The boat is a big beloved lug, a tugboat of a speedboat that has carried our children through these lakes since they were infants. They’ve sat in it, swam off it, cried in it, fought over the best seat in it, skied behind it with their father yelling encouragement, and been flung willy nilly behind it on various tubes we wore out through moves like the “slow nut,” a donut that built gradually round and round until the waves they rode were almost higher than our boat.

They say now that Brent might have been working out some frustrations when he pulled them on the tube, but they loved almost every minute of it.

The boat was bequeathed to us years ago by my father-in-law who pulled it up to the dock and handed us the key. He knew it would be driven more here than in lakes closer to him. When they visited, every summer, Brent would hand back the key and Papa would drive the boat again, with Nana saying, “Oh dear. Slow down.”

This spring, a falling branch crashed through its windshield, dispersing thousands of tiny perfect little squares of glass in every nook and cranny of the boat. Holly hightailed it to Buckhorn to buy a wet/dry vacuum so we could clean it up, or try to. The nearby marina cleverly replaced the windshield with plexiglass, but our boat had bigger problems than that. A routine cleaning session at our friend’s dock expanded like a giant balloon into a pump replacement, emptying a wet/dry vac via rowboat, scratching our heads, fiddling with wires and otherwise troubleshooting the mysterious ailments of a very old lady.

They also invited us for homemade pizza for supper.

I do know that this is what friends do. But goodness was the word that came to my mind. After a few hours I know I might have had the thought…"And I’m going to make them pizza??”

To me, the afternoon marathon was a sign of life being good, of people being generous, of how we can help each other. There have been other moments like that this summer that have reminded me of goodness and simple things.

• A stranger I met on our cottage road told me about a trail we had never heard of that leads through the woods to a nearby dam in the park beside us. We walked it and loved it.
  

• An older friend visiting the lakes stopped by our dock and asked one of our sons thoughtful questions about his future and shared some helpful lessons, lightly. Exactly what I think older people get to do: listen, ask questions, and then share a tiny bit of wisdom and experience.
  

• I attended “Cottage School” next door with neighbours who know everything about everything and came back over to ours to explain my own generator to me.
  

• I have received two pies from Uncle Brian, because he knows I share his love of the locally made Mennonite baked goods for sale at the farmer’s market in Bobcaygeon.
  

• Our dogs have loved to sit on the dock and watch the water, birds and boats. One of them starts his day with an inspection of the area surrounding the cottage, and ends up on the dock for a sit and think.
  

• I’ve read a few really great novels, short stories and also some books for the next season of Good Books Big Questions.
  

• I’ve written two things I think are okay — not the four or five things I had planned, but I know that’s how these things go.
  

• A writer friend drove up from Michigan with the biggest box of blueberries I have ever seen. We ate berries by the handful and we created a writing retreat together that worked! I will do that again.
  

• Another friend spontaneously booked a flight and came from Winnipeg for a few days. This is my oldest, most enduring friendship and those friendships are full of such goodness and also flourish best with some occasional attention, which we poured over it abundantly (like one might pour a margarita into a glass and head for the dock).
  

• My daughter and I spent an afternoon exploring the lakes and watched a plane land over us and take off behind us. We shared a sandbar with the pilot for a little while.
  

• A friend came overnight and we toured the lakes and then she helped me think through my freelance work life. What is too much? What don’t I like doing? What can I release now that life is settling down a bit? It is good to have friends you can let into your world to ask hard and discerning questions.

• I’ve walked our road almost every day, trying to train Guinness, to varying degrees of success, but always I think enjoying each other’s company. When we first picked him up, I whispered in his ear: “You’re going to have a good life with us,” and I think that is true.
  

• I’ve made some really good food, thanks to halfbakedharvest.com. I really love her recipes and appreciate those soft balls of burrata cheese like never before.

This summer has been simple, quiet, peaceful and yes, full of goodness. (This does not mean I didn’t bawl on the dock, but that’s just part of life and the goodness of having loved and been loved).

I watched for goodness, and goodness showed up.

I haven’t thought about Bingo over the years, until last week.

On Friday night, I joined a faith and arts discussion group that met at a beach in Ottawa. After a pleasant conversation about what it’s like to create out of abundance or scarcity, out came the craft supplies. Seizing up internally, I wondered if I’d have to find an excuse to leave early. I did not want to draw like a tiny child in front of the other grown-ups.

But, it turns out we were making simple but profound bingo cards to help us create a summer of abundance.

I loved this activity! It was like a list, but much better. I’m excellent at making lists, and often lose them. I’ve already lost my bingo card (I’m not even sure it made it home) but I was smart enough to take a photo. Here it is:

I wanted to share this idea, because it’s so fabulous. Some of the actual artists in our group drew clouds instead of squares, which we admired.

Angela, our conversation leader, invited us to dream a bit and think about intentionally creating our summer out of an expansive, abundant space. What were the possibilities? Most of my squares do contain practical things I wanted to do anyway, but they are things I find satisfying and enriching. (Even cleaning out my basement. I LOVE to clean out my basement).

I did dream up a few new goals like trying a new dish each week and also a new restaurant (which might really be dreaming).

And, writing a poem.

Reading four books will be child’s play. Writing three chapters, on the other hand, is wildly unrealistic, but a girl is allowed to dream.

Why don’t you do this activity with some friends? I think it might be one of the best kinds of Bingo out there (maybe even better than rum bingo when you’re broke and in your twenties).

You might have noticed “Train Guinness daily” on my Abundance Bingo card. Guinness is the little chocolate lab puppy I’ve had in my life for about a month. I already love him, and I think he loves me back, or that’s what all dog people think. I talk sweetly to him and flash him encouraging smiles and scratch behind his ears when they flop on by. He really is a charmer. There have been a few 2, 3, and 5:00am moments of concern. But we are sleeping much better now.

If you’re a dog person, you get it.

Our golden doodle Dewey, who died in late 2022, was never properly mourned because of all that life served up next, but he would have understood and forgiven us, because he was all about the group vibe and making sure everyone was okay. He did leave a dog-shaped hole in my life. My kids finally convinced me I was ready. They are willing to help. And this time, I believe them.

And so we all chose Guinness together. Even our eldest son was in town from Newfoundland and able to come with us to meet all the adorable puppies, and among them spot Guinness who seems to have the gentle and playful nature of another great friend. We’re taking good care of him. And he is already taking good care of me, wiggling from top to tail every time he sees me anew, even if I’ve just stepped behind a door for a second or two.

It is very good to be loved by a dog.

If you remember, we also have a bull mastiff in the house. The two dogs have formed a playful team. Russell displays the forbearance of a weary old aunty. I see him digging deep, and I tell him that. He’s mostly patient and also we think enjoying life with a new vigour. There’s now always someone available to play.

Many evenings, Guinness and I sit on the front step and watch the world go by. I love sitting on a step on a summer’s evening. I hope you might be doing that kind of thing as well?

Ottawa blooms beautifully this time of year. It becomes full and lush. My street is leafy green and just right, and busy with good things. There are always dogs afoot with their people. Little groups of students off for the summer have spirited discussions as they stride down the sidewalk, maybe heading out for a cold beer at the brewery a block or two away, like I did the other night with a friend. We’re trying to become better writers and so we read great sentences out loud to each other from a pile of books on the table between us.

Across the street, a neighbour has patio lights strung up her stairway. The woman on the corner turns the tiniest of city spaces into a gorgeous thick garden. She trims and tends, and I think waves a magic wand over the plants. I’ve written about her before and I probably will again.

One of the books I will read this summer was loaned to me by another neighbour who I wave to from across the street.

And on this very day, my friend Alison and I (The Minister’s Wife, Friendship Chapter), drove over an hour to see an art show featuring two artists (friends of each other) who combined their different kinds of work into one bright and beautiful show of paintings and puppets, embroidered stools with legs painted with leopard spots and cardboard bouquets of flowers scattered about that were almost irresistible.

It was a nice thing to do on a summer day with a good, old friend.

It’s easy to not do those fun, spontaneous things. Good things can take some effort. To not spend the day sowing or spinning, but slowing and savouring, is a decision that might take a plan. A stop at the gas station to fill the car. The right playlist. The right person.

“Just walk in the house and grab some lettuce,” Alison’s husband Kris said to me when I pulled into the driveway. That’s the kind of thing old friends might say to each other on a warm summer day.

Cynthia Gatien was one of the artists in the show, and one of my favourites. I love her bright flowers that look a little bit like the ones improbably growing in bunches on the corner of Arlington and Percy. I appreciate her quirky animals. A while ago — before Guinness tumbled into our lives — I asked her to do a painting for me featuring the dogs I have loved.

You’ll see there is just enough room for one more to join us at the table, in that prime corner office spot. I’m glad he’s here.

And I hope that if you make your own Abundance Bingo card, that you’ll tell me.

The most recent was an overnight break-in into my car, where it was parked in the driveway, doors left unlocked by a big dummy who sometimes forgets to lock her car.

So less break-in and more climb-up and rustle through my things. Two bags of used clothing I was going to get rid of for Holly were taken, so that was the good part. My favourite green Eddie Bauer raincoat I bought for my UK trip last fall was stolen, which felt like a loss. I wonder what was in the pockets? Then I try to stop wondering.

IKEA curtain rods were left in their package on the back seat. Thank you Mr. Robber for saving me another hike through IKEA.

I know who the thief (very likely, almost certainly) is because a chequebook I didn’t know I had in my car was also taken. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a cheque. Can you? My thief knows, because he made two out to himself and cashed them one day after another from his mobile app.

He didn’t realize that someone who leaves their car unlocked is also the type of person who scratches through their bank account, sometimes daily, counting eggs and clucking. I immediately saw two cheques cashed for $200 each.

As dumb as it was to leave my car unlocked overnight, there is something dumber: writing cheques to yourself when you steal a chequebook. I am concerned about a younger generation who doesn’t quite know how this cheque business works.

The bank provided me screenshots, I quickly found the guy on Facebook, hit the follow button, and then thought better of that. I looked through his photos and felt a little badly for him that this is where life has brought him, so far. Also, annoyed. The fighter in me wanted to confront him with a message. But I decided that would be dumb upon dumb.

All of this brought back the frustration of last fall and the night before a big trip when I called Air Canada to ensure the name on my ticket exactly matched my passport.

At 10 that night, I fell down a deep rabbit hole of rip-offery which resulted in $850 for new tickets, and eventually my Aeroplan account drained.

My gut yelled: “Hang up! Hang up!” I ignored that, as one does.

But I did question the guy: “Is this really Air Canada? Why is there no bad music when you put me on hold? Where are you working at right now? Is your manager there? Why did you quote me in US dollars…? Hey, you, are you still there? Why is this taking so long?”

The rip off was interminably slow, and I was very patient on my end of the phone. We didn’t finish up until well after 11:00pm.

Later, after the trip and fully awoken from my stupor, I recounted this story to a friend who said she hoped the bad guys saved a recording of the conversation for a training call.

True and funny.

I have this note on my door to try to stop packages from being stolen off my front step.

(Every time I see it I wonder if thieves is spelled correctly because it looks funny.)

I do have a heart. I’ve thought things like this: “Well, I hope the person with my 1000+ cleaner wanted cleaner.” And: “Maybe the person needs a SodaPup Honey Pot Durable Dog Treat Dispenser and Enrichment Toy.”

And sometimes when I get obvious scam emails I reply and say: “What happened to you that you do this for a living?” On the phone, I will say: “Does your mother know about your job?” And if I can squeeze this in before they hang up, I add: “There’s a better way. You could go back to school.”

Once, my sister embarked on a Swear-Off with a woman who drew the short straw and got her phone number for a scam. My sister played along and then eventually called the woman’s bluff. In a surprise twist, the woman didn’t run off like a scared rabbit, but turned on the formidable woman who taught me to swear. We are Maritimers and so we can swear about anything and in very creative ways.

I’ve spent my adult life trying not to indulge this part of me, which still rises up in traffic, of course. My sister and this woman said unrepeatable things to one another, taking turns, and listening with what was a growing and grudging respect on the part of my sister that she had met her equal in cussing and cursing.

It’s a rare scammer who will hang onto the line and engage in a tug of war once the jig is up. I admire it. She could be running a corporation.

It feels like there are more ways to rip people off than ever before, and we should be vigilant and not ridiculous. Lock our cars. Bring our packages quickly in.

But if we are sometimes wide-eyed-deers-in-the-headlights-of-the-scammer-barrelling-toward-us when we’re just quietly ordering our cleanser online, we can forgive ourselves for that. Some of them are pretty good at what they do.

I do hope I have left my car unlocked for the last time, however. And I hope that the guy who stole my chequebook and my best raincoat ever (which I can replace of course) doesn’t keep going down this path. I really do. It’s less than ideal for both of us.

As I cut up a pizza box and little photocopied Holly faces to tape on a sign to wave and cheer with (a sign that didn’t turn out quite how I imagined, but what craft does?), I wondered if I might be a tiny bit bored waiting to spot my girl among thousands of strangers running by. Should I bring a book? I knew it would take her a while (but not that long of a while as it turned out!) to reach the spot where I would wait to jump up and down, near the finish line.

I didn’t know yet the energy, good will, excitement, and the sheer pleasure of cheering everyone on, and not just the people you love. Cheering the least runny-runners out there was especially lovely: 100-year old Roy, a guy dressed like a banana, couples holding hands as they ran-ished to the finish line together, and a woman in a taco costume.

Before Holly raced, we watched the 5k wrap up together. We share a kind of soppiness that can actually lead to face-in-hands-level weepiness at things like the bravery, gumption, stick-to-it-iveness and the tender and transparent pleasure and triumph on a runner’s face as they approach the finish line. We laughed at each other’s teary eyes and quivering lip.

And then off she went to run her own race.

It was all kind of wonderful. The running, the cheering, the back-slapping and the tremendously long line for the free beer for each runner.

It got me thinking about wonder and about cheering. I think we might cheer more if we wonder more. I mean the kind of wonder that is about sunsets, chocolate lab puppies (spoiler!), and saying, when we look at each other, something like this: “Well, would you look at that?” That’s what my father said as he skipped stones, gathered feathers, cracked butternuts and scattered wildflower seeds like a man planting crops to feed his family. That’s what he said when I sent him my first Reader’s Digest article. That’s what he said when he watched his grandchildren out in the world.

I want to be like my dad.

I want to be amazed by other people, and then tell them about it.

My eldest son Erik and I roamed through the Helen McNicoll exhibit on now at the National Gallery of Canada. McNicoll was a Canadian impressionist artist who did not have to wait to die to receive her accolades. Throughout the exhibit there are snippets of reviews from her time (1879-1915), applauding her work and calling it luminous (which it really was/is) and cheering (yes, cheering) her mastery of light.

A couple visiting the exhibit and strolling a few paintings behind us discussed McNicoll’s way with dappled sunlight.

“Wow,” said the woman. “Wow. Wow.”

“Yeah,” said the man. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“Her stuff is really something, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Wow!”

To their wows, I say: “Wow!” The couple seemed completely in the moment appreciating and exclaiming over the meadows, children, haystacks and warm squares of light that hung before them, created by a woman long gone but still alive in her art.

I wonder:

• Do we say “Wow!” enough?

• Do we have people we cheer with a homemade sign, teary eyes and tiny jumps?

• Do we have people who cheer us on? Gosh, we need that, and sometimes more than others.

  (Look! And also, wow! You can make polls on Substack and I created this one to help us evaluate our current need for some helpful cheering.)

(I’d like to say, if you need more, do more. But it’s not actually a magic formula of do more get more. That might not work. The reward is in the cheering on of others itself. We all know this already).

Here’s some insight on that. I had author and speaker Heather Thompson-Day on the Good Books Big Questions podcast this last season. I recommend all the conversations on the show, but I especially enjoyed Heather’s matter-of-fact position toward things like bullying, for example, and how to enter a room with positive thoughts about someone you are about to disagree with, or with whom you have some struggles.

Recently, Heather shared this familiar maxim on Instagram, but in a new way that I had not heard it used before: “If you see something, say something.” Usually we associate that advice with speaking up about an abandoned suitcase in an airport or a skulking stranger, but Heather used it to remind us to tell people about the good things you see in them. I love that.

If you see something, say something.

We don’t do that enough. That’s why, just the other night, I felt an urge to step out of the Costco checkout line (gasp!), and tell a woman with long silver hair she was beautiful. She seemed burdened to me, and alone, which might not have been the case at all.

Sometimes we all need to hear we are beautiful.

And why be afraid to waste a compliment? We can afford to be lavish with them. We carry a huge bouquet of them in our arms to choose from.

And finally, I saw a man on a motorcycle waiting at a red light behind a packed school bus, playing Rock Paper Scissors with a group of very enthusiastic grade school kids crammed into the back window of the bus that idled in front of him.

“Well, would you look at that?”

After the bus lumbered away from the intersection like a big old yellow dog standing up and gradually picking up some speed, I tried to catch the eye of the guy on the bike. I wanted to applaud, wave or give him a thumbs up for being so kind to the young strangers. The bus went straight, he roared right, and I turned left, so that didn’t happen. But I smiled all the way down Arlington.

“Guess what I just saw?” I said to my two sons, when I walked in the front door. They could not guess, didn’t even try, and they never would have gotten it anyway. Who could have guessed that? It was too weird and wonderful of a tiny little bubble that floated right past me and into the day.

“Just you?” the sweet hostess asks. “Just me,” I answer and off we trot to a far corner that’s either too noisy or too quiet, from where I will ask for a better table if I feel I deserve one, which I usually do.

I’m just settling back into my home and routine after my road trip which took me eventually to Holland, Michigan. I was there for a week of school in the Sacred Art of Writing doctor of ministry degree that I am making my way through as if I’m cutting a path through a field of wildflowers.

That means I love it. It’s beautiful. And it’s also hard. More on that in a second.

I just counted — using my fingers, obviously — to confirm I slept in nine beds over the 21 nights I was gone. Those included the homes of two friends, the home of my beloved family in London, three Airbnbs, one nicer hotel room shared with family on an adventurous outing involving Detroit, and two of the above very satisfactory hotels where I floated on the surface of the pool like a waterbug and then laid like a starfish on the giant bed I had. In these places, managers themselves swing through the special breakfast room to check breakfast supplies.

I enjoy the endless orange juice, the strong coffee and a new addition to the hotel breakfast buffet, a machine that curls out a stream of yogurt like soft serve ice cream. I loved it. And the little pots of special toppings like granola and dried cranberries off to its side.

I love it so much I requested they refill the machine on my second morning when I discovered it empty.

A flurry of hustling back and forth from the back storage room to the machine ensued, along with the twisting of knobs and turning of wheels, one failed attempt, followed by heads-together style conferring between the young front desk clerk and the man-manager who seemed a tiny bit officious.

I watched the clerk duck into the storage room, pulling her phone out of her pocket, not knowing the manager was right behind her with the large empty yogurt bag. (Seeing the actual empty bag streaked with the white of leftover yogurt detracted from the magic). I looked away. And “Oh oh,” I thought. She’s going to be caught on her phone at work. (I knew this was her first day because she told me when I complimented her dress), but nothing bad happened.

Except that the women at the table in front of me were simply roasting a friend of theirs who needs to stop complaining about everything, realize she should have worked outside the home if she wanted a better retirement, and just get on with her life. Just sell the house. It’s too big!

I asked them to watch my computer and other worldly possessions for a few moments and I knew that even though their friend couldn’t trust them, I definitely could.

Those are the mildest of the highlights. There are so many others.

• My mother-in-law had a birthday and enjoyed her party. Sweet. She is content, and we all love that for her.

• I went to a Florence and the Machine concert in Detroit on a spontaneous side trip with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, and we watched this woman dance with abandon. I listened to Florence almost my entire drive to Grand Rapids the next day.

  

• The Festival of Faith and Writing was energizing and fun, as always. I helped host an event the night before, a discussion about hope and writing with authors Jen Pollock Michel, Amanda Held Opelt, and Sara Billups. (I got to wear my blue and white striped Banana Republic blazer that was one of my best buys ever.) More importantly than my clothing, I love that format of public conversation. It made me think that we should all host “salon” style evenings in our homes where we invite friends over to have a discussion about a certain topic. I think I’m going to try that. I will report back. The venue for the event, a large bookstore in Grand Rapids, had our books, and there was The Minister’s Wife out in the wild. Hi sweetheart!

• A weekend in Saugatuck followed, with a drive to Douglas. Both beautiful places are filled with art galleries. So, I bought this. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

• My friends and I spent a day using my self timer on my phone and taking funny pictures. I learned how amusing this “album cover” photo shooting is from day trips with my MFA writer friends, but we took it a step further and named our band, which was Slow Turn or something along those lines. In this photo, Susie was saying “You’re standing on my hand,” but I only heard hand and stand and thought nothing of it.

• During my week of school, I loved it all. We spent the mornings talking about writing craft and topics like what life events have formed us as writers. I could name a few. As we made our lists, of course my beloved Brent was on mine, a few times. Becoming a minister’s wife shaped my writing life, but being his wife especially did. He was the perfect writer’s husband and I’m so glad he was mine. He shapes me still, now by his absence. Which leads me to the creative busting apart I experienced where I finally wrote my way back to my voice and received and gave myself permission to write more freely about sorrow and hope and imagination and grief, and the still often unfathomable loss of Brent. The tenderness of my writing friends I’m studying with, and the belief my mentors have in my work, helped me find my particular path through the field of flowers I walk in. At least, I think so. I will probably lose sight of it a few more times, but in this moment, I know what I am doing.

That is my not-full report of being away.

There were other small miracles and delights, great food, disappointing food, singing in the car, yelling at Siri because sometimes he just won't listen in the car, staying with old friends from Regent College days and watching the sun set over Lake Michigan. There was more laughter than tears. Widows sometimes take note of this balance.

But now I’m now back in my own bed. And on we go.

I’ve taken Russell to the dog park and made small talk with a couple visiting from PEI. Lovely. My laundry is done. Finally. New books are piled here and there.

When I come home after a time away I like to make my way through the house in a big clean and time of sprucing. Hello again to this painful, joyful place where good work and a good life happens still.

We all need a friend who will invite us for toast and marmalade, impromptu on a Saturday morning.

In the third year of widowhood, there has been — of course — a gradual shifting away of some friends who walked with us closely in the early months. That makes perfect sense. I’ve done the exact same thing, journeying closely with someone in a crisis and then naturally retreating when they are back on their own two feet. It is also true sometimes, that one big loss leads to smaller losses in the world of friendships.

And I have also pulled away at times. I realized that the loveliest of small groups was not the right place for me. It was all couples and although I tried I could not get over or through the sadness it evoked in me, not just yet.

It is okay. It is normal. And thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

In some cases even deeper bonds were forged — or in the case of old friends, safely secured forever — in those early months, a kind of knowing sped up by circumstances. A car-crash course in friendship. These are my guts, spilled on the floor. I see you brought a mop and a bucket.

Etc.

And now, you are still here. And there are lots of brand new things for us to talk about.

I’m also trying to make new friends, without appearing needy or nutty. The other day at pickleball, “Novice Social Play,” I met warm and funny Sue. I enjoyed passing the time with her against the wall as we waited to play.

“My husband died a couple of years ago,” she told me, as we shared why two nerds would be at the gym.

“I’m a widow too!” We laughed a bit hysterically, and exchanged phone numbers.

Over the years, I’ve had the same kind of grade-one-style, ‘Want to be my friend?’ moment with other pastor’s wives. The odder the circumstance the faster the friend? This is a good thing and not to be discounted.

Friendships are plants in a pot. We figure out what they need through time and experience. Water African violets from the bottom up. Lillies are hardier than we think. A pretty pot never hurt anyone.

Sometimes we over water or create famine conditions, but it’s amazing what can be brought back to life with intention and attention.

I know more about potted plants than ever because I inherited a house full when my friend Fawna moved from Toronto to New Brunswick. We packed up my car with some of her little green friends she didn’t want to leave behind to a who-knows-what kind-of future. Happily, although nervously, I stepped in.

I have committed myself to their care, first because she cared so much, and now because I do.

Just this week, I had a new-ish friend over for a drink. It is my neighbour, newly widowed, and whom I gently hover around in the driveway, just enough I hope and not too much.

After emergency vacuuming, I picked up (yet again) “Dog Show: poems,” a collection by Billy Collins given to me by my friend Deborah. They are sweet poems about the friendship between a person and their dog. I’m going to call them marmalade poems, because they are jam but with an edge.

I sat in the light of my evening living room. I waited for my friend and read delicious poetry given to me by another. Plants prefer proximity for mutual support, or so I read somewhere along the way. They were grouped nearby, together on a low table. I imagine them saying, “Here she comes now!”

I felt known and knowing. Alone but not completely.

First, in spiritual direction with my trusted Elena I received with open hands the reminder that things will almost certainly be okay in the end.

Then, I immediately moved into a zoom call with James Geary, an author who agreed to speak to me about his wonderful book I is an Other: The Secret Life of Metaphor and How it Shapes the way we see the World. I had felt both silly and bold reaching out to ask for an interview, but he agreed to speak to me about the power of metaphors, a literary device that is actually a life tool. I was really excited for this conversation, and it was…(mind scanning for metaphor that I can’t find at this moment)…really great.

At first, I hesitated to mention his name and book here — because I worried he’d be deluged with interview requests from other nerdy metaphor lovers and distract him from all his good work — but then I reminded myself that metaphor interviews are likely niche enough to avoid that particular flood.

Either way, I was grateful.

“This is a really good day,” I thought, as I drove to the gym, after our interview. If I was a hummer, I would have hummed, which summons the warning bells of life.

Maybe you remember that I allowed myself to be intimidated by a woman who through no fault of her own was taller, fabulous and a better pickle ball player than I was. Later, I found out she had taken Intro to Pickleball eight times to my three, and we had a good laugh. I ran into her recently and she told me what made her pickle ball game soar (metaphor) in recent months: “Drills and Skills on Thursdays!”

Noted. I registered and paid $25 for the class. Today was the day. There is a new intimidating pickler in my life and there she was in the locker room 10 minutes before Drills and Skills, pulling her laces tight and tying her sneakers with a snappy precision and power that would have pleased my policeman father. She packs a machine gun serve. She leaves the real novices behind in the dust, and wipes the floor with us on her way out the door.

“Oh Oh,” I thought. “What’s she doing here right before Drills and Skills?” I grabbed my phone and discovered this Drills and Skills was for Intermediate and Advanced players!! My heart pounded like a yellow ball ricocheting off her racquet which lay on the bench like an alligator on a Florida riverbank.

I turned my face away before she could make a positive ID, and gripped the door of my locker.

“Do Skills and Drills anyway Karen,” I said to Karen. “Be brave.”

I said “No way!” grabbed my phone, cancelled, and paid a $10 penalty. I skulked out of the locker room, stopped in the lobby and found the Novice Drills and Skills — where I belong — for next Monday night. I registered. Another $25. That’s when the kitchen light went on that I had lost the $25 I paid for Advanced Drills and Skills, paid a $10 penalty, and just now paid $25 for the new class, which is how you spend $60 on thin air at the gym.

“It’s okay,” I told myself, as I like to do, over and over.

At least I had more time to finish the Magnolia Bakery’s Banana Pudding for dessert tonight. I was hosting a lovely young clergy couple from our church for dinner. The pudding needs about four hours to firm itself up in the fridge. I had just gained a valuable hour. What a break!

I’d already been to the grocery store twice for this easy and inexpensive recipe that even a fool can make. As I had stood the afternoon before in Store One’s baking aisle and picked up the vanilla pudding mix required, I thought, “You should double check if this little box is big enough.”

“Nah!” I said to myself.

The pudding also calls for a box of “vanilla wafers” and I bought the cheap, crispy layered with icky frosting type that are literally called Vanilla Wafers, that our moms fed us back then.

Wrong! So, off I had trotted to Store Two last night after supper to buy the new, correct sized pudding and the actual cookies required by the recipe.

Then, when I came home from the gym, still trying to regain that good-day-feeling lost during my pickle ball spending spree, I whipped, for many minutes to no avail, three cups of table cream, which was clearly not the “heavy cream” the recipe calls for.

“I wonder if it’s actual whipping cream I should buy,” I had asked myself in Store One, because the recipe mentioned stiff peaks.

“Nah!” I had thought, and grabbed the lesser cream like a cook who has never cooked.

So, then, off I went again, this time in a snow squall, to walk the three blocks to Banana Pudding Store Three, that at least I had the sense to call first to ensure they stocked real whipping cream. On the walk I imagined just not making dessert. But I felt up to my neck in this pudding. Why crawl out now? Next, I imagined my guests declining dessert and rehearsed-nursed those feelings. At Margo’s Fresh, I took the cream to the guy at cash, who I had just spoken to on the phone.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Frustrated,” I answered. And then, in for a penny in for a pound, I said: “I’m making a recipe and I bought the wrong cream, so here I am.”

“How are you?” I asked him.

”Good,” he answered.

And then, “How are you?” he said again, like someone had hit rewind. Or, like he wasn’t listening.

“Terrible,” I said.

“Because of the weather?” he asked.

“No, because of the cream,” I said, like a crazy lady. I paid my $8.99, bringing the pudding total now close to $40 which was feeling steep, in light of pickle ball, for a pudding that made me think of baby food. I scurried home, aware of the hands of the clock now spinning around its face. In my smallish kitchen and in haste to get the correct cream in the mixing bowl, I knocked the tray of cooling, toasted cashews for the chicken dish I was making as the main, off the stove top. The majority scattered like marbles across the floor. I crawled around, gathered them up and set them in a bowl for me to eat later alone, because I’m not throwing out cashews.

Mercifully, 1/2 cup stayed on the tray which I had miraculously caught in mid-air — and by this time it did feel like a teeny kitchen miracle — enough for the recipe, and as it turned out, being salted cashews, enough to bring the saltiness of the dish to the level of a salt lick out in a field. I countered and conquered that with maple syrup. Glug glug glug. That sweetness we cut with lime, later, at table, as I poured out like wine all the cookly challenges I had faced that day to my hostages.

I hadn’t planned on doing that, but how can a writer girl resist?

Expertly reading the room, they swooned over the banana pudding when I brought it to the table.

We talked about this and that and lots of things, and our son joined in. The songs on the Spotify dinner party playlist in the background felt on purpose. My son’s girlfriend came and she sat down at the table and also joined, which I loved. Russell the dog was a hit, even as he rooted himself under the table, taking up considerable leg room. We shared book and show recommendations, and laughed about weird bits of church life.

The day felt easy again, at least for me.

Dinner was in line with my morning, rich and deep. Sweet, then sour and now sweet again thanks to my friends, food that turned out despite the odds stacked against it and thanks, yes, to the dogged day-wrestling skills we all hone in life-gym. The lights of my flickering fake Costco candles also warmed my heart, because, why wouldn’t they?

And isn’t that just what some days are like? And aren’t we fortunate that our brains make metaphors for and with us to help us understand and name what we are seeing and feeling, and then describe it to other people for a laugh, or a cry, or both? Yes. We really are.

The other day a very angry man called me the awful word that must not be spoken, which women especially detest being called.

Later, I wondered if I would have even started our little fight if I hadn’t already had an intractable construction problem that morning followed by leaving Jiffy Lube without my snow tires installed because I needed to go buy lug nuts, which, honestly, was just too much for me on that day.

Sometimes things are very hard to figure out. It’s amazing what can push you over the edge. For me, it was 20 lug nuts.

So, I returned home and took Russell for what I hoped would be a cleansing, calming walk while Thomas went to buy the lug nuts.

And that’s when I saw a guy in a pick-up truck yelling at a woman who was at the stop sign in front of him, not moving her car out into a long line of traffic quickly enough for the guy. She had a stop sign. The other cars didn’t. She had to wait. The guy behind her honked and big-arm-gestured at the woman who had no choice but to not drive out into the middle of a line of cars.

“Hey!” I yelled. “She can’t do anything. It’s not a four way stop!” And that’s when the guy called me the awful name, immediately. He instantly pulled out the nuclear bomb of swear words, which I found a bit funny because it was so unimaginatively over the top. I just couldn’t believe we reached that stage of name calling so quickly.

What’s left to say after you say that?

So, then I said: “You’re in my neighbourhood,” like I was a mob lady boss. “And you come in here acting like that. She can’t do anything!”

Later, of course, I thought about a whole lot of other funny, better things I could have said — zingers — and also wondered if I could have involved the gigantic bull mastiff standing beside me, gazing back toward our house. But, he was just a big cuddle bug preoccupied with returning home as quickly as possible to lie down again, which is how he spends his walking time, sitting down and looking homeward.

Very soon, the woman progressed through the stop sign and down the road, and the guy in the truck roared away.

I waved goodbye. He gave me the finger. Yawn! Who cares about getting the finger after being called you-know-what?

Which brings me to “ding-a-ling” and “nincompoop.” Do you remember those words? Brent and I brought them back into our vocabulary a few years ago, as a kinder, amusing way of expressing frustration.

“She’s a real ding-a-ling,” we might have said. Or, better yet: He’s behaving like a ding-a-ling, or a nincompoop. Or what about that Scalawag and his cockamamie plans? There’s also lunkhead and fopdoodle.

Then we laughed at how funny and cute we were being.

See how gentle that all is? Even though, yes, yes, it is categorizing someone as something…but it also creates a little burst of affection for the person you’re a little bit mad at. It’s difficult to be truly angry when using the word ding-a-ling, or one of the other classics like smarty pants or bossy boots.

I wonder what the man in the truck — who needs his mouth washed out with soap — would have said if I had replied: “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a smarty pants and behaving like quite the young ruffian!”

Maybe he would have laughed, or maybe he would have been afraid that he’d insulted the Biggest Weirdo in the World, and who knows what was going to go down next?

Which brings me to being named Karen. (Can you imagine if the guy in the truck found out the woman yelling at him to behave in traffic was actually a Karen?)

I can’t adequately express the chilling effect the whole “Karen Thing” has had on my willingness to ask for the manager, comment on a random social media post, provide my name on a phone call to any service provider, introduce myself to someone new, order a coffee or remind someone that the lowest price is the law.

There’s a Facebook group for the quite-nice gym I belong to where everyone complains about everything. Class sizes, volume of music, new instructors, old instructors, the roll out of the new pool, the temperature of the hot tub, people who leave hot yoga early, the availability of pickle ball courts, parking, and so much more.

Almost all of the time, those not currently complaining call the current complainers Karen. I have not yet had the courage to complain about this, for obvious reasons. And honestly, I think it’s up to the caring non-Karens to point out the problem with making a somewhat common name one of the worst insults (but not the very worst!) around.

I’ve had lovely people tell me, “But you’re not a Karen, Karen.”

Or, they tell me that when their friends use the name slur, they tell them that there are some good Karens, and assure me I’m one of them. (I guess they don’t know I yell at people from the sidewalk). But, my-friends-who-aren’t-named-Karen, this doesn’t actually help. It just plays into the myth.

We all know there are good Karens because it’s just a name that was clearly quite common back in the 60’s and that a bunch of our well-meaning mothers — who could never have anticipated the coming backlash — chose, along with our barely paying attention dads. If it’s anything, the name is a bit nerdy. My big thick glasses in grade three were predetermined.

But, in 40 years or so most of us will have died off and there will be very few Karens roaming the earth, feeling uncomfortable.

What if we just stopped using other people’s first names as insults?

And what if we didn’t say the worst thing as the first thing?

We can still call out people’s ridiculousness, but we can be more civil, creative and even adorable when doing it. Pull out some of the old insult chestnuts like doo doo head, bird brain and of course, silly goose, and see what they feel like. I’m guessing they would have a de-escalating effect. There are also seasonal favourites, like cotton-headed ninny-muggins which I try to memorize every time I watch Elf. Often, I have to look it up because it’s so good but so long.

It matters how we talk to each other, even strangers, and about each other. We don’t have to be such nashgabs and meany-pants. Especially this time of the year.

Some of you might remember that I’m doing a doctoral program in the Sacred Art of Writing. Part of that program is going on a literary tour of Ireland and Britain. Part of that tour is Bath. Part of Bath is the bookstore Mr B’s Emporium.

And part of Mr B’s Emporium is a generous display of Blackwing pencils hanging on the wall just kitty corner from the cash register.

And that’s where I saw Susie leaning in, reaching up, asking questions and listening intently to one of the shopkeepers — surely we won’t call him ‘a guy who works in a bookstore,’ when the bookstore is in Bath — explaining, joyfully and expansively, the provenance of Blackwing pencils.

John Steinbeck wrote The Grapes of Wrath with a Blackwing (a whole box, of course). Richard Dreyfuss clenches one in his teeth on the boat in Jaws before everything goes south. Quincy Jones and Truman Capote loved them, along with a long list of Who’s Who of pencil pushers. If you’re interested, you can watch a video about the pencil right here.

That day in Mr B’s Emporium there were murmurings about Ernest Hemingway also writing an entire novel, also using one box of Blackwings.

Susie bought a few pencils as gifts that day, as I watched from the exit. In this magical bookshop, Susie had bloomed into full Blackwing enthusiast. I just couldn’t bring myself to pay that much for a pencil — close to $6 each.

Until I could, of course.

Susie and I returned to Bath after the official part of the tour was over, travelling on our own with our friend Jeannette. Top on the list was ensuring Jeannette experienced Mr B’s Emporium, and I got to buy Blackwings for my children as souvenirs.

After I returned home from about three weeks of travel, I realized that a pencil, even teamed up with a tea towel with a photo of a young and glamorous queen, a titanic rubber ducky, a King Charles rubber ducky, a Roman Soldier rubber ducky, along with a few other oddities, needed a little explaining.

“It’s a very special pencil,” I explained. “It’s a very expensive pencil. Don’t lose it.”

The one I mailed to my son in Newfoundland barely survived and arrived in a torn open envelope with a missing eraser.

“Unbelievable!” I said, a little worked up. Also, this is the kid who carries the crossword puzzle from The New Yorker around on a clipboard everywhere he goes while on a beach holiday. Obviously, he wanted a Blackwing complete with eraser (a famed, soft, square-ish, special eraser).

There are no big lessons here, other than everything feels special in Bath and to be careful about how you mail things.

Texting with Susie after we had all settled back home, she wrote: “I can’t believe I bought $6 pencils.” But then we convinced ourselves, once again, that it was worth it and magical and right. We talked ourselves right back into it.

Blackwings are special.

The mail takes no prisoners.

And somewhere in this house there is an unused pencil floating around that I gave my other son that I will absolutely take back and claim as my own if I come upon it, rolled under some chair, covered in dog hair, which it undoubtedly is right now.

I will find it. I will dust it. I will steal it. I will print good things with it.

What else did I learn on the trip? So many things.

Seamus Heaney wrote poetry about a river that reminded me of the water that shaped the soul of my father. Just before he died in hospital, Seamus texted his wife in Latin: Noli timere. That means “Don’t be afraid.”

Thank you Seamus, on behalf of the widows.

C.S. Lewis and his brother often left church early to do things like go have a beer. The Kilns is an ordinary looking kind of house where extraordinary things happened. We saw the pulpit from which Lewis preached his sermon that is now the small book The Weight of Glory. Later, lying on a mattress on a floor in Bristol, I finally read it and wished I had much earlier.

We stood at the graves of Lewis and Tolkien. At Tolkien’s one of our number sang a soft tribute song in Elvish and by that time in the trip, it didn’t feel weird at all.

Jane Austen is still a rockstar in Bath, even though she didn’t much like the place.

Guinness really does taste better in Dublin. I love Dublin.

Also, every writer is shaped by place, and people.

And we are all in a place, with people. Writers or not, we are all shaped and formed and loved and put up with by place and people. Among other things, I was reminded to pay good attention.

There’s so much to pay attention to.

Isn’t the world so beautiful with the sheep on its hills and rivers cutting through villages with children fishing who could grow up to be artists who perfectly describe water, and help the rest of us really see our rivers?

And isn’t the world so extravagant with its sweatered older women pouring tea into porcelain cups for travellers after service in tiny chilly churches, and the world with all the dancing and fiddles one minute and violins the next, and singing out loud without feeling the least bit embarrassed, and all the poets and their poems and the pencils.

“Orange marmalade?” my friend Alison asks, every time, like a tiny, friendly test.

Most places do have it, but not all, and always the marmalade is in one of those small little plastic packages. This whole eating adventure was Alison’s idea, and it’s been a really good one. Normally she chooses the spot, and I show up. Usually at 8, although we’ve gone both earlier and later.

I began taking notes at the beginning, but that fell along the wayside.

Our very first breakfast was at a place called Cozy. Here’s what I wrote on the Notes app on my phone: “Waitress, blonde, camo shirt. Men present, work men. Hasn’t been renovated. Canadian bill of rights on wall. Elvis. Hockey jersey, crooked. Bologna on menu. Marmalade. Orange juice was in a bottle.”

Next was Stan’s: “Old placemat. Waitress in coat. Juice in jar. Licence plates on walls.”

I’m sure you’re getting the picture.

My notes fade away with: “Milk: good as cold ever tasted. Waiter stood far away.” And then the word “Reynolds.”

And who knows what that means?

We’ve learned a lot about breakfast joints. They are largely the domain of old men, construction workers and police officers on a break, plus us. We’ve moved tables so we could hear each other over a table full of guys who talked like they were at a hockey game. So loud. Also, very sweary for so early in the morning.

We did a little bit of tut-tutting, but not too much, because we both have sons.

We never run out of things to talk about. We’ve stayed light and gone deep. She often bikes. I always drive.

We observe and compare. The potatoes are very important, and honestly, a bit of a giveaway as to the quality of the rest of the plate. Good potatoes in the morning — freshly cut, deeply fried, lightly salted — usually mean the rest of the plate will also shine.

I’ve not had a bad egg, but Alison has. I have come to see that, surprisingly, more can go wrong with a fried egg, hard, than a poached egg, medium.

I’ve already thought about how we could branch off to a dumpling tour, starting in Chinatown. There are a lot of possibilities.

Why don’t you take this idea and run with it?

Find a friend. I wouldn’t suggest filling your table, just find someone special to sit across from you who buys into this vision, and then get going. Take notes if you are so inclined. You’ll enjoy chatting with the wait staff. You’ll be interested in who else is in the restaurant, breakfasting. You will almost definitely see license plates worked into decor if you go out far enough from the city centre.

It’s so fun. If you do it, please let me know. I’ll tell Alison.

P.S.
Can I ask you a favour? If you haven’t listened yet, please check out my new podcast with NavPress, Good Books Big Questions. (You can listen to it on your way to and from breakfast. We made it breakfast diner commute sized). We recorded the last episode of Season One the other day and I interviewed my very own editor from Holiness Here. There's been a lot of special lately, and I am thankful.

Here’s the trailer to give you a taste, like an egg. And would you mind subscribing? You’ll just get a notice when a new show drops. It helps shows move out into the world, like reviews help books find their way. Thanks friends!

We walked into a crowded hall full of people from different stages of my life. “How strange,” I thought.

If you ever want to throw a surprise party, I’m your gal.

Some people gave toasts and said kind things, and a theme emerged that eventually started to make me a little uncomfortable. “If you want to know what she really thinks, just ask Karen,” a few people said. “She’s a real truth teller.”

Gosh. What have I said to these people? ran through my mind.

And also: Aren’t we all telling the truth to each other?

Believe me, I do have my limits. If you like your shirt, and I don’t like your shirt, I won’t say anything about your shirt. I promise.

But as a writer (and a person who was a minister’s wife who is also a writer) I have learned that the more honest and transparent I am, the more love and support I have received. Does that make me sound like a giant, needy baby? Maybe. I can see how my transparency = love formula could be interpreted as clingy. But it’s not. It’s just what happens in the world most of the time. Tell the truth and other people respond with surprise, then relief. Almost always.

Honesty and transparency — the ability to tell the truth about ourselves and eventually how we see the world — is one of the things that makes us beautifully, brokenly even more human. And also way more able to walk with other people in a good and helpful way.

I see you. You see me. We are telling each other the truth about what we see, know and experience. We don’t have to agree on much other than we are in this together.

There is a new honest and ongoing conversation alive in the world today, called Good Books Big Questions, a NavPress podcast (the publisher of Holiness Here and a long history of wonderful books including much of the work of Eugene Peterson). You can listen and subscribe here.

I’m the fortunate host. I’ve been working on this project for a while with the partnership of my friend Margot Linke, who recently retired from CBC as a producer, and was as eager as me to make something new. So, we did!

Books matter. Reading has been a huge part of my life in general and my spiritual life in particular, since I was a girl reading literally all night long, if the book was good enough. Once I was so intent on my book I didn’t notice a smouldering toy I had rather foolishly sat on top of my reading lamp. I can still picture, and smell, my beloved rabbit puppet burning beside me while I read my book. My sister rescued me and the house.

So if you’re a reader and a gabber and a listener, and curious, please give the podcast a try. Don’t be scared to hit the subscribe button. It just means you’ll know when new episodes drop. The show is a “good walk around the neighbourhood” length.

We’d love to hear what you think.

And if you believe in books and publishing, check out the books that interest you on this show. If you read them, review them (yes, tell the truth of course!) and share them with your friends. Drop an encouraging word to the authors. Believe me, they love that stuff. Thanks! Now, I’m off to do some reading….

It felt like getting back to Ottawa was a process in and of itself: travelling from Playa Del Carmen to the airport in Cancun (no biggie, but I was alone and that made it feel like a bigger no biggie than it would have otherwise); flying to Montreal where Thomas and I had parked my car in a hotel parking lot; getting from the airport to the hotel (again, a small thing that felt big-ish because it would be late and I hate waiting for the bus to my hotel while all the other buses to all the other people’s hotels constantly pull up); finding my car because Thomas had dropped me at the hotel door with my big suitcase and then parked it; digging my car out from the largest snowstorm that had hit Montreal in decades; and then driving the two hours or so back to Ottawa late at night to finally arrive back home.

About 45 minutes from Ottawa, feeling tired but extremely capable after successfully navigating all the steps in the “Get Back Home Process,” I realized the only thing left to do was lug my suitcase upstairs.

Suitcase? When was the last time I saw my suitcase?

My suitcase sat back at the hotel desk where I left it when I went to hunt for my car. I was flying to Vancouver two days later so my suitcase would remain in Montreal for another couple of weeks until one evening when Holly and I made a dash to grab it. I was finally able to give her the Frida Kahlo merch I had brought her back, as one does.

I had a process. The process got me a fair distance but stopped working when I sailed merrily out of the snow-packed parking lot without my suitcase — so, so relieved to be in my car — honk-honking and waving goodbye to the hotel staff who helped me dig out. Merci! Merci!

I think about process a lot, and I talk about process a lot to the writers I coach or hang around with, nerds that we are. But it’s more than just about doing our work.

Process and the thought it takes to think and create one and tweak it, and mostly the steadfastness to trust it, helps me do all kinds of things, and not just writing. Process tells me (usually), that if I do this thing, that other thing will eventually happen. If I move in this direction, I will travel further north.

I guess that process, over and over again, becomes habit, and good habits make good things happen.

I’m working on a piece right now about Camp Widow, that beautiful experience that has helped me so much. Because I carry little writer notebooks around with me all the time, I’ve spent the last few days flipping through them trying to find my notes from attending two camps (which are retreats, which are also conferences). This has been a good-process-not-so-good process experience, like leaving my suitcase in Montreal. I know I took notes. But I can’t find the notes — yet! — because I take notes anywhere and everywhere and have many little books and journals and backs of envelopes with thoughts, ideas, lists, paragraph halves and seeds of stories.

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Pages and pages of half-baked cakes.

As I flipped through the notebooks I was struck by how many sentences became paragraphs, how many paragraphs became chapters, and how every book is made up of chapters. That’s how books begin. Words become sentences, which grow into trees. Fragments become fuller and thicker. I read the starts of chapters from The Minister’s Wife and a list of chapter ideas for a book on longing, which became a book on holiness.

Every big, good thing starts with many little good things, usually done over and over again.

Do you know how sometimes you have a moment when you see before you a path opening up to being the kind of person who has catalogued her journals?

I grabbed it, and some sticky notes.

Now, I have labels that say “Christian Wiman,” marking my notes from a moving talk he gave on suffering and art. And “Doerr” because Anthony Doerr gave a talk on similes at the Festival of Faith and Writing that ended in a standing ovation, and I’m not even kidding. Others say “Minister’s Wife” because I think it’s fun to see how baby thoughts became adults, and I want to remember that.

A lot of my stickies say “Brent” because there are stories I jotted down or conversations I recorded with my husband that I thought were important or funny or extra-loving at the time and now are like a sunrise to me.

Sometimes our process will be smooth. But a lot of times process will be as imperfect and bumbling as the person working it. (Plus, what could be more boring than remembering to bring your suitcase home from Montreal? Kidding).

But work it we will, and we should because process really does help. And along the way, taking notes because we won’t remember as much as we think we can, we will stumble upon the most beautiful stories.

You can see what’s coming.

Three weeks after we exchanged emails and set up a time, and three hours away from my time zone in my cousin’s dark guest bedroom in Vancouver, I slept through the interview. I bolted up and out of bed to grab my laptop when I read Reinekke’s ‘I’m here and you are not’ email on my phone, and charged into an abandoned zoom room, pyjamas on, hair sticking up more than usual.

I texted, emailed and called. “I’m so sorry. I have no excuse.” (Note to apologizers everywhere: don’t say ‘but.’)

I felt ridiculous. How could I have forgotten this interview? What is wrong with me? I waited nervously for her reply, which came soon enough, and was full of forgiveness and a willingness to reschedule.

Every second day of the week leading up to our new interview date I made an event in my calendar that said, “The interview is this coming Monday.” On the Friday before the Monday, I added “You dum dum!” to my calendar reminder. It worked. The date and time were seared into my soul. I recommend this technique. Repetition + light personal shaming (the only type I will accept) + humour. When I met with Reinekke, I apologized again of course.

“Believe me, I started to feel bad for you,” she reassured me, like a gracious trooper. And I really loved our conversation. (Interview spoiler: Writing helps. Write for yourself to understand what is happening. Likely, it will help other people if you share it. Be brave and fearless, and we talked about so much more).

Two weeks later I sat in an empty zoom room tapping my fingers waiting for someone to show up. I had emailed her the day before to remind her and shared the zoom link again. She had confirmed. Where was she? Irritation started to trickle in about 12 minutes gone. I wondered when we would be able to find another opportunity during a busy time.

Then, of course, I remembered Reinekke and how understanding and gracious she had been with me.

Heal thyself, Missed-Zoom Hypocrite.

Like most of us who have been stood up on zoom, I decided to treat it as found time and moved onto another project. My flustered no-show emailed me within an hour or so, apologizing profusely, not using the word ‘but’ even once, (maybe we’re all learning!) and wondering how she could have possibly forgotten. Poor thing. I felt her pain. We found another time later that very day and I began our meeting by saying, “I literally know exactly how you feel. I did the same thing two weeks ago. I totally get it.”

Are there sweeter words to say or hear? Don’t we love to know we are not alone as we make our clumsy way in the world? I do.

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Don’t ask, I told myself. Just do.

I worried the coach would recognize me from two days before, and my first time through. He didn’t seem to.

Then, because I had heard that soon the gym I joined was going to charge for these introduction classes, I registered for a third time. At this third session, it was a new coach and I learned new things, which included the fact that no one was going to get in trouble for taking the introduction class more than once.

This time when the new-to-me guy asked if anyone had ever played pickle ball before, I confessed. “I have, kindof,” I said, raising my racket and giving it a little wave. “I’ve done this class before.” (Even though I didn’t say ‘twice before’ my soul still felt lighter).

Of course, he didn’t care. What kind of a worry wart have I become?

At the first session there was a taller, sturdier woman who instantly intimidated me. I’m guessing there are kinds of men who intimidate other kinds of men, and there are kinds of women who do that too. For me, it’s usually the ladies who seem like bosses who know how to do a lot of things very well and behave properly in a wide variety of situations, sometimes a bit sternly. They don’t seem to need to clown around. They also don’t have to look up what side of the plate the fork goes on, just as a little reminder, and also they lead companies, and all the situations they find themselves in.

Of course, we were assigned to the same practice team so I got to say, “Sorry! Oh. Sorry! Oops. Sorry again! Gosh!” about a hundred times, because she definitely seemed to know what she was doing.

So, now you know I wasn’t the first kid chosen for teams in gym class way back when. And definitely, this was starting to have gym class vibes.

As the two hours (two hours!!) of playing and learning went on, I could see I was getting better before I began to get worse again, which is the natural arc of running around when you don’t normally run around. I understood what the kitchen was and to try to stay out of it. Most of my serves landed and I was mindful of the double bounce. We all consciously tried to work on our dink shot, which was a preoccupation of this particular coach.

At the end, one of my fellow trainees added our numbers to a what’s app list so we could plan a game sometime in the future with other players at the same level (at this gym you book one square of the four available in a pickleball court at a specific time, hopefully with friends, or you prepare to apologize again and again to the strangers saddled with you).

I bravely jumped at the first opportunity for a game with my fellow beginners because I had seen all the pickleball fun potential, and even though I have very little to back this up, I do have grandiose dreams of being good at sports.

Because this was all on what’s app, I didn’t know exactly who else would be at the game, and, you guessed it, the tall lady was there, waiting.

“Are you here for the game?” I asked her, when I saw her sitting in a chair outside of the pickleball auditorium (because that’s what it is at this very grand gym). Recalling the forbearance she had shown me during training, I fought back the urge to say a preemptive “I’m sorry.”

Instead I gave myself a little internal pep talk: We’re all beginners. I’m brave to show up. Practice will help. Stop it!

We talked about the intro class we had been in together, and she casually mentioned that this coach had been different from the other coaches, and that she had taken the free introduction class eight times. Apparently, around the seventh class a coach told her it was probably time for her to move on and upward into the novice league and try out what she was learning. She felt nervous though and was glad to play with other beginners.

So, off we went when our two other new friends arrived. We laughed and cheered each other on. We hit wide and wild and straight and strict. We had a blast. We were extremely self-congratulatory. We improved as time went on and didn’t really get worse.

At the end, my new pickleball pal commented on what a good team we had made and that it was so good to play with people at the same level and with the same spirit. I agreed.

And, because I am away for a couple of weeks writing with not a pickleball in sight, I do worry I’m going to lose my precarious, nascent skills (back to gym class memories!). But I do know the secret is to show up. And that’s what I’m going to do.

(Thanks to Aleksander Saks for this great image from unsplash.com. I was too busy thrashing around to take a picture).

But I know what I like. And what I like are tickets five rows from the front that enable us to see the joy (free from the National Art Centre as a lovely gesture to lure people in). I like to watch the bows of violins hop and down in their skinny, jaunty way. And I enjoy how the cellos lie on the stage during intermission, like a row of kindergarten kids during nap time on the classroom floor (does that still happen?).

Holly and I shared an Oh Henry bar in our seats during intermission, which felt sneaky and illegal, but also delicious and rare.

Several times during the performance, the conductor ushered people out from a side room seemingly full of guest stars into which he would vanish and then reappear holding someone’s hand or guiding them by the arm, like a host. The guests would perform, or maybe just be there beside him for a moment or two, and we would all get to clap. One woman wore the most fabulous pair of glittery ankle boots. I still don’t know who she was, but I clapped for her. Then I clapped for her boots.

Everyone loved each other.

The National Arts Centre Orchestra musician-artists were, presumably, doing something they love to do.

We were there for the purpose of loving it.

This is all very obvious. This kind of thing has been going on since time began. The creating, the music making, all the joy. Performing. Receiving. Applauding. Appreciating. Jumping to your feet to show it. Sitting down for some more. Sharing pleased smiles with your daughter beside you. Spending an evening in the way of art. Beholding. Then, that little sad feeling with a stretch and a small yawn when it’s over, but also it’s been a couple of hours and how much beauty can a person take in one evening? (I’d started things off with fettuccine and two meat balls at Johnny Farina’s on Elgin, so things had been going very, very well for a few hours by that time. It was time to go home).

Watching the conductor conduct — which is its own art and maybe science — reminded me of this passage from Holiness Here:

On the radio once, as I was driving down the highway through Quebec, I heard an accomplished pianist tell a story about how he had been listening to a symphony on the radio and admired the arrangement and the skill of the players. As he listened to the orchestra, he found himself wishing he could play so smoothly and so free of fumbles. When the piece ended, the pianist was shocked and then delighted to learn it had been his very own orchestra playing. He himself had been playing in the recorded piece he had admired. It was his own skill and the skill of his playing partners he had accidentally enjoyed.

The pianist, whose name was James, said that musicians usually hear only what they do wrong, and that they are acutely aware of the dozens of little mistakes they might make while playing, which we ordinary listeners would probably never hear. They are their own harshest critics, like we all can be. Just look at a photo of yourself and see how you feel. But in hearing his orchestra play without realizing that there he was in the middle of it all, James allowed himself to relax and acknowledge and appreciate even a little bit his own skill in a way he would never have otherwise. He offered himself an accidental grace. He had given himself a tiny round of applause without knowing it. There was so much to admire in this story. The skill of the pianist, and his humility, of course. The years of practicing and the joy and anguish of performing, and the way the artist was so quick to appreciate others, and was surprised and embarrassed, yet pleased, when he accidentally admired his own orchestra’s piece.

For a moment, he saw he did beautiful work.

Isn’t that a cool story about James clapping for himself in his mind without knowing he was doing it? I loved this story so much that as I was driving I was talking into my notes app to capture the highlights of James’ adventure in self-appreciation. I knew I would use it somewhere and someday.

I knew it was a gem.

What I really want to say is, put yourself in the way of applause when you can. To offer it, of course. A bit wildly so your hands might hurt for a second. Be the one to get the applause first underway and let your clap linger longer than anyone else’s, maybe.

And if you receive some applause, well, that is a treasure, isn’t it? A gift. An embarrassing little joy.

Here’s another thing I thought that night. When the conductor brought out the guests, as I mentioned above, proudly, and I think pleased in a generous way that they were being appreciated and applauded by everyone there, I thought about heaven. I thought about being ushered in by the beaming conductor, being dazzled by the lights and then floored by some wild applause. Everyone looking their very best.

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

I hope that’s what it is like in those first few moments. It’s nice to think about.

In the meantime, take a bow every now and again, even if it’s just in your mirror. Receive the love.

And mostly, clap whenever you can. Give the love. Why wouldn’t we?

The Christmas chapter was a lot more fun to write. Just last week I had the opportunity to read an excerpt for a “Christmas breakfast” crowd and it was fun to revisit. I share it with you now to hopefully encourage you that you are not alone if things are not perfect, but still good enough.

Here we go.

The first Christmas that I decorated the tree all by myself, without my children’s help, at first I felt surprised and betrayed. I couldn’t believe that no one wanted to help me,

Especially Holly. Who else can a mother count on if not her girl?

I felt sad the kids had moved past seeing this as a magical launch to Christmas, a sacred part of their own celebration. But they were busy in their own rooms doing something fun that day. Brent never really cared about decorating the tree and would do his best to avoid it. He carried out his annual duties of accompanying me to the tree lot; remarking on the height of the tree; tying it to the roof of our van; unloading it at home; forcing the boys to help him cut the trunk; wrestling it into the tree stand; going to buy a new tree stand because we had bought a cheap one the previous year and it had broken again; and watering the tree until he stopped caring and forgot.

Brent would appear again later in the season to toss the tree onto the side of the road for municipal pickup. This would happen the day after Epiphany, well into the first week of January. The tree itself had given up by then, shedding its needles by the fistful, forlorn in the corner of the room, a symbol of our stubbornness. We had stopped plugging the lights in, leery of fire and weary of Christmas. But waiting for Epiphany— the celebration of the wise men visiting Jesus and his parents— was our way, at Brent’s urging, of proclaiming that Christmas lasts longer than a day. “It’s an entire season!” he would say. The wise men mattered, but by then I couldn’t wait for it all to end.

So the day the kids declined to help me decorate, it dawned on me I could have a pretty tree that year. I could consider color and spacing. I wouldn’t have to sneak around after they had gone to bed and rearrange things, moving the giant Styrofoam snowmen heads from front and center to side and low. I thought of the pictures in magazines of trees with clustered decorations, elegant little trios of color-coordinated glass balls nestled together at the end of green branches. I could do that.

“It’s okay!” I shouted up the stairs in case anyone was about to change their mind and charge down. “It’s all good!” I took my time. I listened to Christmas carols and sang along. I unwrapped ornaments from their little tissue paper homes and laid them all out on the couch before I placed each one thoughtfully on the tree— mostly on the front as it turned out.

I awarded positions of prominence to the family heirloom pieces, those tiny glass balls from our respective childhoods, ideal for hanging together on the ends of branches in delicate little groups of three, as instructed and inspired by the people who know what they are doing. After an hour or so, I stood back to admire. I sighed with contentment at how lovely and sophisticated our tree looked.

Gorgeous.

A few peaceful seconds passed. Then my beautiful tree fainted forward and fell flat at my feet, spilling water and shattering glass balls. The kids heard the crash and came running.

I burst into tears. Brent appeared and asked, “What happened? Why are you crying?”

(The chapter continues in a “solving Christmas for the Stiller’s kind of way.” Not all was lost. Just a few decorations and some pride.)

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In 2002 I would have been two years out of finishing a Communications Certificate at Tyndale College, which pushed me further down the road of being a writer kept busy with assignments. I had one child I could not take my eyes off for a moment without him running amuck and sinking ships, and two other kids in grade school all day long which meant I could write during nap times or while hiding in the bathroom.

Eventually I would have three in school and I started to see the possibilities of an almost full time writing and editing life.

We lived in Port Perry then and were probably just about to buy a house where I would have an office that I did use for a time, but typically I liked to set myself up at our dining room table. I’ve always done my best work on the table or our bed, where I sit right now to write this note to say that the Jan/Feb 2025 issue of Faith Today will be my last.

It has been such a good trip. I have loved my work helping to bring to life a national Canadian magazine that I believe has come into its own and is now a strong and consistently good read that helps connect the Church across the country. I’m proud of it. And as Director of Communications for the not-for-profit that publishes Faith Today I’ve had so many cool opportunities and challenges. It’s been a good and creative work with a team that I will miss.

I’ll especially miss hosting the Faith Today podcast. I love to create good conversation. And I love to ask good questions and to listen. You can learn a lot doing that.

I’m stepping away from something good and I’m turning toward something good. This is a beautiful position to be in and I’m grateful.

I want to revive the freelance life I originally started with, working with editors, making pitches and taking assignments. And, I hope, focussing on my own writing life and what I might have up my sleeve and in my heart and head to write next.

I also want to take long walks when the sun is out, meet friends for coffee, visit my mother and Brent’s mother and not have to rush off, and curl up in a ball and read for a few hours if that’s what I’d like to do.

Doesn’t that sound good? It does to me.

Coaching writers will be part of my next chapter, I hope. I’ve been slowly developing that craft and practice and I can see how my years editing writers and nurturing some very promising ones — often the young mothers, I confess, because I saw myself in them and wanted to help them along if I could — have helped prepare me to be a coach. The Doctor of Ministry in the Sacred Art of Writing I’m enrolled in might help lead me toward more teaching eventually (I’m doing a bit now with ToolKit Media and Brent’s cousin Murray Stiller).

I hope so. I like it.

This is a change two years in the making. After my husband Brent died, I was left in pieces and with pieces. What remained as solid, true and unbroken was my calling and the privilege I have to be a mother to my three adult children — that will never change, even as what they need and want from me changes of course — and my vocation as a writer.

I want to be a writer who helps other writers bring their beautiful work into the world. That’s my goal.

I remember our friend Randy saying “No sudden moves,” to me after Brent died. Not surprisingly, Randy helped us with our retirement plans (and had also lost a spouse, so he got it). There was something about those three words in particular that settled and slowed me more than the vocabulary of “waiting to make big decisions” for a year. I just resonated with ‘no sudden moves.’

Maybe I’ve watched too many cop movies?

And so, I’ve been careful, talking and listening. I’ve discerned, tested the waters with my toe, talked to numerous friends, and I have taken my time, understanding I was giving up some pretty special work. Even the notice I gave was quite lengthy so that we’d all have time to adjust.

None of this means I’m not nervous. I am.

I’m scared of days that are too long and maybe not full enough. I’m nervous that this doesn’t mean a new chapter in my writing life but instead a great fizzling out. Quieter might not be better for me after all. But I am trusting my process (which I tell writers to do all the time).

This is not a sudden move.

It is a slow step forward into the life I want to build now. One that I hope will be artistically adventurous, helpful, fruitful, creative, kind, productive and gentle. Please let it be especially kind and gentle.

If you want to talk about coaching...

If you’ve made big changes to do with work and calling, I’d love to hear about your discernment process in the comments, or drop me a note. Mine definitely involved my gut, head and heart, and lots of talking with friends and advisors. And if you have insight into coaching, I’m all ears on that too! Thanks for reading. Thank you for your support.

Joel from church gave me this system — in its tiny perfect box — one Sunday morning.

“You know me so well,” I said, or something like that.

Joel reminded me I had recently given him my Why Don’t People Return Books? speech at an afternoon party following the baptism of a little baby friend of ours. Joel saw me. He understood.

I do not lack books. But I also don’t want to give the best ones away forever, unless I choose. If so, I will say: “Keep it. I don’t want this book back.”

What I usually say, though, and quite clearly, is: “You can borrow it if you want, but I do want it back.”

Then, I look them straight in the eye, like my dad taught me, and ask: “Are you the kind of person who gives books back?”

And they will always say, “Yes.” And even, “Absolutely.”

Then they jump into their getaway car.

A book collection — because that’s what some of us feel we are creating in our shelves, on our tables and in those little piles in the corners — is one of the only collections that people can walk off with bits from and forget they have them, or lose them, or can’t remember where they got them if they find them, or just decide that it doesn’t really matter. Those who borrow forever would never have gotten away with taking one of my dad’s beer mugs from where his collection hung off wooden pegs on our basement ceiling. (This is too hard to explain.) Or one of my mother’s dainty blue dessert plates that she collected.

She would have hunted those plates down.

I hunt my books down. (Do you? I have a poll down below…)

This makes me feel bad, look bad, sound bad, and act bad, but more on that in a second.

Are we meant to be book saints content to know our books are being enjoyed out there somewhere? We’re saving people money and a trip to the book store. Yes, we’re being generous in a flourishing, literary kind of way. We’re contributing to someone else’s reading, even if our book is under the seat of the getaway car, or being gnawed on by a baby (cute, yes, yes, very cute), crushed in the bottom of a bag or already given to someone else in the great book pass-on-a-thon.

Our friend is in their bedroom holding up our beloved book and saying, “Honey, where did this come from?”

“I have no idea,” is the answer.

Goodbye book.

Once I handed over a stack of favourites to a reader who did not understand what she was getting herself into.

I began the swearing in ceremony.

“Do you, Rachel, agree to return these books?”

“I do,” she said, laughing a bit nervously.

And she did. But I didn’t think she did so I asked for my books back when some time had passed. She did sweeps of her house and couldn’t find them, because of course they were at my house, already returned, which she had already told me, in a tentative voice. Terrified (I can only assume) she bought me all new books which arrived in a big pile in the mail, because we lived in different towns. I felt embarrassed in that moment that she had felt she needed to replace them (I told her not to!); and that was even before I discovered that she had been right, she had already returned them.

I can’t express deeply enough, now, looking back, how much I wish I hadn’t gone all Book Sheriff with sweet Rachel.

Very soon, of course, I found my actual, original books. I turned hot and cold. I cackled at my closet door, where they were piled on a shelf. I sweated bullets. “Don’t tell her,” a lesser me whispered in my own ear. “She thinks she didn’t return them because, Sherriff, that’s what you made her think.”

I called her. I told her. We laughed. Ha ha ha.

I bought her a stack of more and different books to replace the books she bought to replace my books (so, now I had two copies of each of the books), and then I told her let’s just agree to wrap things up there. We must have each been in it for almost a hundred dollars by then.

This is an extreme example of all that can go wrong in book lending.

Book borrowers, you need to know the book lenders talk and compare horror stories. Especially if they’re writers. I just came back from a week long intense experience with other writers and this came up a couple of times in conversation.

As I write, I myself have two borrowed books, one from Rob and one from Margo, married lenders. Understanding the minefields, I don’t often borrow. But, not to sound sanctimonious or anything, I do know where those borrowed books are and where their true home is, and off they soon will go. What I don’t know for sure is how many of my books, or I hate to think of it, Brent’s books are still out there in the world, maybe doing good or maybe doing nothing at all. Come home my little friends.

The reason for the gathering was a reunion meal for a Book Circle that had read together and by that I mean out loud, and discussed Holiness Here. Let me explain a bit more. When Patricia and I made our latest trek to the Festival of Faith and Writing, we ate our pre-ordered boxed lunch at another long table beside a woman Patricia befriended. She was there as a reader, which is one of the great things about the Festival. It’s not just a bunch of nerdy, needy writers. The Festival is for readers and book lovers in general coming together to celebrate books, and sometimes eating together. There and then, Patricia heard about Book Circles and wanted to try one.

With a Book Circle, there’s no homework, unless you want there to be. Each time they meet, the group shows up and reads out loud, on the spot, one chapter of the book at a time. In this particular Book Circle, each reader read two pages and around the circle they went until the chapter was finished. Then they turned to the questions at the back and discussed them. That’s it!

And because I was in Winnipeg for a writing conference, Patricia brought out the good white tablecloth which her husband Doug painstakingly ironed — ironing huge tablecloths always impresses me — and invited the Book Circle over for lunch. Here’s a long bracket: (Patricia and I wrote Craft, Cost & Call: How to Build a Life as a Christian Writer together. If you’re a writer, click that link to see our attempt at a book launch page from a few years ago! We led a workshop together in Winnipeg on habits to help build a healthy and productive writing life. Email me if you want to learn more about our thoughts on that. We’re happy to share!)

The day of the Book Circle gathering, we ate and visited and then Patricia read questions to me that the members of the Book Circle of Holiness and Deliciousness (that’s what I’m now calling them) had written down beforehand and handed over to her. It was so interesting to hear the questions that ranged from how the cover was chosen, to what I learned during the process of writing, to grief, to joy, to practical steps toward nurturing humility. Your work goes out into the world, and if we’re very fortunate, participates in some work and wonder happening in someone else’s life. Your work joins in with what is already happening. That is truly amazing when you think about it, whatever it is we do. And I saw that again, sitting at that long, beautiful table.

The group gave me the gift of a stack of notecards where they shared what meant the most to them about the book. I read them later and it was extremely moving. Amazing!

I have a few takeaways. First, of course, never forsake marshmallow salad. It’s rare. Grab it while you can. Also, Book Circles where you show up and read out loud to each other are a really great idea. Sitting down with someone on a couch — another adult! — and taking turns reading out loud to each other is the marshmallow salad of literacy. It’s a treat and so few of us get to do it these days.

And to sit at a big, generous table with people who want to discuss a book is always fantastic. We should all do that more often.

And of course, sharing how a book — or any kind of art — impacts you is an act of generosity and I think a kind of compassion to and for the maker, or at least that’s how I experience it. It is a very good thing.

Maybe you want to think about experimenting with the Book Circle idea?

I’ve been thinking about wading into the waters of “book clubbing” in my neighbourhood. It’s an idea I keep flirting with: inviting some neighbours that I don’t really know to a book club in my living room. Do you have any book club tips you’d like to share? And if you decide to go the Book Circle way and read out loud to each other, let me know how that goes! I really do think it’s an awesome idea.

This Friday I fly to Michigan to begin my Doctor of Ministry in the Art of Sacred Writing. I’ve already had one chaotic school-based dream involving all the things those dreams usually involve: being late, being lost, losing my backpack, falling into holes in hallways, and of course, the odd balance beams that pop up in school hallways for us to navigate — all while wearing a child-sized halloween costume.

Our first assignment was due on Oct 1, and after landing on the page to upload it, I realized it said BY Oct 1, which I then frantically googled to find out if ‘by’ meant ‘before’ or ‘on’ or both. I think I just need to get there, understand this is not high school math class, not lose stuff, realize I’m a grown-up and get on with it. I’ll let you know how it goes and what I learn.

The line was long so I had time for sad-happy thinking. I thought about how funny my dad was. He could really get a room going. He told great stories and he told them well. We did have to ask him to ease off the number trick where you do math contortions involving the alphabet as well. We just didn’t think it captivated groups of people as much as he did. That was us helping him.

Dad was witty. He found me witty (I’m just going to say that out loud), and laughing with him over something funny was one of life’s little joys. I miss that.

Just as I was thinking those thoughts about funny Dad, an older guy two or three people up in the line, wearing a bright orange vest to alert traffic to his presence I suppose, turned right around, looked me directly and straight in the eyes and said, “Can I tell you a joke?”

“Okay,” I said. And he told me a joke about a gps asking to get out of the car of a bad driver.

“Can I tell you another joke?” he followed up, warmed up.

“Sure!” I said. And he told me a joke about why gas stations charge money for air. The answer is inflation, of course. Although I couldn’t guess that.

“Thank you,” I said to him. “Those are pretty good jokes.”

When he was paying I overheard him tell the gps joke to the cashier, and a little of the magic was lost, I admit. But still, it was lovely. And why shouldn’t he tell his jokes to everyone he can at Winners?

A little choked up, and also very warm inside in a good way, I called my sister to tell her what had just happened. Often, in the last year and a half, when I call my sister it is so she can talk me out of a tree, make me laugh, jolt me out of sadness, listen tenderly to me. Or just complain together about this and that.

I wanted to tell her about the dad-man with the corny jokes, but I also wanted to call her happy.

I think that’s an important thing that we can do for the people who might be helping us. Let them know when you are having a good day too, and not always just the bad days. Try for a one in five call ratio, maybe.

Then, I opened Spotify and chose a play list. One of my saved lists is called “Saddest Songs of All Time,” a collection put together by Fight Night Records. I also have a playlist called “Top 30 Funeral Songs,” which is better than it sounds. A lot of hymns. Some Bette Midler. Leonard Cohen, obviously.

I made a conscious decision to find a different, happier playlist. I found “Happy Hits!” and “Cleaning Bangers.” Then I drove to McDonald’s for an ice cream cone, which Dad and I liked to get whenever we could. Sometimes they are small cones, I find. A little on the non-generous side. But the kid working the drive-thru that day gave me the biggest one I had seen in a while. I said “Wow!” like my dad would have. And I really meant it.