Note: Thanks to those of you who are paid subscribers. That little bit of money helps more than you know! Your paid subscription is like a friendly nod to say “thank you” for the tales. And please feel free to leave a comment, and share my Substack publication with your friends and family! I love hearing from my readers!!

I have never thought of myself as someone who holds a grudge. Apparently, I had simply never been properly tested.

The test came when I learned that an old classmate named Cassie was going to be at a party I’d been invited to, and had really been looking forward to attending.

I found this out while talking with a friend about the party. “I’m not even sure how many people I’ll know,” I told her. “It has been fifteen or twenty years since I’ve seen most of the folks that will be there.”

“Me either,” she said. “I did see Cassie at the grocery store Saturday. She named a few people, but she doesn’t really know who will be there, either.”

She may have said more. I’m not sure. The moment I heard the word Cassie, my mind took off in twelve different directions, and none of them were headed toward Christian forgiveness.

Cassie had been one of those girls who always looked perfect. Her hair and makeup were flawless. Her outfits were impeccable, right down to the matching jewelry. She had a soft little giggle, unlike mine, which sounds a bit like a donkey and often ends with a snort or two just to make sure everyone knows I am enjoying myself.

She drove a new Ford Mustang convertible. I drove a little Opel Kadett that had come over from Germany with a soldier fresh from the war. Everything inside was written in German, which meant I could drive it but could not necessarily operate it.

Cassie always seemed to look at the rest of us as if she were standing on a pedestal and we were somewhere down near the base, trying not to lean on it.

Whenever the teacher called on her, Cassie ALWAYS knew the answer. Algebra apparently spoke to her in a calm and reasonable voice. To me, it appeared to have been written in Latin by someone who was angry.

I did try to find something to like about her. My mother told me it was impossible for anyone not to have at least one redeeming quality.

So I looked. And looked. But still, couldn’t come up with anything.

At the end of that school year, my family moved to another part of the state. I finished high school at a new school, where I liked everyone in my class. Cassie was out of my life and, I assumed, safely out of my future. Which was where I preferred her.

Until now.

Suddenly, I had a decision to make. Did I really want to attend this party and listen to Cassie describe all the wonderful things that had happened to her over the years? I lived clear across the state. Surely I could come up with a dozen perfectly believable reasons not to go. Bad weather. Car trouble. A sudden illness. A sick houseplant. I was prepared to be creative.

Read more

Watching children head back to school brought back memories of my own school days. They were a little different from today’s school experience, but wonderful just the same. We had no fancy backpacks, no designer jeans, and our tablets were made of paper with a Big Chief on the front. The batteries never died, although the pencils occasionally did.

I attended a one-room country school with all eight grades and one teacher—who, I realize now, was probably slightly overworked. Mine were all women, and each fall the teacher would ask our names and seat us according to grade. This was not difficult crowd control. I had the biggest class in the school: there were three of us. (We could hold a class reunion in a phone booth, assuming we could find one now.)

The first day was spent getting settled and catching up with the other children, most whom we hadn’t seen since school let out in the spring. Summer on a farm did not include many playdates. Everyone was too busy working, and besides, our mothers would have wondered why they should drive us somewhere to play when there were perfectly good siblings and livestock at home.

So there was plenty of news to exchange. Someone might have taken a vacation to someplace exciting. We compared our county fair entries, and occasionally a family added a new baby over the summer. In a small school, that qualified as breaking news.

The teacher asked about us and our summer activities, and we asked about hers. By the time everyone had reported in, it was nearly lunchtime. I can’t say we accomplished much academically, but we were completely up to date on the important matters.

Read more

When my grandson proudly pointed out the school bus he rides, I told him I had a school bus when I was his age, too.

Then I showed him a picture.

Mine had four legs, a mane, and absolutely no seat belts. His name was Flash.

Flash was a little brown pony who could run like the wind and, fortunately, always knew the way home. That last part came in handy.

My dad built a small pen for him in a corner of the schoolyard, complete with a couple of bales of hay and a bucket of water. Every morning, I rode Flash to school, tucked him into his little pen, and went inside to learn whatever children were expected to learn that day.

Flash spent his school hours eating hay and watching us play at recess.

Looking back, I’m not sure which one of us had the better arrangement.

When school was over, I climbed on and headed home. I rode bareback, so there was no saddle to fuss with. One of my classmates lived along my route, and she often climbed on behind me.

Our books, lunch buckets, and whatever else we needed were stuffed into an old Army knapsack from the surplus store in town. I threw it over my shoulders, my friend climbed aboard, and off we went.

Transportation was simple in those days. Not necessarily safe. But simple.

Most afternoons Flash carried us home without incident.

Read more

Watching all the kids having fun at the county fair lately has taken me back to my own fair days. Or, more accurately, to the week before the fair. The “not-so-fun” days.

One year, I was taking beginning yeast breads in 4-H. Our leader thought it would be a wonderful idea for us to give a demonstration in front of a panel of judges. She said it would help us overcome any fear of public speaking. She said it would help us in our future jobs. She said it was a skill we would need the rest of our lives. Apparently, her theory was that if you survived county fair judges while handling yeast dough, you could handle anything.

She merely suggested that we do a demonstration. My mother heard that as a direct order. So Mom and I sat down to discuss what I would demonstrate. (Notice I did not say whether I would demonstrate. That part had already been decided.)

Share

We finally settled on a braided pecan breakfast loaf from my 4-H yeast bread booklet. It was a beautiful thing when it was finished. Three strips of dough braided together, little pecans tucked into the top, and a thin frosting drizzled over the whole thing.

At home, it was delicious. My dad loved it.

The problem was that a proper yeast bread demonstration takes a while. First you mix the dough. Then you knead it. Then you let it rise. Then you shape it. Then it rises again. Then you bake it. Then you let it cool. Then you frost it. At that rate, my demonstration would have lasted until sometime during next year’s county fair.

So, we shortened things a bit.

Read more

All the advertisements for county fairs lately have brought back a few memories. Some are better than others.

One year, I took dog husbandry in 4-H and entered my beautiful German shepherd, who was about a year or two old. Her name was originally Angel. That was before she learned how to open the corral gate and let the cows out.

After that, her name was quickly shortened to Angi. Dad suggested a couple of other names, too, but they were not appropriate for little children, or county fair judges, to hear.

All summer long, I worked with Angi every morning and evening. I bathed her, combed her, and walked her around the yard, practicing the commands she would need to know.

Heel. Sit. Stay. Come.

She did beautifully.

In fact, I was already picturing the purple ribbon hanging on the bulletin board in my bedroom. I believe in positive thinking.

Fair day arrived hot and dry. We loaded Angi into the car, and I wore the required white shirt and blue jeans. I happily chattered to Mom all the way to town, certain we were about to make 4-H history.

When we arrived, I put Angi’s leash on and led her toward the arena. Dogs and handlers were called out one by one to demonstrate what they had learned. Angi had never been around that many people and dogs before, and she was nervous. She watched me with those big brown eyes and stayed close beside me.

Very close.

She was heeling without even being told. I was so proud.

Then it was our turn.

We walked into the circle formed by the judges and spectators. Angi performed every command beautifully while she was on the leash.

Heel. Sit. Stay.

Perfect.

Then came the final command.

And that is when Angi decided to add something of her own to the program.

Read more

These hot summer days take me right back to being a kid and getting ready for the biggest party of the summer in our little country community. The celebration was called Old Settlers, and it was a full day of excitement: baseball games in the morning, a rodeo in the afternoon, and a big dance at night.

It was held in the big metropolis of Sparks, Nebraska—population about ten, depending on who was home and whether anyone had gone to town.

There were breaks between events, of course, because this was farm country. People needed time to run home, check livestock, finish chores, or make sure nothing had wandered through a fence while they were off enjoying themselves. Livestock, as you know, do not care one bit about a community celebration.

The year I was ten was extra special because I was riding in the rodeo for the first time as a barrel racer with my incredible pony, Flash.

Subscribe now

Flash was wonderful. (At least, that’s how I remember him.) When I was on his back, I was invincible. Now, there may have been a few incidents where he had unseated me, but I never held it against him. That was just part of our relationship. A relationship built on trust, patience, and a whole lot of forgiveness (on both of our parts.)

The day started early, as farm days tend to do whether you have big plans or not. Dad and I milked cows and fed pigs while Mom finished packing a picnic lunch. The little ones helped load the station wagon with food, blankets, and whatever else Mom thought we might need. The blankets were for nap time. (Mom always hoped for the best.)

That year we had to take the pickup and the station wagon, because Flash and all his tack were coming too. This added a whole new level of preparation because Flash had practiced barrel racing all summer. He had not practiced loading into the back of our pickup truck.

After several attempts, a fair amount of coaxing, and probably some words not found in Sunday School materials, Flash finally obliged. We loaded him up, gathered the tack, and off we went to make the two of us famous.

At least that was my plan.

The morning passed quickly. There were old friends to see, baseball games to watch, and lunch to eat with my grandparents, who had come from Valentine. The whole place felt alive with people visiting, children running, horses shifting, dust rising, and the smell of summer hanging in the air.

Finally, it was time for the rodeo.

Share

There were pony races, calf roping, and relay races, but in my mind, the main event was barrel racing.

For those who may not know, barrel racing involves three barrels set up in a cloverleaf pattern. The rider crosses the starting line, the flag drops, and then horse and rider tear around those barrels as fast as possible before racing back across the finish line.

Simple enough, in theory.

I sat on Flash at the entrance to the arena, heart pounding, reins in hand, body leaning forward, ready for glory.

Then the flag dropped. Flash and I took off. For about three seconds, I was every bit the rodeo star I had imagined. Then things got interesting.

Just as we headed toward the first barrel, a gentleman started walking across the arena. He had no idea the biggest day of my life was underway. When he realized a pony and a determined ten-year-old were headed his direction, he threw both arms in the air and ran back to the side he had come from.

Now, I was fully focused on barrel number one. Flash, however, was aware of his surroundings. Very aware.

Flash saw that man waving his arms and made a decision. He stopped. Then he turned and headed back toward the rear of the arena.

I did not.

My mind and body were still committed to barrel number one, so I continued in that direction without my faithful steed. There is a moment, right before you hit the ground, when you have time to reconsider several life choices.

Then you land.

As I hit the ground and rolled, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye that has stayed with me all these years. My grandma was screaming and trying to climb the fence. My grandpa, bless him, had her by the britches and was pulling her back down.

That image is burned into my mind forever.

I jumped up, dusted off what dignity I had left, and asked the flagman if I could go again.

He said yes, since only I had crossed the starting line.

Which seems like an important technicality.

I ran to the back of the arena, where a kind man was holding Flash by the reins. I climbed back on, gathered what courage I had left, and we tried again. This time, Flash and I made it around the barrels.

We didn’t win. But we didn’t come in last either, and after your pony has stopped while you continued on alone, “not last” feels pretty respectable.

Still, after all these years, it isn’t the barrels I remember most. It isn’t the time on the clock. It isn’t even the dust in my teeth.

It’s Grandma trying to climb that fence and Grandpa grabbing hold of her britches before she joined me in the arena.

That’s the thing about the people who love you. They will climb any fence to get to you, even when you don’t need them to. Even when you’ve already gotten up, dusted off, and gone back for another run.

Flash and I continued to barrel race, although we never did become famous. But I have thought about that moment more times than I can count; every time I’ve needed to remember what it looks like when someone decides, without hesitation, that you’re worth climbing toward.

Every summer, I start seeing churches advertise Vacation Bible School, and just like that, I’m eight or nine years old again, walking into our little white country church.

It wasn’t fancy.

No big stage. No microphones. No themed decorations from a catalog. No snack schedule that required three committees and a laminator.

Just a little church, a handful of country kids, and one week every summer that felt like a very big deal.

Subscribe now

Our church didn’t have a regular pastor all year long. We had visiting pastors who came and went, but each summer Pastor and Mrs. Chamberlain arrived, and when they did, we knew Bible School had officially begun.

Classes ranged from the little ones—probably around five years old—all the way up through eighth grade. Since our church didn’t have classrooms, we were all in the same room, divided into little groups doing different things.

This didn’t bother us a bit.

Most of us went to country school anyway, where one room held every grade and nobody thought that was strange. You just learned to concentrate while someone else was sounding out words, reciting multiplication facts, or being told for the third time to sit still.

Bible School was a little like that, only with more singing.

There were songs and stories, drawing and coloring, lessons and laughter—and, of course, recess. Let us not underestimate recess. To a child, recess is proof that the Lord understands children very well.

But the highlight, at least for me, came after lunch.

That was when Mrs. Chamberlain would set up the felt board at the front of the sanctuary.

Now, children today may not understand the wonder of a felt board. But back then, that thing was practically high technology.

Mrs. Chamberlain had beautifully colored figures—people, animals, trees, boats, lions, apples, robes, sandals, sheep, you name it—and somehow they stuck to that board like they had signed a long-term lease.

This was especially impressive because many of us only had black-and-white television at home, if we had television at all. So when Mrs. Chamberlain started placing bright little figures on that board, it was like the Bible had suddenly gone full color.

Every year brought a new story.

One year we learned about Daniel in the lions’ den, which made a deep impression on me because lions are one thing, but being calm in a den full of them seemed like behavior beyond my personal skill set.

Another year, we heard about Zacchaeus, who climbed up in a tree to see Jesus pass by. I understood that one. When you’re short, trees and chairs can become useful pieces of equipment.

Then there was Johnny Appleseed, traveling around planting trees with a pot on his head and a song in his heart. I’m still not sure whose idea the pot was, but it certainly made him memorable.

Share

Those stories came alive for us. They weren’t just words in a book. They had color and shape. They had songs we could sing and pictures we could remember. Some of those songs still pop into my head after all these years, usually when I’m trying to remember why I walked into the kitchen.

Then, at the end of the week came the grand finale: a program for our parents.

Now, remember, our parents were busy. Summer on the farm did not pause politely because the children had learned a song about Zacchaeus. There were chores to do, gardens to tend, animals to feed, meals to fix, hay to think about, and probably twelve other things waiting in the heat.

But they brought us each morning. They picked us up each afternoon. And at the end of the week, they came to watch us stand up in front of the church and sing, recite, wave our papers, forget our lines, and look around to see who was watching.

It was wonderful. Nothing fancy. Nothing slick. Just a little white church, a felt board full of color, children singing with more volume than tune, and adults smiling like we had done something mighty important.

And maybe we had.

Because all these years later, I still remember it. The songs. The stories. The friends. The felt figures that somehow stayed stuck. And Mrs. Chamberlain, sitting in that little country church, bringing the stories to life one colorful piece at a time.

Sometimes the simplest things are the ones that stick with us the longest. Kind of like felt on a board.

A summer miracle, if you ask me.

Summer is the season when flowers start showing up everywhere.

They appear at the grocery store, the farmers market, little stands on street corners, and in my neighbors’ front yards. There is something wonderful about walking past a garden full of zinnias, daisies, sunflowers, petunias, snapdragons, and dahlias big enough to hide a small child or a large cat.

Everything looks bright and cheerful, and for one brief shining moment, I think, “Maybe I should plant a flower garden.”

Then I remember that I tried that once, many years ago.

My husband had prepared a nice little flower bed for me, and I marched out there with my bag of marigold seeds, full of optimism and no reading glasses.

That was my first mistake.

I looked at the back of the seed packet, which said to plant the seeds 1/16 of an inch deep. Unfortunately, without my glasses, I read it as 16 inches deep.

So there I was, on my hands and knees, sweating like I was trying to dig a basement, carefully measuring with a ruler so those marigolds would be planted exactly sixteen inches down.

Now, some people might have questioned that. Some people might have said, “Sixteen inches seems a little deep for a flower seed.”

Not me.

After a couple of hours of hard work, I sprinkled water over the flower bed, sat back, and waited for my marigolds to rise up in glory.

They did not.

I watered faithfully. I talked to them. I encouraged them to grow, grow, grow.

Nothing.

Those marigolds never did poke their beautiful heads out of the ground. (To this day, I believe they are still down there somewhere, packing lunches and tunneling toward daylight.)

After weeks of waiting, watering, and faithfully talking to them, I realized something important. Even though I come from good growing stock (my family were farmers, after all), my place in the flower-growing world is not at the beginning of the process. It is at the end.

That is the part where I admire, choose, carry home, arrange in a vase, set on the kitchen table, and compliment my bouquet on its beauty every time I walk past.

And honestly, that is not a small calling.

Share

Gardeners need people who appreciate their work. They need people who understand the beauty of a perfect sunflower, the cheerfulness of a row of zinnias, and the emotional importance of having fresh flowers on the table even though you had absolutely nothing to do with growing them.

Each of us has a place in life’s puzzle.

Some plant. Some water. Some weed. Some deadhead—which sounds unpleasant but is apparently helpful.

And some of us show up with cash, an empty vase, and deep appreciation for people who know the difference between 1/16 of an inch and 16 inches.

I believe I’ve found my spot.

And if those marigolds ever make it to the surface, I hope someone calls me.

July is a strange little month. It is famous for all sorts of things. First off, it’s my birthday month! Then there’s the Fourth, of course, which this year came with extra celebrating, since the United States marked its 250th birthday. And finally, there’s the full moon sometimes called the Buck Moon, because that’s when young deer begin growing their antlers.

Personally, I think July should also be known as the Where Did Half the Year Go? month, because that is the question I ask myself every time I turn the calendar page. There it sits, right in the middle of the year, hot and sticky, waving a sparkler and asking, “So… how are those New Year’s resolutions coming?”

Rude, really.

Subscribe now

When it comes to resolutions, January gets all the attention. New calendar. Fresh notebook. Big plans. Everybody is buying storage tubs, walking shoes, vitamins, and planners with little gold stickers that say things like Dream Big and Crush Your Goals.

Then February comes along, and I’m just trying to remember where I put the planner.

By July, the year is half over, but not completely out of reach. There’s still enough time for me to dust off a few good intentions and pretend they were only resting.

Some folks may have already finished their resolutions by now. Good for them.

I hope they are very happy with their organized closets, strong knees, sparkling baseboards, and perfectly balanced budgets.

As for me, July is usually when my resolutions get a second chance at life. Not a full resurrection, maybe. More like I pull them out, pat them on the back, and say, “Well, bless your heart. Let’s see if we can get another four to six weeks out of you.”

I don’t like to over promise.

Maybe the trick is not to treat July like a second January. January has too much pressure. January wants us to become brand-new people before the Christmas leftovers are gone.

July is a little more realistic. July says, “It’s hot. You’re tired. But you’re still here. Pick one thing and start again.”

That I can do.

Share Windmill Whoppers and Other Suspcious Stories

Maybe I’ll drink more water. Maybe I’ll walk a little more. Maybe I’ll clean out one drawer and not the whole house. Maybe I’ll make one sensible choice before investigating the limited-time dessert menu at my local fast-food restaurant.

No promises.

But I do like the idea of a midyear restart. Not a grand announcement. Not a whole new personality. Just a quiet little reset in the middle of real life.

So here’s to July. To second chances. To dusty resolutions with a little life left in them.

Here’s to fireworks, fresh calendars, full moons, and the courage to begin again, even if beginning again only lasts four to six weeks.

Around here, we call that progress.

What is it about coffee that brings people together?

I don’t mean just the drink itself, although I have nothing against a good cup of coffee—especially one poured by somebody else. I mean the way coffee seems to open a door. Folks sit down with a cup in their hand, and suddenly they’re discussing everything from the wonders of today’s world to how much better things were back when phones stayed attached to the wall.

After my parents retired, they had a regular routine. A couple of times a day—morning and afternoon—they went to the little bar in their town for “coffee.”

Now, in a small town, the bar isn’t just a bar. It is also the coffee shop, meeting hall, news station, weather bureau, and unofficial headquarters for everyone who needs to know what’s going on. There was no fancy little café with foam hearts in the latte. There was a bar with a coffee pot, a few tables, and people who knew your name.

And I put “coffee” in quotation marks because it was never just coffee.

Subscribe now

It was news. It was gossip. It was town planning, weather reporting, birthday celebrating, health updating, and occasionally, I suspect, a small amount of supervising the rest of the community.

They did this twice a day with only a few hours in between, yet somehow they always had plenty to discuss. I never figured out how that worked. If I talk to someone in the morning and see them again that afternoon, my big update is usually, “Well, I’m still here.”

But their group had material.

They shared what was going on in their lives, who had been where, what was coming up in town, and who needed a little extra kindness that week. They laughed together when laughing was called for, and they offered a sympathetic ear when life came limping in and needed a soft place to sit.

On the rare occasions I got to join them, I loved watching the closeness they had built. Somebody would bring treats if there was a birthday. Someone else would know who had a doctor’s appointment, who was expecting company, and who had maybe overdone it mowing the yard.

The owners of the bar were special people too. They kept the coffee cheap and the pot full, which is practically a public service in a small town.

Whenever I came to visit my folks, I always checked the time before heading anywhere. Depending on the hour, I knew whether to go to their house or straight to the bar. Coffee time was a standing appointment, and it was seldom broken.

Through the years, I watched that little group change.

At first, they needed two tables—one for the men and one for the women, because apparently even in retirement there are departments. Then slowly, the group got smaller. Two tables became one. A few chairs stayed empty. Names were mentioned with a softer voice.

And now that Mom and Dad are both gone, I don’t have much reason to go back to that lovely little town.

But among the many things I miss is walking into that bar for coffee.

Share

Everyone at those tables knew my name. They knew what I’d been up to, and probably a few things I had forgotten myself. When my siblings and their families showed up, it felt like a little party right there in the middle of the week.

Nothing fancy. Just coffee, conversation, and people glad to see you. That kind of welcome sticks to your heart.

Now, I will admit, I have managed to enjoy a similar sort of visiting at my own local bar—but not fueled by coffee.

After a couple of beers, conversation seems to come a little easier. In fact, it can roll right through the afternoon and late into the evening if nobody is paying attention. But coffee? Coffee just doesn’t seem to launch quite the same journey for us.

Maybe we need practice.

What brought all this to mind is a little coffee shop where I often go to write. I’ve noticed groups of older folks coming in nearly every day to sit and visit. They settle in with their cups, and before long, the talk begins.

Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they lament the cost of groceries, the state of the world, or the fact that nothing comes with simple instructions anymore.

But what I love most is how they keep track of each other.

“Mac’s on vacation this week.”

“Mary’s in the hospital with a broken hip. I brought a card for all of us to sign.”

There it is again—that old coffee-table magic.

A little community formed around a pot of coffee, a few familiar faces, and the quiet understanding that people need people. They need someone to notice when they’re gone, someone to save them a seat, someone to ask, “You doing all right?”

There’s a sign on the wall of the coffee shop that says:

Sit long. Talk much. And we’ll keep the pot full.

Maybe that’s the draw.

For a little while, nobody is old. Nobody is lonely. Nobody is just passing time.

They’re gathered. They’re known. They’re part of the table.

And if the coffee pot stays full, all the better.

“Come on over,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said.

So I picked up my phone and headed over to my daughter’s house, where they were setting up for a two-day rummage sale.

My granddaughter was busy stacking things on shelves when she looked up and noticed something suspicious.

“Grandma, why didn’t you bring some stuff too?”

She said it so innocently. So sweetly. Like she had not just asked me to sort through forty-some years of emotional attachment, questionable fashion choices, and things I might need someday.

“Oh,” I said, smiling like a woman with a plan. “I just thought I’d check it out first. I’ll get my stuff after a while and bring it over.”

Which sounded reasonable, even if it was not entirely true.

Subscribe now

The truth was, I had tried. Earlier in the week, when they first announced this rummage sale business, I had marched into my house determined to contribute. After all, my house is full to the brim. I have boxes from my last move that I still haven’t unpacked, and that move was twelve years ago.

You’d think finding things to sell would be easy.

You’d be wrong.

I started with clothes. That seemed safe enough. I have drawers full of things I no longer wear because they are too tight, too loose, the wrong color, the wrong style, or from a time in my life when apparently I had more confidence than judgment.

I pulled them out and placed them in a box. Then I looked at the box. Then I started thinking.

What if I lose weight and those pants fit again? What if that style comes back? What if one day I wake up and desperately need a pair of bright orange slacks?

You just never know.

So I put a few things back. Then a few more. By the time I finished “cleaning out” the drawers, I had mostly rearranged them.

Next, I moved to the closet. I told myself I would start with the blouses and shirts way in the back—the ones I never wear anymore.

Well, that was a mistake.

Every shirt had a history. I pulled one out and remembered where I wore it, who I was with, what we did, and how much fun we had. Pretty soon I wasn’t cleaning out a closet. I was wandering down memory lane with hangers.

A couple of shirts made it into the “go” box. Many more went right back on the rack. Because really, who’s to say I won’t need that paisley print blouse again? Or that stained white T-shirt that is technically ruined but still good for something, even if I don’t know what that something is yet?

You just never know.

Share

Then I opened a box of knickknacks I hadn’t unpacked since the move. They had stayed packed all these years because there wasn’t room for them in my “new” little house. I figured surely that box would be easy.

It was not.

Most of the little treasures didn’t have any deep meaning. Some I had bought because they were cute. Some had been gifts, though I couldn’t remember who gave them to me. Some were probably from a garage sale I should never have gone to in the first place.

But they were still cute. Not useful, exactly. Not necessary. But cute.

So back in the box they went. Most of them, anyway.

By this time, I was thoroughly pooped and had collected a grand total of four or five items. I had big plans to do more the next day, but then I had an appointment, and somehow the whole project slid gently into the category of “not today.”

Which is how I ended up at my daughter’s house, empty-handed, looking into the eyes of my granddaughter, who knows perfectly well I have treasures stacked, tucked, boxed, and possibly multiplying in the dark.

I suspect she was already picturing the day she may have to help pack all of it if I ever move again. She is too nice to say that out loud.

And since I was there anyway, I did what any helpful grandmother would do.

I positioned myself behind the money table.

That suited me just fine. I took money, made change when necessary, and sat there in the warm sunshine visiting with people as they came and went. It was comfortable. It was pleasant. It was semi-productive.

I never did go back to my house, because once you are sitting at the money table in the sunshine, you can’t just abandon your post.

At least that’s my story.

So no treasures left my house that day.

Not the orange slacks.

Not the paisley blouse.

Not the box of cute little what-nots whose origins have been lost to history.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the next sale.

And who knows?

By then, I may be ready to part with something.

Maybe.

But probably not the orange slacks.

Several years ago, I lived in a house with four other girls. We all worked at the same place, so it was a good setup—busy days, shared bills, and enough hair products in one bathroom to qualify as a fire hazard.

One evening, one of my roommate’s boyfriends came over. They picked a movie I didn’t care for, so I did what any sensible person would do: I went to bed. Before long, the rest of the house quieted down too, and the only sound left was the low hum of the TV in the living room.

Then—later—when I was good and asleep, I heard screaming.

Not the “oops, I spilled my drink” kind of screaming.
The “we are about to perish” kind.

Subscribe now

I shot out of bed and rushed into the living room—along with the other three girls—ready to face whatever disaster had arrived.

And there they were: my roommate and her boyfriend perched on the back of the couch like frightened cats, pointing toward the baseboard behind the stereo.

“There’s a huge spider,” they whispered.

Now, this boyfriend was known to be a jokester, so I assumed he had placed a plastic spider back there to scare us. Which is why I did the brave thing and reached down to grab it.

And that’s when the “plastic” spider jumped.

Not a little hop. A full-body, Olympic tryout, launch-yourself-into-the-air jump.

We all screamed. Again. Louder. And when I turned around, I realized the entire household—every last one of us—was now sitting on the back of the couch. Four grown women and one boyfriend, all clinging to upholstery like it was a life raft.

The spider scurried back behind the stereo and tucked himself into a spot where we couldn’t see him… but we all knew he was there. And short of all of us sleeping in one bed (which was not going to happen—we were not exactly a dainty bunch), we were pretty sure nobody was getting any sleep that night.

We stood there, heads scratching, trying to come up with a plan. Shoes? Broom? Fire? Move to another state?

That’s when we saw a city police car roll slowly down our street. And right there on the side was the logo:

TO PROTECT AND SERVE

Share

Well. We certainly needed protecting. And we figured he could serve us by coming inside and removing this malicious intruder from our home.

So we called.

To be fair, we used the regular number—not 911. But I will admit… the dispatcher let out the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard through a telephone. I’m also fairly sure she giggled, though I can’t prove it in court.

A few minutes later (which felt like an hour), we heard footsteps on the porch and a knock at the door. Thank goodness they did not arrive with lights and sirens—we were already embarrassed enough.

They sent two officers.

Subscribe now

Now, I can only imagine what those poor men thought when I opened the door… and then immediately ran back and climbed onto the couch with the rest of the crew like I was part of a frightened choir.

We pointed. We explained. We dramatized.

The officers walked over to the stereo, pulled it away from the wall, and out came the spider—bigger than we’d dared to imagine. It darted toward the middle of the room like it owned the place, and even the officers looked a little startled. (That made us feel slightly better.)

We handed them a candle jar that had long ago burned down to nothing. One officer scooped up our eight-legged roommate, popped the lid on, and held it up like a trophy.

They told us to take it the next day to someone who could identify it. They also admitted, kindly, that it was one of the biggest spiders they’d seen.

Then they wished us good night and assured us it was perfectly fine to call.

Which was sweet.

And I’m sure it was true…

…right up until they got out on the porch and laughed so hard they practically needed backup.

But you know what? We slept like babies after that. Every one of us in our own beds, feeling safe, protected… and deeply grateful for public service.

Because sometimes “to protect and serve” means law enforcement.
And sometimes it means spider removal at midnight.

Throwback alert: I’m re-sharing last year’s Memorial Day post because it still feels just as fitting—and last week got away from me (as weeks tend to do). Let me know if this is your first time reading it, or if you’re taking it for another spin.

As a youngster, the month of May at our house was a time of tissue paper, pipe cleaners, and ribbons. Daily, after lunch, Mom brought all the makings to the table and began to craft beautiful (in the eyes of a kid) bouquets of flowers. Soft pink tissues made the tiny flowers to go on the babies' graves, bold blue was for granddad, and the one made of several different colors was for my aunt who had been so full of fun and giggles.

When she finished, we had a room full of bouquets, soft and fluffy, and each with a story of their own. That was my favorite part—the story that went with each bouquet.

Even though I hadn’t met many of them, I felt like I knew each of them. Then it was finally the day to pile into the car—usually before the morning dew had a chance to dry—and make the trek to the cemeteries. Yep, plural. Cemeteries. My family believed in being thorough.

My Grandmother would often ride with us to these old cemeteries and as we walked through the rows of gravestones, she would tell us more stories about the folks that were buried there. In one cemetery, on a small hill away from the others, was a solitary baby's grave. Grandma told us that a doctor and his wife had come to the area from back East, but after their baby died, the wife couldn’t handle the prairie-life anymore, so they left. To this day, I still put a flower on that little grave.

Subscribe now

It was kind of fun to read the headstones and imagine the lives of those buried there. Some of the cemeteries would have small flags on the graves for the service men who had gone off to war and returned home for their final resting place. Once in a while, I would even find a stone that had a strange message on it, and it kind of gave me the shivers.

There was a quiet reverence to the whole thing. My parents never sat us down for some long, teary talk about sacrifice or patriotism, but you could feel it in the way they walked through those graveyards. My dad’s voice would drop to a whisper. Mom would gently brush away leaves from the headstones, straighten flags that had drooped, and we’d stand there—kids trying not to fidget—while they remembered. It wasn’t sad, exactly. It was... grounding. Like checking in with the past so you could walk a little straighter into the future.

Years later, when I became a nurse, Memorial Day took on even more weight. I cared for veterans whose bodies bore the scars of battles long past, and whose hearts still carried the weight of the ones who didn’t make it home. Some shared their stories. Some didn’t. But you could feel the history in the room. You could see it in their eyes.

Now, at this stage in life—past the hustle of young adulthood, into what I lovingly call Retirement: Round Three—I find myself feeling more grateful than ever for the stillness of Memorial Day. It's not about big speeches or parades for me (though those have their place). It's about pausing. Honoring. Saying thank you in the quiet ways: with flowers, with memories, with whispered names spoken aloud so they’re never forgotten.

Happy Memorial Day, friends. May we never forget what it’s truly about.

Share

A friend of mine just bought a new-to-her house and was tickled pink—big backyard, plenty of room, and a little fenced-in garden spot ready for business. She invited me to come inspect her “future produce empire,” and I’ll be honest: it was adorable.

Right at the garden gate, perched on a pretty rock like he owned the place, sat a single garden gnome—the official gatekeeper. Since I usually see gnomes in pairs (like salt and pepper shakers), I asked, “How come he’s all alone?”

She said, “Oh, he was on the half-price shelf at Walmart, and I couldn’t leave him there. He looked… rejected.”

Yep. That’ll get you every time.

Subscribe now

So she brought him home, set him up like royalty, and even built him a little shrine—complete with an empty bottle of Boone’s Farm (because class matters).

Then she said the shrine needed one final touch: a little ditty.

Naturally, she asked me.

And here’s what I came up with:

Share

The Gnome’s Story

The old woman ran off—

Left me all alone!

A sad, little, broken-hearted

Nebraska garden gnome.

I pouted and I sulked,

for quite a little while,

until I found something here

to bring back my smile.

Some kids hid a bottle

right there by the gate—

and I took a tiny sip

to see if it was fate.

Well… after just a minute,

I said, “Hey! This is fine—

I may be small and lonely,

but I can sip like I’m nine!”

So goodbye, old woman—

good riddance to you!

I won’t even miss you…

after a bottle or two!

While I was waiting for my card-club friends to come over, I did what any sensible retired woman does to pass the time: I started flipping through TV channels like I was going to find something educational and uplifting.

Ha.

What I found instead were commercials aimed at “older folks” and “stay-at-home folks.” Which, technically, includes me. So I figured I’d watch and see what wonderful wisdom the advertising world had for my golden years.

And let me tell you—those commercials are not aimed at my version of retirement. They’re aimed at a whole different universe.

Subscribe now

In “Commercial Retirement Land”, the women all look like they just stepped out of a spa, a salon, and a lighting studio. Their makeup is flawless—carefully designed to match their skin changes while somehow erasing every wrinkle. Their hair is perfectly cut, perfectly colored, and styled “just for your oval face” by an app that apparently also knows your blood type.

Then the camera backs up and—of course—she’s dressed for the gym in a cute little outfit and tight spandex shorts with not one varicose vein showing anywhere. She chirps, “I’m just waiting for the plumber!” like plumbers sit around all day hoping to be summoned by her.

Meanwhile, she’s steeping fresh herbal tea to go with the fresh hot scones she just pulled from the oven. The scones are placed gently on a spotless kitchen island that looks like it’s never seen a real family meal. Her nails are manicured, toes polished, sandals adorable. The smell of fresh flowers emanate from every corner. (Later I learned it’s because the air freshener is working overtime in the socket by the door.)

The “girls” are coming over for a “lively afternoon of bridge.”

Naturally. Because apparently in “Commercial Retirement Land”, everyone plays bridge, everyone has matching napkins, and nobody has ever yelled, “WHO ATE THE LAST OF THE CHEESE?”

And supper? Oh, supper is a casserole already in the oven—timed perfectly for 6 p.m.—when her children and grandchildren arrive home scrubbed, calm, and smiling like they’ve never been “overstimulated” by life. Phones are put away. Dad says grace. Everyone passes the dishes politely and compliments the grandmother on her excellent casserole choices.

I sat there watching this and thought, Well! Maybe I’ve been doing retirement all wrong.

So I wandered into the bathroom (for about the 115th time that day), glanced at myself in the mirror, and had to admit… I do not resemble the woman in the commercial.

Then I thought, I could probably spend more time on myself.

But most of my makeup is either old enough to vote or a hand-me-down from one of my granddaughters. And honestly, when I put it on, it doesn’t hide wrinkles—it just points them out like they’re being introduced at church.

Eye makeup is even worse. I don’t know how to paint my eyes without looking like I’m auditioning for a scary movie. Painting my fingernails goes okay as long as I’m using my right hand to paint the left. But when I reverse the process, it turns into a smudgy crime scene.

And painting my toes? Well. That requires bending, stretching, holding my breath, and occasionally seeing stars. Sometimes it ends with me on the floor, covered in red polish, trying to explain to my family that “I did not fall—I was simply attempting self-care”. They laugh so hard they can’t even hear my explanation.

Share

Now, my friends? My friends aren’t coming over for bridge. None of us know how to play bridge. We play poker. And our drink of choice is not herbal tea. It’s black tea with a little kick. Snacks are chips and dip. Sometimes somebody brings a new snack, and we act like it’s a holiday. If the house smells more like fertilizer than fresh flowers, they are polite enough not to mention it.

And supper on card night? Supper is whatever my kids and grandkids can rustle up whenever they wander in. If they’re lucky, there’s leftover dip.

I smiled at my reflection as I left the bathroom and realized something else: my hair is in need of a cut, a color, and a style that fits my face! So I ran a comb through it real quick and thought about all the money those advertising folks wasted trying to convince me retirement looks like an Avon and Tupperware party on steroids.

Turns out, my retirement looks more like real life—messy, loud, funny, and full of people I love.

And you know what? I think I’ll keep it.

Last week, I was thinking about which Nebraska tourist spot was calling my name—because with gas prices being what they are, “vacationing in Nebraska” this summer started sounding downright sensible.

And that’s when I saw it. Right there in Lincoln on “O” Street: a huge billboard with Buffalo Bill himself advertising his Wild West Show in North Platte—smiling like the show starts at seven and the popcorn’s already hot. There was even a phone number.

Now, I may not know everything, but I do know this: I’m pretty sure Buffalo Bill has been dead for a while. Still… the billboard had a number and I had a phone. So of course I called it.

Subscribe now

Someone answered.

And I swear the fella on the other end sounded just like Buffalo Bill. Now, I don’t know exactly what Buffalo Bill is supposed to sound like—maybe like gravel and coffee—but that’s what it sounded like to me. Which immediately raised the most important question of all: If Buffalo Bill died in 1917… who in the world is answering his phone?

That little mystery sent me down a research trail. (Also known as Googling, but I like “research trail” better. It sounds more official.)

Here’s what I found, and I’ll tell you right now: Buffalo Bill was not playing small.

Buffalo Bill Was a Whole Production

Buffalo Bill—William F. Cody—opened his Wild West show in 1883, and it took off like a prairie fire. This wasn’t some little tent with three horses and a banjo. This was big, outdoor entertainment, the kind that made people say, “Well, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

He wasn’t the first person to put on a show about “exotic” people and places (history has some uncomfortable examples), but he became the most famous. His genius was that he wrapped it all in a dramatic story—good guys, bad guys, daring rescues, and plenty of dust.

And the public ate it up.

In fact, people with fancy opinions loved it too. Famous folks praised it, and it traveled all over—even to Europe—where it became the American West’s traveling advertisement. Royals watched it. Crowds packed in.The show struck a nerve because the “Old West” was already starting to disappear, and Buffalo Bill was selling it back to people as a razzle-dazzle show.

By the late 1890s, Buffalo Bill’s operation included hundreds of performers and staff: cowboys, cowgirls, and large numbers of Native men, women, and children—plus horses and buffalo. They fed everyone three hot meals a day, moved with giant trainloads of equipment, carried their own seating, canvas, and supplies, and needed acres of space wherever they landed. The expenses were enormous—thousands of dollars a day.

In 1899 alone, the show traveled thousands of miles, played hundreds of performances, and hit town after town with parades and two big shows—then packed up and rolled out overnight.

I can barely pack for a weekend without forgetting my toothbrush, so I’m impressed.

Share

The more I read, the more it felt like Cody knew he was preserving something that was fading, but he was also turning it into a brand.

And that brand worked… until it didn’t. The show eventually went bankrupt in 1913, and by the time Buffalo Bill died in 1917, that whole Wild West era was sliding into history.

You Can Still Visit His Ranch

These days, you can visit Scouts Rest Ranch in North Platte—Buffalo Bill’s home place. It’s a restored historic site with his house, barn, outbuildings, memorabilia, and even antique carriages. Sounds like it would be a pretty great Nebraska road trip—especially for anyone who enjoys history, tall tales, and a good excuse to stop for pie on the way.

Which brings me back to the question that started all this: Who is answering that phone number on the billboard?

Because I’m not saying it’s Buffalo Bill … but I’m also not not saying it.

If I make it out to Scouts Rest, I’ll report back. And if the person behind the desk looks like Buffalo Bill, I may have to ask a few follow-up questions.

When I first saw him, I didn’t see him the way he actually looked. Instead, I saw his potential: black and shiny, bright red interior, ready to head down the open road like he owned it. The back end jacked up just enough to make a statement: cool, classy, and confident.

Now in my day, nothing said class like a Chevrolet—especially a 1957 Chevy BelAir two-door hardtop. And for a short, glorious stretch of time, I was the co-owner of one.

Subscribe now

To be perfectly honest, mine was a six-cylinder, which the real car folks considered about as exciting as a dishpan. And to make it even more humdrum, the backseat contained a baby seat. But let me tell you—rolling down the streets of Sioux City, Iowa, in that car? I felt downright foxier than my budget had any right to allow.

I had a favorite gas station, and the young attendant there treated my Chevy like it was royalty. He checked my oil at every fill-up, changed it when needed for a minimal fee, and offered advice like he was my personal pit crew.

He was especially taken with the idea that my car needed lifters on the back end—you know, to raise it up and give it that “look.” I agreed. I also priced them. And as a poor nursing student with a baby on formula and a husband in the Army, those lifters were… how shall I put it… a dream, not a plan.

Still, I liked dreaming about them.

Then one day I pulled into the station and that young man came flying out like he’d just discovered fire.

“I found an economical way to raise the back end,” he said, eyes shining. “It’ll look so cool!”

I should’ve been skeptical. After all, my dad had mentioned the poor fella “was never quite right since he got kicked in the head by a donkey.” I probably should’ve filed that away under Important Information, but I didn’t. Because … he was so excited at the possibility of helping me fulfill my vision of my car’s potential!

The attendant leaned in like he was sharing stock tips. “With my garage discount,” he said, “I can do it for ninety-nine cents.”

Well. That ought to have been my first clue right there. But I was young, tired, and hungry for a little glamour. I wrote my husband a letter right away, feeling proud as punch—sure I’d just proved I could handle car decisions all by myself. After all, this young man had met my husband and they’d talked cars and fixing them up like real grown-ups. Surely it was fine.

Saturday rolled around. I still hadn’t heard back from my husband, but the mechanic said he was free and could do the work while my sister and I ran into Sioux City.

When we returned, there sat my beautiful Chevy—washed, waxed, and looking sharp, with his hind end sitting nice and high like he was ready for a photo shoot.

I was delighted.

My sister took the baby, since the car seat was already in her car, and I took my Chevy for a spin.

At first, the ride felt a little rough—more like bucking along than cruising. Not much give over bumps. But I told myself, Well, Charlis, that’s just the price of class.

Share

It didn’t take long to realize this wasn’t “class.” This was punishment.

On a smooth road, it wasn’t terrible. But hit a pothole? Mercy. It felt like the car was trying to shake my backbone loose.

Then one day I got that familiar bump-bump-bump of a flat tire, so I pulled over to change it. While I was fussing with the jack, I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

There were two strange bumps in my trunk that had not been there before.

Once the tire was changed, I headed back to the garage to have a serious talk with my mechanic. But he was busy, so I wandered over to the post office.

And wouldn’t you know it—there was a letter from my husband.

I tore it open, and before I was halfway through, a sick feeling crawled up my spine.

He said: DO NOT HAVE THAT DONE.

He said the mechanic was probably going to put clamps on the shocks, it would ride like a lumber wagon, and the shocks would eventually come up through the trunk.

Well.

Check and check.

I practically ran back to the garage. I asked the mechanic to remove the clamps immediately. He looked sheepish and said he didn’t think they would come through that quickly.

Sir. They were already poking through!

Lesson learned.

From then on, I decided to stick to tending the home fires and let the “economical innovations” stay with the fellows who sold gas and checked oil. Because I may have been driving a classy classic… but for about a week there, I was the queen of the lumber wagons.

Lately I’ve been thinking that every family is a book.

It starts with the parents—those two brave souls who somehow decided, “Sure, let’s create humans and see what happens.” Then come the children, each one their own chapter. And if you’ve ever read a family book, you know: every chapter has its own plot twists, its own high points, its own heartbreaks, and at least one character who shows up at Thanksgiving with opinions and no casserole.

When the last of the children is gone, it feels like that original book closes.

But then something interesting happens. Each chapter spins off its own sequel—new books written by the children (who are now the parents), and if you read those carefully, you can see what carried forward and what changed. Same themes, different settings. Same strengths, new struggles. Same sense of humor… and sometimes the same stubborn streak that should’ve been left on the editing room floor.

Subscribe now

It’s kind of fascinating—especially if you have time to sit back and study it all. And of course, I can’t help myself: I always put my own little twist on each chapter. That’s what writers do. We can’t just tell it—we have to tell it.

These thoughts have been stirred up because we recently lost my ex-brother-in-law. And as the family moved through those last hard pages—those final scenes—you could see all the old patterns show up: the ways people come together, the ways they avoid, the ways they grieve, the ways they cope. It also hit me how, over the years, we’d all grown apart—each of our “chapters” taking its own direction, its own pace, its own plot line.

We touched base now and then, but not often enough to really know each other anymore. I suppose that’s the way of the world. Life keeps moving. People get busy. Years slide past like you’re watching them from a car window.

And then one day, you realize: some things can’t be rewritten.

Share

I’ve been connected to this family for over fifty years. I was married into it for more than twenty-five, and even after the divorce, I never really left—because we shared children, step-children, grandchildren… and truth be told, I ended up liking his new lady a whole lot, and loving her kids too. Life is funny that way. You think you’re closing one chapter, and instead you’re just turning the page into a different version of the same story.

We went through a lot together—illnesses, accidents, amputations, family deaths, and the sort of hard seasons nobody signs up for. But we also had weddings, babies, birthdays, holidays, and enough “good old days” stories to fill a whole shelf. There was football-team loyalty (and football-team disgust), cheering at baseball games and ballet recitals, and plenty of fears, tears, anger… and joy.

It was a full book. A real one.

And now, as I begin closing the book on my version of the Arthur Noah Marshall / Susan Little Soldier story, I’ve realized something else:

If I don’t write my own story… somebody else will. And I’m not sure I’d like their twist.

So these are just the musings of a “young” writer (cough cough) who’s still trying to make sense of how families shape us—and how, if we’re paying attention, we can learn from what’s already been written.

Life isn’t simple. But family stories make better sense when we hold the love, forgive the rough parts, and keep showing up.

If you read last week’s post, you’ll remember my wonderful little story about the bus—how I’m the driver, and all those loud, obnoxious thoughts are just passengers. I even re-read my own post and thought, Well, Charlis, you sound pretty darn wise.

And then—wouldn’t you know it—I missed a turn or two and drove that bus straight into the ditch.

Now, I’m going to blame the weather. There was a snowstorm blowing outside causing wrecks all over the highways, and I’m convinced my bus hit a patch of that same slick nonsense. The passengers? Oh, they were thrilled. They clapped like they’d paid money for front-row seats.

So there I sat—me and my poor little bus—tilted in the ditch, engine idling, pride bruised, and the old familiar feeling creeping in: Here we go again. Because I’ve been on this road before. Several times.

Do I declare the whole thing “too hard” and quit (again) or do I drag this bus out of the ditch and get back on the bumpy road with the potholes, the icy spots, and the passengers who never stop hollering?

And that’s when I heard it; a very convincing voice from the back saying, “Hand over the keys. Let me drive. You can start again Monday.”

But just before I handed over the keys, I remembered something important: This ditch is not new. Same ditch. Same decision. Same ending if I choose the easy route. Because that voice is a liar. And that particular Monday never comes.

Now, I’m not going to pretend I snapped my fingers and popped right back on track like some kind of wellness superhero. I didn’t. It took a few days. It took some serious positive self-talk—basically me talking louder than the passengers. It took pausing and choosing the next right step. It took noticing the stress, trying to deal with it in a decent way, and being kind to myself without letting myself off the hook.

So here’s where I am today: I’m climbing down into the bus and driving my little bus back onto the road where it belongs. I’ll keep sharing the progress—pitfalls included (because there will be some, let’s not kid ourselves). But I’ll also share what I do next, because that’s the real work: how you respond after you slide.

And to the passengers? They can fuss all they want. They can complain, nag, and holler from the back seat.

But they better hang on. Because I’m driving this bus.

Well, it’s about time we mosey over to Pillar #3 of this WW journey: Mindset. And the deeper I dig into these pillars, the more I see how they’re all good on their own… but they really work best as a team. Kind of like a church potluck: you can survive on deviled eggs alone, but it’s better when the whole spread shows up.

Now when most folks hear the word mindfulness, they picture a person sitting cross-legged on a cushion, looking peaceful, silent, and full of inner wisdom.

That’s a lovely image. But …

First of all—if I sat on a cushion, I’m not sure I’d ever get back up without a crane and three strong teenagers. Second of all, I don’t know about you, but my life isn’t happening on a cushion. It’s happening at the grocery store, in the car, at the doctor’s office, and sometimes right in front of the pantry when I’m “just checking to see what we have.”

So here’s the real question: Can we be mindful out in the real world? And what does that look like?

In my view, the whole point of practicing calm moments (whether that’s a cushion, a chair, or sitting quietly in your car before you go into Walmart) is to carry that awareness into daily life—especially when life gets difficult.

And if we’re being honest, this journey gets difficult sometimes. Not because we’re weak, but because we’re human. We’ve got habits, stress, feelings, birthdays, and casseroles.

Mindfulness helps us do one big thing: It helps us to flex our WW muscles.

Instead of doing what we’ve always done (even when it’s not working), we learn to pause and choose a better next step.

What WW means by “Mindset”

WW’s mindset pillar is basically about building long-term habits using practical mental tools:

• positive self-talk

• stress management

• emotional awareness

• self-compassion (that means being kind to yourself, not letting yourself off the hook)

It’s less “diet discipline” and more “realistic thinking”—the kind that says setbacks are temporary, not proof you should give up and marry a bag of chips.

WW also talks about shifting from “Good/Bad” thinking to “Helpful/Unhelpful” thinking. I like that. Because if you eat a cookie, you’re not “bad.” You are simply… a person who ate a cookie. The better question is: Was that helpful for where I’m trying to go? If yes, great. If no, okay—adjust and move on.

Share Windmill Whoppers and Other Suspcious Stories

My favorite mindset tool: The Bus Exercise

Now, here’s a concept I actually love.

Imagine your life is a bus, and you’re the driver. On your bus are a bunch of passengers—your thoughts, feelings, old memories, fears, doubts, and that inner critic who loves to show up when you’re tired.

Some of those passengers say things like:

• “You’re not good enough.”

• “Why even try?”

• “You’ll never stick with it.”

• “Eat the whole pan. You’ve already messed up for the day.”

Sound familiar?

Here’s the thing: those passengers can yell. They can complain. They can throw a fit in the back seat.

But they cannot drive the bus—unless you hand them the wheel.

Most of us spend years doing one of two things:

• Obeying the passengers, or

• Fighting the passengers; arguing with them like we’re going to “win” against our own thoughts.

But the truth is, those passengers don’t disappear. They’re more like holograms—loud, persistent, and annoying, but not actually in charge. So what do we do?

We drive anyway.

We ask ourselves: What matters to me? What direction do I want my bus to go?

Then we steer toward that direction—while the passengers grumble in the background.

Sometimes they get louder when you start making changes. That’s normal. That’s when mindfulness comes in:

• Notice the thoughts.

• Don’t take them literally.

• Come back to the present.

• Keep driving.

Progress isn’t only the scale

Another mindset piece I love is noticing “Non-Scale Victories”. Because progress isn’t just the number on the scale. Sometimes progress looks like:

• Having more energy

• Pants fitting better

• Tracking consistently

• Turning down seconds without feeling deprived

• Sleeping better

• Putting on shoes and socks without gasping for breath (YES, that counts!)

Those are victories. Real ones.

Subscribe now

The bottom line

This mindset pillar isn’t easy. Changing anything we’ve been doing the same way for a long time is hard. But when what we’re doing isn’t working—and we’re suffering—we need flexibility.

• We need to choose our direction.

• We need to steer kindly.

• And we need to keep going, even with loud passengers on board.

So today’s reminder is simple:

• You are the driver.

• Not the inner critic.

• Not yesterday’s bad day.

• Not the snack aisle.

Now… cancel the crane and get on the bus!