel mud from their elderly parents’ property. Jaxson and I went to the recreation center because the swollen creek was no place for a child to play.

Within minutes, he was in the pool with complete strangers, tossing a football, batting around an inflatable ball, and diving underwater in the goggles he had wisely remembered to bring. While the adults measured damage and organized cleanup, he returned to joy. Life continued.

There was mud to shovel, property to repair, and neighbors to help. There was also a boy splashing in a swimming pool, delighted that he had once danced hard enough to make it rain.

Perhaps resilience is not pretending the flood never happened. Perhaps it is picking up a shovel, helping a neighbor, and remembering that joy still knows how to swim.

Anne Lamott has changed my life. Not because we’ve spent hours talking over coffee. We haven’t. Not because we’re close friends. We’re not…yet. Anne changed my life through something far more intimate: her writing. Ironically, I almost never read a single word she wrote. That almost happened because of a mistaken assumption.

Rewind a few years: I first met my friend Loreen through Project Linus. Every year at our annual Make A Blanket Day, she would arrive like a burst of sunshine. She had one of those rare gifts of making every room she entered feel lighter. Joy seemed to trail behind her like flower petals caught in a breeze. Every year I’d think, I really should get to know her better.

Finally, I put on my big girl panties and bravely asked. “Loreen, would you like to grab coffee sometime? Or maybe go for a walk? We could knit together...whatever sounds fun to you.”

Children have a remarkable kind of courage. They’ll walk right up to a complete stranger on the playground and ask, “Want to play?” or “Will you be my friend?” Somewhere along the journey to adulthood, we lose that fearless simplicity. We begin worrying about imposing, interrupting, or hearing the dreaded word no. Friendship suddenly feels far more complicated than it did on the monkey bars.

Thankfully, Loreen said yes.

During one of our play dates, we got to talking about books. As a writer and book lover, one of the questions I frequently ask is, “What are you reading?” or “What would you recommend?” I don’t care whether it’s topping the New York Times bestseller list or gathering dust on a shelf for a hundred years. Great writing is timeless.

Without hesitation, Loreen recommended Anne Lamott. Then she added, “She’s a Christian writer.” Evidently, that was all I heard. Not because Loreen intended it that way, but because I filled in the rest myself.

I assumed Anne wrote books full of judgment, certainty, and instructions on how everyone else should live. While I'm a spiritual person, I've always believed there are many paths to living a meaningful life. So, without reading a single page, I made the very mistake I often caution others against. I judged the writer before I'd ever read her words.

Then life intervened. Loreen was diagnosed with cancer. She was only fifty.

Creative, funny, musical, a knitter extraordinaire, one of those delightfully devoted Disney fans, and deeply in love with her husband, Jason. She had a rare gift for making every room brighter simply by walking into it. She was the kind of person who made life better just by being part of it.

Friends and family members meditated, prayed and lit candles around the clock for Loreen’s recovery. Doctors did everything they could. Cancer didn’t care. When Loreen died, it felt as though someone had quietly turned down the brightness of the world.

Grief has an interesting way of nudging us toward unfinished conversations. Mine whispered one name. Anne Lamott. “Okay already,” I finally thought. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Anne wasn’t anything like the person I’d imagined. She was funny, self-deprecating, and honest to the point of discomfort. She wrote openly about alcoholism, depression, single motherhood, fear, failure, hope, and grace. She wasn’t trying to convince anyone to become more like her. She was simply trying to become more herself. I could relate to that.

Soon, I was devouring everything she’d written, even the books with faith in the title. Not because I had suddenly become religious, but because I’d become captivated by a writer who respected the messy complexity of being human. Anne wasn’t offering easy answers. She was offering companionship. As writers, that’s one of the greatest gifts we can give one another and our readers.

I’ve loved writing since I was a little girl, despite a long parade of uninspiring English teachers armed with red pens that seemed determined to edit the joy right out of creativity. I wanted to write more, but writing always felt like such a solitary sport for this extrovert. There always seemed to be something more exciting to do. I was challenged with finding a community of fellow writers I longed to bob around with in the turbulent sea of writerhood.

Then one afternoon, I saw an advertisement on social media. It was for a writers’ conference in Los Angeles. The featured speakers included Cheryl Strayed, Marlon James..and Anne Lamott. I checked my calendar and told Gary, “I feel like I need to go to this.”

Much to my delight, he agreed to make the trip with me, happily turning it into his own vacation while I spent my days surrounded by writers. That decision quietly altered the direction of my life. The conference introduced me to A Writing Room, a community unlike anything I’d experienced before. Suddenly, writing wasn’t a lonely endeavor anymore. I had found my people!

Since joining in October 2024, something remarkable has happened. I’ve become a regular Substack writer. I’ve published four children’s books, and released the 30th Anniversary Edition of my book Working for Peanuts: The Project Linus Story. Recently, I published Moderation, chronicling a friend’s 1,750-mile ocean rowing journey from Monterey, California, to Punta Mita, Mexico and I’m working on a screenplay that I’m incredibly excited to begin pitching.

Next week, I’ll join the leadership team of A Writing Room by launching a regular KidLit group for writers interested in creating children’s books. The little girl who loved writing but couldn’t quite find her place has somehow become someone helping other writers discover theirs. Life has a delightful sense of irony.

Anne Lamott is also the mother of one of A Writing Room’s founders- J.K. “Jack” Wyles. Over the past two years, I’ve had the privilege of meeting Anne at conferences and learning from her in ways I never imagined back when I had dismissed her books from afar.

She’ll probably never know what she helped set in motion. Loreen won’t either. But perhaps that’s how influence often works. Someone plants a seed, someone else waters it and years later, a garden appears.

Looking back, I regret only one thing. Not that it took me years to read Anne Lamott. But that I nearly let my assumptions keep me from one of the most influential writers of my life. As the saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. I’d add one more.

You can’t judge a writer by the section of the bookstore where someone else shelved them.

Loreen, wherever you are, I hope you’ve found an endless supply of beautiful yarn and fascinating people who make you laugh until your sides hurt. Thank you for introducing me to a writer who changed my life. More importantly, thank you for reminding me that the greatest stories often begin the moment we’re willing to let go of what we think we already know.

Growing up in suburban Arlington, Virginia, our family escaped on weekends to our lake house at the Lake of the Woods whenever we could. Depending on Northern Virginian traffic, it was an hour...or an hour and a half...or what felt like forever from the back seat of our family car.

My brother and I became experts at entertaining ourselves. We’d read books, play the license plate game, and inevitably I’d begin marching my “walking fingers” across the invisible line dividing the back seat just to see how long it would take before he protested.

Then, sometime during the 1970s, everything changed for us. About fifteen miles before the lake, a brand-new 7-Eleven appeared. Inside stood what looked like pure magic- a Slurpee machine! Those icy, colorful drinks somehow made the final stretch of the trip disappear. Suddenly the ride wasn’t measured in miles anymore. It was measured in Slurpees.

As if frozen sugar wasn’t exciting enough, 7-Eleven added another irresistible temptation - NFL collector cups. Every Slurpee came in a cup featuring a different football player. I couldn’t have named most of them if my allowance depended on it, but that hardly mattered. Half the fun was discovering who emerged from the shiny silver plastic cup dispenser. And if you happened to be a D.C. area kiddo and got a Washington Redskins player? Jackpot!

Looking back, it’s predictable that every collectible featured male athletes. Women’s professional sports weren’t exactly receiving attention in the 1970s. Thankfully, today’s young sports fans have many more heroes to choose from.

Closer to home, another 7-Eleven became one of our favorite destinations. About a mile from our house stood the River House apartments overlooking the Potomac River. Tucked into the lower level was another magical place where a few dollars could buy both sugar and happiness.

We’d walk there whenever we had enough change in our pockets By the time we made it home, the Slurpee had long since disappeared. The gum had already surrendered every ounce of flavor it possessed and had the consistency of plastic.

But the real prize remained- Wacky Packs. For anyone who grew up during the ‘70s, those words probably trigger an immediate smile. They were hilarious parody stickers that poked fun at everyday products. Suddenly, familiar grocery store brands became ridiculous cartoons with equally ridiculous names. They felt like Mad Magazine tucked inside a tiny wax paper wrapper.

Collecting them quickly became serious business. Trading them was even more serious. Long before Pokémon cards or Beanie Babies, Wacky Packs were playground currency. They found their way onto notebooks, lockers, bedroom doors, bicycles, and probably a few places they shouldn’t have. Somewhere, I’m fairly certain, a stop sign may have received one as well.

What made them even more irresistible was the fact that adults didn’t seem to like them very much. Schools tried banning them. Some companies filed lawsuits over the parodies. Which, of course, only made every kid want them even more. Funny how that works.

As I think back on those 7-Eleven adventures, I realize they weren’t really about Slurpees or stickers. They were about freedom. Freedom to hop on our bikes or walk a mile with friends. Freedom to spend our allowance however we pleased. Freedom to disappear for an afternoon and return home by dinnertime with sticky fingers, empty pockets, and another story to tell.

Today’s kids have smartphones, streaming services, and video games that fit in their pockets. We had Slurpees and Wacky Packs. And somehow... that was enough.

Happy National 7-Eleven Day. If you stop in for a free Slurpee today, enjoy it. Just don’t drink it too fast. Some memories are worth a little brain freeze.

A quick disclaimer: This essay wasn't sponsored by 7-Eleven, the makers of Slurpees, or the good folks behind Wacky Packs. It is, however, made possible by my paid subscribers, who generously support Creating Beautiful Chaos. If these stories bring a smile to your day, I'd be honored to have you join them.

A farrier is a specialist in horse hoof care. Think of them as part podiatrist, part blacksmith, part orthopedic shoe expert, and part horse whisperer. They trim hooves, shape horseshoes, diagnose foot problems, and somehow convince a 1,200-pound animal that standing on three hooves while someone hammers nails into the fourth is a perfectly reasonable way to spend the afternoon.

Many moons ago, almost thirty years to be exact, I spent a decade living on ranches. My first few were in California, and my last one brought me to Colorado. Between dogs, cats, horses, horse grooms, a husband, a stepson, a daughter-in-law, and the occasional houseguest, there was rarely a quiet moment. Every one of those characters could fill an essay of their own.

Today, however, belongs to the horses. More specifically... their feet.

Horse hooves are a bit like our fingernails. They never stop growing. Left unattended, they don’t simply become unattractive. They become unhealthy. A horse’s balance can change. Legs can become strained. Shoes loosen. Before long, a seemingly small problem can become a very expensive one.

Unlike wild horses, whose constant movement naturally wears down their hooves, domesticated horses depend on regular visits from a farrier every four to eight weeks.

Imagine if your manicurist came to your house every month... except instead of one manicure, they performed two, on a thousand-pound client, while carrying a forge. The comparison made me curious.

A typical manicure and pedicure today might cost somewhere between $50 and $100, depending on where you go and how fancy you get. A horse? According to the American Farriers Journal, the average cost of trimming a horse’s hooves and fitting a full set of shoes is about $184 every four to six weeks. Per horse. We had thirteen horses. I’ll let you do the math.

Every time I heard the farrier’s truck rumble through our front gate, I swear I could hear a giant ka-ching! echoing somewhere in the distance. And that was just to properly take care of the horses’ feet.

Horse ownership has a funny way of introducing you to expenses you never knew existed. Feed. Hay. Veterinary care. Tack. Blankets. Boarding. Fencing. Dentistry. Vaccinations. Trailers. Fly spray. Supplements. The list never seems to end.

Industry estimates suggest that owning a single horse now costs somewhere between $10,000 and $26,000 a year, depending on where you live and how you care for it. That’s before you’ve even climbed into the saddle.

Of course, horses don’t know any of this. They aren’t trying to be expensive. They’re simply being horses.

That thought came back to me recently as our granddaughter Addie has entered what I affectionately call the “I need a horse!” stage of childhood. It’s a wonderful dream. One I completely understand. Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague were some of my favorite books while growing up. There’s something magical about the bond between a child and a horse.

But there’s also value in understanding that loving an animal means accepting responsibility for its care, not just enjoying the fun parts.

That’s one of the reasons I was inspired to write Amara Earns Her Wings after watching Addie’s journey to bird ownership. While Amara dreams of birds instead of horses, the lesson is the same. Every pet, whether feathered, furry, or hoofed, depends entirely on us. They don’t choose us because we’re wealthy. They choose us because we’re willing to provide the time, care, commitment, and yes...the budget...to help them thrive.

For now, I suspect our granddaughter will continue borrowing horses whenever she gets the chance. Instead of finding a horse with a ribbon around its neck on her recent birthday, she received her own copy of Black Beauty. Financially speaking, it's an excellent arrangement. Her imagination gets to gallop freely, while Oma and Opa's checkbook can breathe a little easier.

And until she wins the lottery... a bird is probably much more in her preteen budget.

Happy National Farriers Week to the men and women who perform that back-breaking work and who remind us that sometimes the most important part of caring for a horse starts from the ground up.

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Long before I ever stepped inside, I’d heard people talk about Little Bear with almost mythical reverence. Living in southeast Denver at the time, it was close enough for an afternoon motorcycle adventure but just far enough away that the hour-long drive home from a bar never seemed particularly wise. Then I moved to Evergreen. Now Little Bear isn’t simply a destination. It’s part of my neighborhood.

Even before you step through the front door, the building tells its own story. At more than 130 years old, it proudly wears every wrinkle it has earned. The wooden boardwalk creaks beneath your feet as though introducing itself. If only those planks could talk.

Perched in the heart of historic Evergreen, Little Bear enjoys front-row seats to some of our favorite community traditions. Every Father’s Day, the annual rodeo parade rolls right past its front porch. In December, the Holiday Walk transforms the street into a sea of twinkling lights as families wander from shop to shop, hot cocoa in hand.

On warm weekends and hot summer days, motorcycles line the curb like horses tied outside an Old West saloon. Harleys rumble in beside adventure bikes, touring bikes, and the occasional curious visitor wondering what all the fuss is about.

Then you walk inside.

The first thing you’ll notice isn’t polished décor. It’s personality. An antique cash register guards the entrance. Old concert posters compete for wall space with license plates, local memorabilia, and perhaps the largest collection of bras you’ll ever see suspended from a ceiling. Somewhere in the middle of it all sits a stage that has hosted musicians for generations.

The decorating style could best be described as... dive bar chic. Every new owner has wisely resisted the temptation to modernize the place too much. Thankfully, they did tackle one improvement. Years ago, the bathrooms announced themselves long before you actually found them. Fortunately, today’s Little Bear smells considerably better while still preserving its wonderfully quirky personality, right down to the restroom signs marked only with a hot dog and a doughnut. It’s exactly the sort of place where first-time visitors pause for just a second before deciding which door seems most appropriate.

Nobody comes to Little Bear for craft cocktails served with edible flowers. Beer flows freely- including alcohol free options. Shots are enthusiastically poured. Blue jeans remain the unofficial dress code. The VIP tables may be new, but they don’t fool anyone. This isn’t a place where people come to be seen. They come to sing, to dance. to laugh, to reconnect and to forget any woes from the outside world for a few hours.

And, occasionally, to admire some surprisingly talented harmonica playing. One of my favorite Little Bear traditions happens during Evergreen’s Holiday Walk each December. After every child in town has shared their Christmas wishes, Santa quietly makes his way to Little Bear with Mrs. Claus at his side.

Santa playing harmonica at Little Bear. Video credit: Karen Loucks Rinedollar

The moment they walk through the door, the room erupts. Not because the children are excited. Because the adults are! Grandparents, bikers, college students, and longtime locals suddenly become eight years old again. “Santa!” He smiles, makes his way to the stage, pulls out a harmonica, and joins the band for an unforgettable blues session. It might just be the happiest room in Colorado.

The music at Little Bear has always been extraordinary. Most evenings, I don’t recognize the names on the schedule. It doesn’t matter. Whoever books the talent has an exceptional ear. Just ten miles away sits Red Rocks Amphitheater, one of the world’s greatest concert venues. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something in Bear Creek’s water that simply attracts good musicians.

Great tunes galore at Little Bear. Video credit: Karen Loucks Rinedollar

The list of performers who’ve graced the Little Bear stage reads like the Rock & Roll and Jazz Hall of Fame- Duke Ellington, Buddy Rich, Bonnie Raitt, Waylon Jennings, Neil Young, Kris Kristofferson, Maria Muldaur, Waylon Jennings, Rita Coolidge, George Thorogood, Los Lobos, The Lumineers, The Fray, Willie Nelson was known to stop by during the years he owned a ranch in Evergreen, occasionally joining whoever happened to be performing that evening.

For a place with a stage barely big enough for a band, Little Bear has cast an awfully large shadow across Colorado music history. Over the decades it has hosted weddings, cowboy church services, reunions, birthdays, first dates, and probably more than a few stories that should remain exactly where they happened.

Last night I bought tickets for another upcoming show. With a handful of friends, we’ll gather, sing along to songs we know, dance a little, laugh a lot, and add one more evening to Little Bear’s ever-growing collection of memories.

The ‘more mature’ I get, the more I realize that every community needs a place like this. They’re rarely fancy. They don’t have Michelin stars or velvet ropes. What they do have is something far more valuable- history, character, music, laughter, memories and a thousand stories quietly woven into weathered wooden floors.

Sometimes the best places aren’t the ones trying to impress you. They’re the ones simply happy to welcome you in. And if you ever find yourself near Evergreen, take time to make a Little Bear stop. Just don’t spend too much time looking up. You never know what might be hanging from the rafters.

Quarter Millennium

Two hundred fifty candles bright,
Still dancing in the summer night.
From sea to sea, from hill to plain,
Through times of sunshine, wind, and rain.

I was thirteen in ‘76,
When everything wore stars and stripes.
You couldn’t turn your head, it seemed,
Without a Bicentennial theme.

Today the name’s a little trickier.
Sestercentennial? Not a word that’s stickier.
Bisesquicentennial? Still won’t do,
I’ll simply toast a Quarter Millennium with you.

No matter what we choose to say,
The birthday still arrives today.
A nation young by history’s clock,
Yet mature enough to weather shock.

This year my celebration’s found
High in a Colorado’s mountain town.
A house filled up with those we love,
Blue skies stretched wide and peaks above.

Shared meals around a festive table.
Stories, laughter, when we’re able.
A winding river, clear and cold,
Making memories worth more than gold.

Bright drones will safely light the skies.
Children’s laughter will surely rise.
Old flags will wave. New flags unfurl.
Hope stitched into a changing world.

For birthdays aren’t just counting years.
They’re measured, too, in hopes and cheers.
And whether gathered near or far,
Home is simply where your people are.

So here’s to 250 years.
To dreamers, builders, volunteers.
To family, freedom, friends, and mates.

Happy Birthday, United States!

A 250 celebratory dance by eight-year-old Jax! Video by Karen Loucks Rinedollar

Unfortunately, it turned out to be “only” an elk. Now, don’t get me wrong. Elk are magnificent animals. In fact, they are now my spirit animal. Towering, muscular, and every bit deserving of admiration. But when you’re hoping to spot a moose and see an elk, it feels a little like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding socks instead of skis. Still wonderful, just not quite what you were expecting.

Moving into a mountain home is a bit like buying a house without knowing what’s planted in the flower beds. Every season reveals something new. Every year introduces another surprise.

We regularly saw deer and elk wandering through the neighborhood, but after a while I began wondering where all the other famous mountain residents were hiding. Everyone talked about bears, bobcats, foxes, mountain lions, and even the occasional lynx. Surely they couldn’t all be vacationing somewhere else.

The answer, it turns out, was simple. They had been there all along.

Some of our neighbors moved here from Tucson and were giddy about the deer and squirrels wandering through their yard. “Just wait,” we told them. “It gets even better.” Another neighbor moved from Missouri and was so unnerved by wildlife strolling past her windows that she put a “For Sale” sign on her property after only a year. Mountain living isn’t for everyone.

Our home sits high above Evergreen Lake, a bit treehouse-ish. Unless we’re leaning over the deck railing or walking the property, much of the wildlife simply passes beneath us unnoticed. Then Gary installed outdoor cameras.

Not because we were worried about mischievous people. Mountain neighborhoods have their own version of neighborhood watch. Between Bunco groups, book clubs, dog walkers, and neighbors who always seem to know whose car belongs where, strangers don’t stay strangers for very long. Plus it’s not uncommon for people to protect their property with guns.

Our cameras weren’t watching for two-legged visitors. They were confirming a suspicion that much more activity was going on than we were seeing. The cameras were introducing us to our four-legged neighbors.

Almost overnight, an entirely different world appeared on our phones. Deer wandered by daily. Foxes trotted through with purpose. Bobcats strolled past as though they owned the place. An elusive lynx made an appearance. Elk happily munched on the greenery around our front door. Even a mountain lion casually wandered through one evening.

And yes...the bears we’d been waiting to meet had apparently been visiting all along. That’s when it finally hit me. We hadn’t moved into a mountain neighborhood. We had moved into a virtual wildlife reserve.

One of the smartest decisions we made shortly after moving in had nothing to do with landscaping or paint colors. It was upgrading to bear-resistant trash containers. Around here, unsecured garbage cans are almost an invitation. Every so often someone tries to get by with an unsecured trash can, only to discover the next morning that a hungry bear has redecorated the neighborhood. Coffee grounds, cereal boxes, and the past week’s leftovers end up scattered halfway down the street while the neighbors observe with with deep displeasure. Lesson learned.

It isn’t hard to understand why bears find us so irresistible. A bear’s sense of smell is estimated to be more than 2,000 times stronger than ours. Scientists believe they can detect food from 15 to 20 miles away when the wind is just right. To a bear, last night’s pizza crust or an overflowing trash can isn’t simply nearby. It’s a billboard.

They’re not trying to be destructive. They’re simply being bears looking for food. This year has been an especially active one. One medium-sized bear discovered the bird feeder I’d given my dad for his last Christmas. Let’s just say it didn’t survive the encounter.

While friends were visiting one morning, a mama bear and her cub quietly wandered underneath our deck around 9:30. We sat above them laughing and talking without hearing so much as a twig snap. The cameras told us the story afterward.

Then came the latest surprise. Last evening, Gary was standing on the back deck when he heard what sounded like someone climbing the stairs. Curious, he leaned over the railing. A bear was walking up like a friendly neighbor stopping by to say hello.

The moment the bear spotted Gary, it immediately turned and disappeared back into the woods. Honestly, that was exactly the ending we wanted. Not because we dislike bears. Because wild bears should remain wild. These is a popular saying that A fed bear is a dead bear.

The bears that become comfortable around people are often the ones who pay the highest price. They’re simply following one of the most extraordinary noses in the animal kingdom toward what they believe is an easy meal. Sadly, once they begin associating people with food, the story rarely ends well for them.

Living in the mountains has taught me that nature isn’t something we simply admire through a picture window. It’s something we share. These forests belong to the elk, the foxes, the hummingbirds, the mountain lions, and yes...the bears.

Being a good mountain neighbor means doing our part. It means securing the trash, bringing in the bird feeders at night, storing food wisely, making certain every campfire is completely out, and paying attention. Those aren’t inconveniences.

They’re acts of respect.

The goal isn’t simply to protect ourselves. It’s to protect all of our neighbors, wildlife included, that makes life so extraordinary. But perhaps that lesson extends well beyond the mountains.

Whether we live beside bears, beside backyard fences, or beside apartment doors, we’re all part of someone else’s neighborhood. Every day we leave little traces of ourselves behind through our actions, our kindness, our carelessness, and the choices we make. We can make life easier for those around us, or harder. Safer, or less safe. Better, or worse.

The animals have reminded me that being a good neighbor isn’t really about where we live. It’s about recognizing that we never live there alone. If we remember that, perhaps both people and wildlife can continue calling this beautiful world home.

After all, everyone deserves the right to bear arms...especially the furry, four-legged kind.

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We adults often say childhood was the time when the world was our oyster. But was it? Or did we simply stop noticing the pearls that continued to surround us?

This summer, Gary and I have the joy of hosting our grandchildren one week at a time: a week with our grandson Jaxson, a week with our granddaughter Addie, and finally a week with both of them together. Their parents gain dependable childcare, the children enjoy uninterrupted time with their grandparents, and we receive the greatest gift of all: seeing the world through young eyes again.

This past first week belonged to eight-year-old Jaxson. To call him curious would be an understatement. He approaches each day like an explorer convinced there is still undiscovered territory just beyond the next pine tree.

We included his two cents in our planning session of meals and activities. It was a much quicker process than I’d expected for planning meals and activities. His breakfast request was immediate: Opa’s “World Famous” Danish pancakes. Beyond that, his agenda was simple. Build Legos. Explore outside. Play. Repeat.

Getting Jaxson outdoors has never required encouragement. He seems built for another era, one that existed before endless scrolling and twenty-four-hour entertainment. Fishing, playtime at the local pool, kayaking, splashing through mountain streams, or simply wandering the woods are all equally appealing. Living in the Colorado mountains, we’ve learned that nature often provides better entertainment than anything money can buy.

Over the years, Jaxson has earned a nickname around our house: The Bone Collector. Our four-acre property is dotted with pine trees, steep hillsides, granite outcroppings, and lichen-covered boulders. Hidden among them are the treasures he patiently searches for: antlers, feathers, eggshells, deer skulls, fox bones, intact spines, and whatever other relics nature chooses to reveal. One prized addition to the collection isn’t from the forest at all, but the shell from one of Opa’s birthday lobsters.

His greatest discovery remains an entire animal skeleton, perfectly intact. Many adults might wrinkle their noses at such finds. Jaxson sees something entirely different. Every feather tells a story. Every bone is a mystery waiting to be solved. Not all the wildlife on our property resides in the immortal realm.

A well-worn copy of Sibley’s Backyard Birds of the Rocky Mountain States often accompanies him outdoors like a field guide to hidden treasure. Lately, he has become especially fascinated with the tiny Pine Siskin.

Plenty of other living creatures grace, and occasionally torment, our mountain home. Chipmunks and garter snakes dart through the rocks. Squirrels perform daily acrobatics. Birds fill the trees with song. Deer, elk, bobcats, foxes, and even the occasional lynx wander through our yard.

Every now and then, a black bear joins the guest list. One such visitor stopped by this week, sinking its teeth into our seed feeder before happily slurping the sugary nectar from the hummingbird feeder. Since then, our evening routine has changed. Along with locking the doors and turning off the lights, we now bring the bird feeders inside before heading to bed.

When he isn’t outside, he’s usually building. This visit’s project was a NASA Artemis Space Launch System Lego set containing more than 600 pieces. Hour after hour, rockets, launch towers, and tiny spacecraft gradually emerged from hundreds of colorful bricks. Watching the pieces slowly become something meaningful reminded me why I enjoy puzzles so much myself.

His snack choices are equally refreshing. Apples, preferably yellow ones, top the list. Watching a child eagerly reach for fresh fruit instead of brightly packaged snacks brings me an unreasonable amount of joy. Combined with his constant motion, it’s no surprise he is lean, strong, and blessed with the kind of energy adults spend fortunes trying to recapture.

One of his more unexpected fascinations this visit has been an old emergency radio tucked away in our garage. It runs on a hand crank and includes a small solar panel. To Jaxson, it might as well be cutting-edge technology. He cranks the handle, slowly tunes the dial, and celebrates each station that crackles into focus.

Watching him discover the simple pleasure of finding a radio signal transported me back to my own childhood, walking around the house with my mother’s tiny transistor radio and feeling wonderfully independent because I could choose my own music. Some experiences never grow old. Others quietly disappear.

Our biggest challenge this week has been books. Unlike Legos, fishing poles, or bird guides, reading still requires encouragement. Earlier this year, Gary and I wrote and published Jaxson and the Growing Spark, a children’s book inspired by him. We’ve taken him to the library and helped him choose books about subjects he genuinely enjoys, particularly action stories and Lego creations.

His analytical mind already thinks like an engineer. He dreams of designing robots someday. The reading skills needed to reach that dream simply haven’t caught up with his imagination yet.

As lifelong readers and writers, we naturally hope he discovers the same joy in books that has shaped our lives. But every child follows a different timeline, and perhaps wonder is the first chapter. Reading will come later.

As evening settles over the lake, deer and wild turkeys wander through the property with comforting regularity. We keep a watchful eye on our young explorer as dusk deepens, knowing mountain lions begin their nightly rounds.

Eventually, bedtime arrives. The guest room sits empty while Jaxson happily unrolls his sleeping bag on the floor beside our bed. We call overnight stays ‘slumber parties.’ Armed with a cup of water and complete contentment, he consistently falls asleep within minutes.

The little boy who once greeted every sunrise now somehow sleeps later than every adult in the house. Apparently, collecting wonder is exhausting work. Each morning, he wakes ready to do it all again.

As I watched him disappear into the woods one more time, I realized he wasn’t simply collecting bones, feathers, and rocks. He was collecting wonder.

Somewhere along the road to adulthood, many of us traded curiosity for efficiency. We stop examining feathers. We quit looking under rocks. We forget to notice the stars overhead because we’re too busy checking the forecast on our phones.

The world never stopped being a treasure chest. Sometimes it simply takes an eight-year-old to remind us where to look.

There comes a season
when the world has not changed,
yet everything looks different.

The veil slips quietly from our eyes,
and what once hurried past unnoticed
steps forward and introduces itself.

A child laughing at nothing and everything.
Water finding its way over stone,
never rushed, never late.
An ant carrying a burden
far larger than itself,
faithfully attending to the business of being alive.

For years we chased horizons,
measuring life in milestones,
deadlines, and destinations.

Then one day,
we begin measuring differently.

In birdsong before breakfast.
In sunlight warming an old wooden bench.
In conversations that linger.
In hands we have held for decades
and faces that will not stay young forever.

The great gift of maturing
is not simply growing older.

It is becoming aware
that time is a river, not a reservoir.

And strangely,
when we recognize its fleeting nature,
each moment expands.

A sip of coffee becomes a ritual.
A walk becomes a pilgrimage.
An ordinary afternoon becomes a treasure.

The clock keeps moving,
but our hearts learn to pause.

And in that pause,
life reveals itself.

Not in the grand spectacles,
but in the small wonders
that were waiting for us all along.

During my most recent visit, I found myself reflecting on a childhood visit to Chichén Itzá. Back in the 1970s, visitors were still allowed to climb the great pyramid known as El Castillo, or the Temple of Kukulcán. Standing atop the ancient structure is an experience few travelers can claim today. In 2008, the Mexican National Institute of Anthropology and History permanently banned climbing the pyramid to protect its aging limestone steps and to insure visitor safety. What was once a hands-on adventure is now admired from the ground, preserving this remarkable wonder for future generations.

There will always be those who believe the rules don’t apply to them.

Unfortunately, even a sacred temple is not immune to the occasional display of human foolishness. Over the years, there have sadly been more than a couple. In March 2025, a German tourist decided that the rules applied to everyone except him. Ignoring barriers, warning signs, and the collective respect being shown by thousands of other visitors, he raced up the pyramid during a sacred equinox celebration.

As fate would have it, what goes up must come down. Authorities arrested the man once he returned to ground level, but legal consequences were only part of his lesson. The crowd, deeply offended by what many viewed as a blatant act of disrespect toward both the site and its cultural heritage, expressed their displeasure in ways that were considerably more immediate and far less bureaucratic. It’s a good reminder that while ancient monuments may stand the test of time, public opinion can still move remarkably fast.

As a child, I was always climbing something: trees, playground equipment, gymnastics apparatus, bunk beds. If there was a way to get higher, I usually found it. I approached the pyramid the same way I approached most things in life: quickly, enthusiastically, and with perhaps a bit less planning than wisdom would recommend.

Without much thought, up I went, drawn to the summit with all the restraint of a Labrador spotting an open lake. I don’t remember the climb itself being particularly difficult. The stone staircase rose steeply toward the sky, but I scampered upward with confidence. What’s the big deal, I remember thinking. Before long, I found myself standing at the top, gazing out across the Yucatán Peninsula. The view was breathtaking, and for a brief moment, I felt as though I were standing on top of the world.

The view was breathtaking. Then I looked down. As I waved down at my still earth-bound family at the base of the pyramid, suddenly, I wasn’t quite as brave as I thought. The staircase that had seemed manageable during the climb now appeared impossibly steep. The steps were narrow, worn smooth by centuries of use, and seemed designed for feet much smaller than my size eight-and-a-halfs.

Perhaps the builders intended visitors to slow down and climb with purpose and respect. Regardless, my body had reached a firm conclusion: I’m not going down those stairs. Without an elevator option, the irony was not lost on me. Climbing had never been my problem. Returning safely to earth apparently was.

The pyramid itself was no ordinary structure. Chichén Itzá served as a major religious, political, and commercial center of the Maya civilization. It was strategically built near natural sinkholes called cenotes, which provided precious fresh water and were considered sacred portals to the Mayan underworld.

Archaeologists have discovered that sacrificial offerings were made in those waters. For years, historians believed the victims were primarily young female virgins. Our guides certainly seemed to enjoy telling the young girls in the group that if we didn’t behave ourselves, we could be next.

Modern DNA analysis, however, has painted a different picture. Evidence now suggests that many of the sacrificial victims were actually young males. Looking back, it seems my little brother had far more reason to worry than I did.

As I stood frozen at the top of the pyramid, I remember feeling there was only one sacrifice taking place that day. My pride. Fortunately, a kind stranger noticed my hesitation. Without fanfare, he offered his hand. No lectures. No teasing. No dramatic rescue. Just a simple offer to help. And together we began the descent.

He showed me how to turn sideways so more of my foot could fit on each step. He told me not to look down. Instead, focus on the next step, then the next one after that. Simple advice. Remarkably effective. A lot like trying to accomplish any new skill in life or overcome a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

The pyramid is designed as a giant calendar. Each of its four staircases contains 91 steps. Add them together and include the final step leading to the temple at the top, and you arrive at 365, one for every day of the solar year. On that day, however, it felt less like 365 steps and more like 3,650.

Eventually my feet touched level ground again. Never had dirt felt so comforting. My Mexico adventure could continue, and my parents would not have to devise a long-term plan for feeding their Princess Rapunzel perched atop a Mayan pyramid.

I’ve thought about that experience many times over the years because it strikes me as a pretty good metaphor for life. Often, we spend our energy worrying about the climb. Getting the promotion. Starting the business. Writing the book. Launching the nonprofit. Taking the trip. Making the leap.

We assume the hard part is getting to the top. Sometimes it is. But sometimes the challenge arrives after we’ve achieved what we set out to do. Success brings perspective. Perspective reveals risks we couldn’t see before. And suddenly we find ourselves facing a completely different challenge than the one we expected.

That’s often when we need a guide. Fortunately, guides appear in many forms. Sometimes they’re family members or friends. Sometimes they’re teachers, mentors, coaches, or colleagues. Sometimes they’re authors we’ve never met, a YouTube video, or someone who has simply walked the path before us.

The more calendar pages that go by, the more I realize that asking for help is not weakness. It is wisdom. Every one of us will eventually encounter a staircase that looks steeper going down than it did going up. The climb may be easy. The descent may be humbling.

The good news is that no one stays on top of the pyramid forever. Not me. Not you. And certainly not the German tourist who decided the rules didn’t apply to him. Sooner or later, we all come back down to earth. The trick is to do so with a little more humility, a little more gratitude, and hopefully without being arrested at the bottom.

And once we overcome our challenge, we have the opportunity to turn around and offer a hand to the next person standing at the top of their own staircase, wondering how on earth they're going to get where they need to go.

Most Americans are surprised to learn that the Army is actually older than the nation it serves. Created on June 14, 1775, by the Second Continental Congress, it predates both the Declaration of Independence and the official formation of the United States itself.

So why do I care about the Army’s birthday? Because my family has been intertwined with the defense of this country for generations.

Long before genealogy websites made family research fashionable, my grandfather was digging through records, preserving family history, and connecting the dots of our military heritage. Through his work, we learned that members of our family served as far back as the Revolutionary War era. Some were recognized by the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company, America’s oldest chartered military organization.

Military service wasn’t an abstract concept in my family. It was woven into everyday life. My grandfather was a Major General in the United States Army. My father served as a Lieutenant Colonel. As a child growing up just outside Washington, D.C., uniforms were as common in my world as blue jeans. Military ceremonies, salutes, promotions, and official events were simply part of the landscape of family life. And for a few years, I even thought that might be my future.

My summers revolved around Fort Myer, the historic Army post adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery. Before 8:00 each morning, my mother would drop me at the Officer’s Club pool. At 4:30 in the afternoon, she would return to collect me. In between, I swam on the swim team, roamed the base with friends, and enjoyed the kind of freedom children had in the 1970s and on a secured military base.

We knew where the cheap movies were playing. I still remember when Jaws came out. Admission was twenty-five cents. The stables sat near the pool, and some afternoons we’d wander over to visit Black Jack, the famous riderless horse who participated in the funerals of Presidents Kennedy, Hoover, and Johnson. Other horses trained for military funerals at nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

We explored wooded areas near the cemetery searching for collectible beer cans, a surprisingly popular hobby during the Billy Carter era. Looking back, it was an unusual childhood, but at the time it simply felt normal.

By high school, the military still felt like an extension of home. One of my fellow cheerleaders happened to be the daughter of the Chief of Staff of the United States Army, the highest-ranking officer in the service. They lived in Quarters One, the most prestigious residence on the post. During my senior year, I attended a homecoming dinner there, and we were served by Stuart’s parents. I was struck not by their rank but by how ordinary they seemed. Despite carrying enormous responsibilities, they were simply parents serving dinner to a group of teenagers.

That lesson stayed with me. Leadership and service are often far less glamorous than they appear from the outside.

In junior college, I joined ROTC along with several friends. We camped, rappelled, flew in helicopters, and enjoyed the camaraderie that military life offered. I loved the challenge and the adventure.

Then came the moment when I was asked to sign on the dotted line. Before committing, I asked what opportunities would be available to me. The answer was sobering. I was fascinated by aviation and dreamed of flying helicopters. Having grown up just a mile from the Pentagon, with helicopters regularly crossing the sky above our home, it seemed like a natural fit.

However, the U.S. Army had other ideas. It wasn’t flat feet or a medical condition that stood in my way. It was an X chromosome. In 1983, women were not permitted to serve in combat roles or as Army pilots. My options would have been largely administrative positions behind a desk.

I respected those roles, but they weren’t where my heart lived. So I chose a different path. I found my version of service in the fire industry.

There was certainly discrimination there as well. Women in firefighting faced plenty of skepticism. Yet it offered something the Army could not at that moment in history: the opportunity to actively participate, lead, and serve on the front lines. In fact, when I joined the Rattlesnake Fire Protection District, our chief, Judy Cooper, was a woman. I never regretted that decision.

Yet even after leaving the military path behind, the Army never truly left me. Years later, when my father was diagnosed with cancer at age ninety, he finally spoke about his funeral wishes. He hoped to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery near his parents, but he wasn’t sure he qualified.

One phone call provided the answer. As a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army, he was fully eligible for burial with military honors. The service was held in the same small chapel where my grandfather’s funeral had taken place decades earlier. There was a horse-drawn caisson carrying his casket. A riderless horse with boots reversed in the stirrups, symbolizing a leader’s final ride. A rifle party firing the traditional Three-Volley Salute. A live bugler playing Taps. The precise folding of the American flag. The solemn presentation of that flag to my mother.

Duty. Honor. Country. Words we hear often, but whose meaning becomes profoundly real when they arrive wrapped in memory and loss. Today, our family proudly displays the folded flags of both my father and grandfather.I never became a soldier. After a couple years of ROTC, I never wore Army green as a profession.

But the Army helped shape the people who shaped me. And on its 251st birthday, I find myself grateful for that legacy of service, sacrifice, and quiet leadership that continues to echo through the generations.

Happy Birthday, U.S. Army.

If you live in Colorado and ride motorcycles, spring can feel like a cruel tease. By May, the itch to get back on the road is almost impossible to ignore. After a long winter, riders start looking for any excuse to pull the bikes out of the garage. The challenge is that Colorado weather is about as predictable as a squirrel after three espressos. One day, the temperature may climb into the 70s with blue skies overhead. The next day, you wake up to six inches of snow and wonder if Mother Nature wickedly flipped the calendar back to March.

Years ago, Gary had a business event in New Orleans. Since it was early May and Colorado was enjoying a stretch of mild weather, we decided to ride the approximately 1,300 miles on our motorcycles rather than fly. Part of the joy of motorcycle travel is that the journey becomes as much of the adventure as the destination itself. We looked forward to exploring back roads, seeing the country at a slower pace, and eventually enjoying all the things we love about New Orleans: the music, the food, the history, and the unique energy that seems to spill out onto every street corner.

Somewhere in Missouri, however, our adventure came to a standstill, literally. Traffic completely stopped. Not slowed. Stopped. We stood straddling our bikes, there in the muggy heat, for over an hour without moving an inch. In a car, this would have been inconvenient but manageable. You turn on the air conditioning, listen to a podcast, grab a snack, and wait it out. On an air-cooled motorcycle, it’s a different experience. The bikes need to be shut down if the delay is long enough. You’re sitting in the heat wondering what could possibly be causing such a massive backup.

When traffic finally began moving, we discovered the answer. A tornado had crossed directly across the highway ahead of us. The damage on both sides of the highway was astonishing. Trees were snapped in half, structures were damaged, and debris was scattered everywhere. Looking at the destruction, it became immediately clear how fortunate we had been.

It’s amazing how quickly perspective can change. Just moments earlier, I had been focused on the inconvenience of sitting in traffic. Now all I could think was how lucky we were not to have arrived a little sooner. Had we been riding through that stretch of highway as the tornado passed, things could have turned out very differently. Unlike a car, a motorcycle offers little protection from flying debris, hail, or violent winds. What had felt like terrible luck suddenly revealed itself as a tremendous blessing.

The trip continued without incident, and New Orleans was every bit as enjoyable as we’d hoped. The real challenge came when it was time to head home. Fortunately, Gary had the foresight to keep a close eye on the weather forecast. Mother Nature had decided to whip up an unexpected snowstorm for the Denver area on Mother’s Day 2014. Had we left on our original schedule, our leisurely three- or four-day ride home, including a visit with friends in Dallas, might have ended with hunkering down while waiting out a snow melt. Motorcycles do not do well in snowy road conditions and it’s cold as heck for the rider.

Instead, we adjusted our plans. What would normally have been a relaxed ride home became a two-day sprint across the country. Torrential rains flooded highways across Louisiana and into Texas, making for a soggy and challenging first day. Fortunately, we were rewarded with a wonderful overnight visit with friends in Dallas before continuing westward.

The next morning, we pointed our bikes toward Colorado and spent the day crossing the vast expanse of Texas and New Mexico. The rain was behind us, but the heat was relentless. Temperatures soared, and we baked under the desert sun for hours. As we crossed into Colorado, the weather shifted dramatically. The temperature plummeted, and the skies ominously darkened. Snowflakes began swirling around us while we were still nearly an hour from home.

We rolled into our garage late Saturday evening, safe but chilled to the bone, grateful for both good timing and good judgment. The following morning, we awoke to a landscape blanketed in fresh snow. Looking out the window, it was easy to imagine an alternate version of the story, one in which we had stubbornly stuck to our original itinerary and found ourselves stranded hundreds of miles from home, waiting for the storm to pass.

That may be one of the greatest lessons travel teaches us. Sometimes the smartest decision isn't sticking stubbornly to the original plan. It's learning to lean into the challenges, adapt to changing conditions, and appreciate the opportunities that emerge along the way. Sometimes that requires only a minor course correction. Other times, it means changing the plan entirely. The road doesn't always unfold as expected, but some of the best adventures begin the moment we stop fighting the detour.

The longer I live, the more I realize that life often works this way. We spend a lot of energy attached to our preferred plans, our preferred timelines, and our preferred methods of getting where we want to go. Yet circumstances change. Storms appear. Roads close. Forecasts shift. The key isn’t controlling every condition around us. The key to success is remaining flexible enough to adapt when those conditions inevitably change.

A Traveler’s Mindset isn’t about forcing the journey to unfold exactly as planned. It’s about appreciating the adventure, paying attention to the forecast, counting your blessings when luck is on your side, and understanding that sometimes the smartest route forward involves changing the original plans altogether.