I married the baby of the family. I should have known what I was getting into, but I jumped headlong into a relationship with a 27 year old handsome, kind, intelligent, good man, a fellow teacher, who just happened to be the youngest of four siblings. I am the oldest of four siblings. My family position did nothing to prepare me for the emotional turmoil I was about to witness as I robbed Mama Bird of her baby.

The first problem was that my husband had returned to his childhood home after finishing college and lived there until the day we returned to our new duplex from our honeymoon. Mama Bird had grown dependent on her 27 year old baby boy for companionship and conversation. Now, mind you, Daddy Bird was still in the picture; he was simply a rather reticent man, and Mama Bird got more information out of her baby.

Problem number two was that much of Mama Bird’s life had centered around cooking special meals for Baby Bird and doing Baby Bird’s laundry. I had no concept of the importance of laundry until the day of our engagement. Upon showing my future mother-in-law my new diamond ring, she burst into tears. “Now I won’t be ironing his shirts anymore!” She sobbed, inconsolable, despite my offers to bring the laundry over to her. We had a short engagement, choosing to be married the following month in order to set up our house before school started in the fall. All five weeks of my engagement were fraught with tears, all of them belonging to Mama Bird.

I was thankful for my sister-in-law, the oldest sibling. She tried reasoning with her mother. “Mama, do you want Wayne to be alone for the rest of his life? Don’t you want him to have a family?”

Mama Bird refused to answer the question. Her reply focused on one area of interest. “What am I going to do without Wayne around the house? Who will I have to talk to?” I’m sure there were other comments that my future sister-in-law was too kind to pass on to me. I know that my housekeeping and cooking abilities were suspect from day one, and rightly so. I knew very little about either.

My wedding day arrived. It rained – which I have always heard was an unlucky omen – but thirty-five years of marriage have been undaunted by that storm. No, it wasn’t the rain from the heavens that shadowed our wedding day – it was the rain from my mother-in-law’s eyes. To her credit, she didn’t have an actual outburst during the ceremony; she managed to quietly weep into her handkerchief the entire time. Nevertheless, she made it through the ordeal, and we took off for our honeymoon in the mountains of Virginia.

We had a pleasant honeymoon, visiting the caverns, hills and valley towns along the Shenandoah Parkway. Upon our return, my new in-laws paid us a visit, bringing along an extra wedding present – an Electrolux vacuum cleaner. I took that as the sign it was intended to be – a sign that my husband was used to a clean house, and it was my responsibility to see that he had one.

A few days later, my husband became ill. He took to the bed, feverish and achy, moaning and miserable. “Do you need a doctor?” I asked. He didn’t think so; it was probably a virus. I tried out my new wifely responsibilities. “What can I get you? Do you want me to make some Jell-O? Do you want some chicken soup? What can I do to help?” My new husband turned up his nose at all of my profferings. The entire day passed with my husband refusing to eat. The next day, he showed little sign of improvement. I was desperate. I picked up the phone and called Mama Bird.

“What? Wayne is sick? Wayne hasn’t been sick in years!” I could hear the recriminations in her voice. My husband had received perfect attendance certificates all the way through school. He hadn’t used one single sick day in six years. I had done this. I had made him sick. He had never been sick when she was taking care of him. “I’ll be over in a little while. I’ll get him to eat.” I hung up. I prodded my husband once again to eat a little Jell-O or pudding. Nothing doing.

A few hours later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Mama Bird with some sort of dish in her hands. She set the dish on the stove and immediately went to check on her baby. “What is wrong? Why aren’t you eating? Do you have a temperature?” Mama Bird needed no real response. “I brought you something that should do the trick. I know how fond you are of egg custard.”

Mama Bird went to the kitchen and scooped some of her homemade egg custard in a bowl. She returned to the bedroom, bearing her offering. I waited for my ill, grumpy husband to refuse it, knowing that he had no appetite. I watched in disgust as he feebly lifted his head from the pillow and opened his mouth for Mama Bird to shovel in some egg custard. I was livid, furious beyond all belief. This man, my husband, had refused all of my offers of food for over twenty-four hours. I needed some air.

Making sure that Mama Bird was going to hover over Baby Bird until I returned, I took the car for a spin. I needed to calm down. I had never heard of egg custard as being grounds for divorce, but this might establish a precedent. “What?” I could hear the judge question my husband. “You refused all of your new wife’s offerings and then sat up in bed and ate your mother’s egg custard! How dare you? Divorce granted on grounds of cruel and unusual punishment.” Surely the people in the courtroom would cheer me on as I left with my decree. “New wife wins divorce in egg custard case!” the headlines would proclaim.

I calmed down and returned to our new duplex. I checked in on my husband and found Mama Bird sitting by the bed, placing cool cloths on my feverish husband. She was happier than she had been in weeks. Her baby still needed her. All was right in the world. I ignored the Electrolux vacuum cleaner and sat down on the sofa to read a novel. Weaning Baby Bird might take some effort, but we had plenty of time. Now, what page was I on?

My husband’s sister, Linda, was the free spirit of the family. While the older sister, Barbara Jean, was dutifully cleaning up the kitchen, she would holler, “Linda! It’s your turn to dry the dishes!” Linda could be heard, but not seen, serenely tucked into the high branches of the maple tree in the back yard, giggling at her sibling’s admonition. “Linda! I’m gonna tell Mama!” The recriminations were fruitless. Linda would not reappear from her hiding place until the chores were done. Hatred of household duties would stay with her throughout life.

Linda was the rebel in the family as a child; she protested mandatory family visits on Sunday afternoons, often attempting to slide across the car seat and out the other door when her father forced the issue. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her family – it was just the idea that horseback riding with one of her friends was more appealing. In fact, both her siblings and her school friends describe her as a happy, good-natured girl, even-tempered with a ready smile. Her sunny nature remained a true constant because few of her acquaintances in her personal life or business life ever saw her lose her temper.

She was the only child who moved more than twenty minutes from home, and for a few years she and her first husband lived in Australia. Now around here, that’s really leaving home. Linda’s energetic, independent spirit led her to a whirlwind type of existence far beyond the scope of the childhood farm. While she was working at a bank, she and another friend saw the need for a temp agency in their area. They saved their money, put together a proposal and went to the bank for a loan. They were in business.

The company they started was innovative in that it gave temporary workers, mostly women, benefits and decent wages. In six months, they were operating in the black. The company outgrew its office space several times in the first few years, until Linda and her partner built their own building for their headquarters. The company expanded with a branch in New York City, which Linda personally oversaw with visits at least once a week. She became the master of packing the carry-on bag.

My husband’s family was aware that Linda was successful, but mostly unaware as to the extent of her success. We listened to her company’s ads on the radio in the morning, and we were pleasantly surprised to hear that her company was named to the Fortune 500 list. One of the reasons for this was her own sense of modesty. When she attended family functions, she inquired about her nieces and nephews, old neighbors and high school friends. When asked about her business, she would simply reply, “It’s doing fine.”

One Sunday, Linda had invited all of her brothers and sisters and their families to her house for lunch. Her older sister, Barbara Jean, made the comment, “Well, I am glad this week is over. I have been washing windows, and I am worn slam out.” Knowing of Linda’s lifelong hatred of housekeeping, she then asked, “Have you washed your windows this fall?”

Linda replied, without missing a beat, “Nope. When they get so dirty I can’t see through them, I’ll just buy a new house!” We all enjoyed a good laugh, because although Linda’s house was spotless, we all knew it wasn’t because of her elbow grease.

One day, on one of her rare Sunday visits to the family farm, she made an announcement, “I’m retiring. I’m selling my half of the company.” And so she did. With some of the proceeds from her sale, Linda bought a duplex in a nearby beach area. She kept half the duplex for herself and rented out the other half. She called each brother and sister and told us all, “You can use this place anytime I’m not there. Just call and check.” We did. My daughters and I used the beach house several times. It was just a short walk to the ocean, and it was on a peaceful stretch of the beach, away from the boardwalk and the masses of people.

A few years later, Linda made another announcement, “I’m selling the condo at the beach, and I’m buying a house on Sanibel Island, Florida.” Once again, she was extremely generous with offers for us to use the house. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law both visited with her down there, and we all knew the door was open if we wished to visit.

Upon retirement, Linda took up painting. She took lessons at a local art gallery, and soon she began to show her work. Once again, her imagination and creativity brought her success. During this time, she was also a volunteer with the American Red Cross, serving on their board, as well as serving on the board of her alma mater, a well-respected private university. She donated countless time and money to these two organizations. She was also the first female Rotary member in her region, not because of any espoused feminist cause, simply because of a desire to support their mission.

One day, about four years ago, we got a phone call from my sister-in-law, Barbara Jean. Linda’s husband had called with news that she was sick, and he was flying her home from Florida to run some tests. A few days later, the doctors delivered the diagnosis – pancreatic cancer. This was a known enemy in my husband’s family; it had taken Granddad’s life in just a few months several years before. The progression of Linda’s disease was just as swift as Granddad’s. In a few months, at the age of 60, she was gone.

Even in her last days on this earth, her generosity and strength of spirit left us amazed. Never having had children of her own, she had left the bulk of her estate to her husband, her brothers and her sister, but she made special provisions for a few friends. One of her friends had never owned a home; Linda left her enough money to buy a house. An animal lover all of her life, she bequeathed the local animal shelter a substantial sum of money. Her husband saw to her special requests, including the gifts of her paintings to her family and a local foundation. Even after her death, the sale of Linda’s paintings helped renovate an old school that now houses a library, an art gallery, classrooms, a piano studio and an auditorium.

Her gravestone bears the image of her artist’s palette, and a rainbow, which represents her favorite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Under her name and dates are engraved the words, “She Painted the World with Kindness,” an epitaph proffered by my daughter. “How perfect,” we all thought. That is exactly what she did.

I drove down a road just the other day that I had not seen since I was eleven or twelve years old, Afton Parkway. The only recognizable feature of the area was the shape of the little town square, the gazebo, and the ancient cannons that still seemed to be foreboding and yet protective of this peculiarly hallowed ground. It’s not really hallowed, of course, but it represents a piece of my childhood that I had not given serious consideration in many, many years. And if childhood memories can be considered a bit sacred, at least to a possessor of them, then this area qualifies as sacred ground to me.

My mother drove me down this same road for five years, once a week, on Saturday mornings. At eleven o’clock, I left my mother and knocked on the door of what I considered a grand house. I was greeted at the door by a rather severe-looking woman with her gray hair always pulled back into a bun. I glimpsed the antique furniture and grandfather clock in the living room, but I always followed the woman straight into the small room on our left, which contained a piano, a bench, and a chair. I took my place on the bench, and the woman, Mrs. Hoffler, took her place on the chair beside me.

“We will begin with the scales,” she would say, and I would dutifully begin with my C major scale. From the age of seven until I was twelve years old, Saturday mornings meant piano lessons with Mrs. Hoffler. She was an exacting teacher, rapping my wrists with a knitting needle she kept in her bun if I dared raise them too high above the keyboard. I took my piano lessons seriously, and I practiced every day, sometimes annoying the other members of my family as I struggled with a difficult passage.

While the wrist rapping would probably cause a cry of child abuse today, I never thought of Mrs. Hoffler as unkind. Strict, yes, but unkind, no. Indeed, many of her gold and red stars still adorn my childhood music books, accompanied by acclaims written in her flowing longhand, “Excellent interpretation of this selection!”

As I became more accomplished, I memorized piano pieces for guild auditions, judged by a jury of renowned piano teachers. I prepared for that audition as if it would gain me a concert in Carnegie Hall. What I really received was a huge certificate with a score and comments. I still have my certificates in my scrapbook, with ratings from excellent to superior. One year, I received the prize Mrs. Hoffler had promised the student who garnered the highest guild audition score, a silver dollar. I was so proud of that silver dollar, but that was not the real gift Mrs. Hoffler had given me.

During those five years of Saturday mornings, I had been introduced to the geniuses of piano composition. I memorized pieces by Mozart, Bach, Brahms and Beethoven. I studied the great talents, such as Dvorak and Grieg, but these were not the only products of my time under Mrs. Hoffler’s tutelage. She had taught me self-discipline, before I knew the meaning of the term. I was the only one who made the choice to sit down at the piano and practice my scales and musical numbers or stretch out on the sofa and watch TV. She taught me the sense of accomplishment that results from practice and mastery of a difficult task.

Even more than these gifts, Mrs. Hoffler opened my eyes to the world of music. If not for her, I might not have taken those college courses in music theory and music appreciation. Perhaps I would not have been accomplished enough to teach the Sunday school children’s choir for many years at my church. My children grew up in a home surrounded by music; popular, sacred and classic. My oldest daughter is a repository of decades of song lyrics; she knows the words to songs of my generation better than I do, as well as the lyrics of her own favorite musicians.

I thought of Mrs. Hoffler recently as I was singing my seven-month-old grandson to sleep. “Stay awake, don’t rest your head,” I crooned to baby Evan. Suddenly I saw the music book before me on Mrs. Hoffler’s piano. She allowed me freedom to play some popular music, as well as the classics, and I had learned every song from Mary Poppins as soon as the music book was published. I started singing, “Doe, a deer, a female deer,” and I recall that the Sound of Music songbook is in my den closet. It won’t be long before I will search those song books out, and tune up my old piano. After all, I don’t have Mrs. Hoffler here in person, but her spirit is still alive, as long as those with whom she shared the love of music pass it along to future generations.

My husband and I were seeking advice from the local Social Security office. Our counselor was a friendly, ex-military gentleman, and he was a classic combination of professionalism and personality. In the middle of our interview, he told my husband, “I’m going to put you on the spot. When were you two married?”

My husband replied, “July 24th, 1976; we remember it because our daughter’s birthday is the day after it, and it was the bicentennial year.”

We were a little surprised by his response. “Wow!” he said. “That’s a long time. What’s your secret?”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “We both have an extremely high tolerance for pain.” The three of us laughed out loud, drawing curious glances from the other cubicle dwellers in the room.

Since that day a few weeks ago, I have repeated my response to friends, knowing they would get a good laugh out of it. But the question has also made me think on a deeper level, “What is our secret? Is there a secret?” We haven’t hit the 50 year mark, as many other couples have, but we are approaching the 35 year mark. The counselor in the Social Security office was impressed by our marital longevity. We later learned in that interview that he had been divorced and re-married several years ago; perhaps that prompted his question. But is there one answer, or perhaps I should ask, is there any answer?

My initial response is that there is no pat answer as to why some marriages endure and others end up in the family court. This question reminds me of the question posed by Willard Scott to the folks who have reached the century mark on the Today Show. “To what do you attribute your longevity?” A white-haired lady of 102 responds that she has never smoked a cigarette nor touched a drop of alcohol in her life. The grey-haired gentleman of 101 years of age claims that a good cigar and a daily dose of scotch contribute to his lengthy lifespan. They both have their pictures on the Smuckers label, but they took totally oppositional paths to reach it.

When I examine our 35 years of marriage, I see many contributing factors to our resilience, but no one outstanding “secret.” Have there been times when one of us could have walked? I suppose some people might have, but I never seriously entertained the thought. I will admit to sleeping on the sofa once or twice when terribly upset, so I cannot respond that couples should “never go to bed angry.” Some anger takes time to go away, and nightfall doesn’t cure all ails.

I believe one thing in our favor is that we took our wedding vows seriously. We meant every single word of “in sickness and health, till death do you part.” We also have a strong faith in God and a similar religious upbringing, which has helped us through a multitude of trials. When our youngest daughter died nearly eight years ago, we read all the literature that warned about the high divorce rate of couples who have lost children. I can’t imagine anyone else in this world who would know our pain like we know each other’s. Why would we turn to an outsider?

We also chose wisely and well, following our hearts and our heads. We were head over heels in love, but we were both greatly aware of the abundance of other character traits each of us brought to this union. I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt, that as much as I loved this physical body of my husband, that I loved his spirit and his heart even more. I knew I had found someone I could trust, someone who was steady and strong as a rock. I believe he felt the same trust in me.

We were equally aware that each of us brought a good sense of humor into this union. My husband is well known for his droll sense of wit, dropping a line into the conversation that leaves folks in stitches. If there is one aspect of marriage that is often overlooked, I would suggest that it might be a sense of humor. Marry someone who makes you laugh, and laugh whenever possible.

Another secret to a long marriage might very well be one that few people would dare to admit – adjusted expectations. Notice I did not say “lowered expectations,” just “adjusted expectations.” When I was dating my husband, I had been given plenty of hints that he was not a big spender or an

overly romantic fellow. Our courtship was not dotted with lavish flowers or extravagant presents. There have been times in thirty-five years of marriage that I have wished for one big extremely romantic gesture, but that is not my husband’s nature. I am reminded of the fable of the fox and the gingerbread man. The gingerbread man knew the nature of the fox when he stepped onto his back to cross the river. Before the fox eats the gingerbread man, he states, “You knew I was a fox when you asked for a ride.” My husband is no fox, but he is still the same conservative country boy that I married; he hasn’t changed midstream.

So, if I were to answer the Social Security counselor

seriously, what would I say? What is our secret? We fell in love with both our hearts and our heads in full agreement. We are both committed to our marriage and our faith as much as we were thirty-five years ago. We both felt, and still feel, a sense of trust in each other. It always helps to have a sense of humor. We have learned to adjust some of our expectations along the way. Neither of us is perfect, but we are perfectly happy to be married to each other. Hopefully, we will make it to the big 50th anniversary mark, but even if death separates us before that, our marriage has been quite a ride.

When I think of today’s throwaway, disposable society with the recent interest in reducing one’s carbon footprint, I cannot help but believe that in many ways my mother-in-law, whom we called Granny, was a few decades ahead of her time. Granny was a product of the Depression, and she grew up with the dictum, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” She followed this philosophy her entire life.

Granny saw nothing unusual in her lifestyle. She was brought up on a farm on which very little was wasted. When her daddy had hog killings, they used to say they used all of the parts of a hog “except for the squeal.” Her family ate what they grew, with occasional trips into town to buy staples such as sugar and flour. They visited a nearby mill to grind their corn, and Granny and her mother churned their own butter.

When she married, she taught her daughters to churn butter. She made her daughters’ dresses out of the feed bags that her husband purchased to feed the livestock. Sometimes she would show him which material she needed so that she could finish a certain dress. She picked, froze, canned and pickled vegetables most of the summer so that her family could enjoy them all winter. Her sweet pickles are a cherished memory, and there is not a store brand that could come close to her recipe.

Granny did not believe in throwing things out that might be of use, yet she was not a pack-rat. Her house was so neat and clean that it sparkled, and she saw her house as a reflection of her own values and love for her family. In the living room closet, however, there resided crayons, story books and games that had belonged to her children, kept for future generations to enjoy. My own children loved to read the same books Granny had read to their daddy, particularly Bad Mousie, and to play with the ancient Tiddly-Winks and Mr. Potato Head games. As a young mother, I offered to replace the old crayons with shiny new Crayolas, but Granny saw nothing wrong with the stubs of crayons, and her grandchildren never seemed to mind them.

She was recycling in a sense before the term came into the popular vernacular. She entertained both of my daughters with Sears and Roebuck’s catalogs. Granny and granddaughter would cut and paste pictures from the catalog onto construction paper, making collages on various topics. Sometimes my daughter would come home with her overnight suitcase packed full of clippings from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. My daughter loved this activity as much as every shiny new toy advertised on television before Christmas. She is now thirty years old, but she still has the treasured overnight bag.

Granny would hang plastic zippered bags on a hook over the sink. If the contents had not been too potent, she would rinse the bag out, let it dry and use it again. For a person who never heard the term, “carbon footprint,” Granny’s sense of waste-not, want-not, made her a thoughtful citizen of the world before it became the fashion.

Granny used the same pots and pans her entire married life. Some credit must be given to the manufacturers of the well-used soup pots, frying pans and sauce pans because few of today’s pots could have withstood the heavy use Granny demanded of them for nearly sixty years. Granny used those pots and pans to feed as many as ten to twelve people every Sunday, and Granny’s Sunday dinners were the equivalent of some people’s holiday feasts.

A few of her pots and pans began to show some age, and a well-meaning daughter-in-law offered a replacement at Christmas, but the shiny new pot would be returned or pushed to the back of the cabinet. “What do I need this for?” Granny would ask. “There’s nothing wrong with my old sauce pan.” We would sigh and exchange knowing glances, having been defeated once again in the battle to update Granny’s kitchen.

The one item in the kitchen that spoke most strongly of Granny’s reluctance to part with her old possessions was the stirring spoon. When I married into the family, the spoon was already worn down on one side; only the top part of the spoon still maintained the oval shape. At the time of her death, it had literally been stirred into half a spoon. When I first saw it, I innocently asked Granny, “Would you like a new set of stirring spoons for Christmas?”

“No, I don’t need a new spoon.” Granny was adamant. There was nothing wrong with that spoon or any of her others. In fact, all of her kitchen possessions were just fine. As a matter of fact, everything she owned was just fine, in her opinion, which made her the hardest person to shop for in the entire world. Other than a housedress from Sears, bought according to her specific instructions, I don’t believe I ever bought her anything in my married life that she truly needed or even wanted.

Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from the stirring spoon. To her family, that spoon represented hours and hours of labor, cooking and feeding her hungry brood. It also represented the effort she made to keep her family close. There is nothing like sitting down to eat with each other on a Sunday afternoon to keep those lines of communication open.

In a time of economic upheaval and hardship, we could all practice a little more frugality. Perhaps we could all use a few more Sunday dinners with the family. We might each learn a lesson from Granny, a product of the Depression, who made things “do,” even a long-handled stirring spoon.

I live in a small town, a really small town. We have one stoplight, one drugstore, one pizza parlor, a 7-11, one grocery store and one restaurant. In the last few years, we have acquired a Subway and a Dollar General, which means we have moved up in the world. I moved to this town 35 years ago, right out of college, to take a teaching job at the local school. I married a local fellow the following year, raised my daughters here, and now my daughter, son-in-law and new grandson live less than a mile away.

There is one thing about small town life that I believe holds true, whether the small town is in South Carolina, Vermont or Kansas. I learned this quickly when I moved to this town from the suburbs where I grew up. There is really nothing more important to the populace of a small town than being “in the know.” When I moved to town, party lines were still in existence, and my mother-in-law shared one with one of the local gossips. There was little that went on in this small town that the folks on the party line did not only know but helped to broadcast.

Now, to be fair, much of the news these ladies enjoyed was uplifting, positive news. Louise’s daughter was getting married, Muriel’s son was going into the Army, or Olivia’s granddaughter had just graduated from the university. Spreading this type of news was just part of everyday life, whether on the party line or in the cashier line at the grocery store.

But it’s the other news that spread through the party lines like wildfire. “Did you hear? Augusta and Tom are getting a divorce.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that, but it doesn’t surprise me one bit. He’s always had a wandering eye. What about that scandal with the new teacher and her behavior at the party last weekend? Have you heard about that?”

Your imaginations can probably take it from there. What would small town life be without the local gossip-mongers and rumor mills? I was not used to the scrutiny of small town life when I first moved here fresh from college. I remember being appalled that my students not only knew where I lived, but they watched my house to see whom I was dating. The eyes were everywhere.

When I married a local boy, I was informed that one lady in town always marked the wedding dates of the local girls on the calendar, then marked the date nine months later to see if they had been pregnant at their weddings. I was dumbfounded, but I shouldn’t have been shocked. Many of these ladies had nothing better to do than make every one else’s lives their business. Many were widows who were retired or had never worked outside of the home; they thrived on gossip like a baby thrives on milk. Gossip kept them in touch with the outside world, and any news was better than no news.

My generation was not much better than my mother-in-law’s when it came to being “in the know.” The main difference is that we were busier. Most of us were working full time jobs and raising children. No one I knew had time for long telephone conversations. We managed to chat while attending school functions, before and after church services or in the grocery line. I have not been entirely innocent of the “need to know” mentality, but I have made an effort to minimize its importance, and there has never been a calendar in my house to mark down the local girls’ wedding dates.

Thirty-five years later, I have seen many changes in this town. The small grocery stores have been replaced by one large one. The independent bank has been taken over by a major institution. But if one thing remains, it is the importance of being “in the know.” Nothing hurts a woman more than to feel as if she were left “out of the loop.” Some have become a little irate when a member of the church died, and no one informed them.

There is a sense of caring and community in a small town that people in big cities probably never experience, but it comes with a price. If people crave anonymity and privacy, they should not live in a small town. Once someone settles within the town limits, he or she becomes fair game.

On the plus side, if a tragedy befalls you in a small town, you will more than likely be inundated with flowers, phone calls, pound cake, fried chicken and country ham. There are many times when it is good to know small town people and to have them know and care about you. I can think of worse places to live and worse people to live among than this small town and these small town folks. I’ll trade a little privacy for a lot of concern, caring and compassion any day.

By the middle of January, many of the best-intentioned New Year’s resolutions have bitten the dust. It is too cold to run in the morning, too dark in the afternoon, the couch is much more inviting than the tread mill, and homemade macaroni and cheese is more comforting than a grilled chicken salad when the chill of January arrives. In my opinion, January is simply not the best month to make resolutions. I have an alternative to offer, one that fits more closely with my own personal emotional and physical needs.

Think about it. December has the distinction of being the darkest month of the year, with the winter solstice on the 21st. These are the shortest days of the year, and those of us who love sunshine and warm weather would probably be quite depressed in December were it not for Christmas tree lights and decorations. While the candles and lights remind us of the light of the world, the coming of the Savior, they are also a very appropriate way to light up our homes in the darkness of winter. I find special delight in coming home from Christmas shopping to find that my husband has plugged in our candles and our lighted wreath, making my home cheery and welcoming.

When we set New Years resolutions for ourselves, we are attempting to make changes at what is, for many of us, a very emotional time of year. I take my Christmas decorations down the first week of January, usually after the arrival of the Wise Men, around January 6th. Nothing lights up the darkest month of the year like Christmas tree lights and candles, but in January, they are packed away. Sometimes my post-Christmas depression rivals some women’s post-partum depression. I have been known to shed a few tears while packing away favorite ornaments. Nothing looks drearier than the post-Christmas house when the tree and lights are once again stored in their plastic bins in the attic.

Now, I ask you, is this a good time to start a diet? Is this a time to make over our personalities? I think not. January should be called Narnia, after the C.S. Lewis magical kingdom where it was “always winter, and never Christmas.” After New Years Day, there are no real holidays to celebrate until Valentine’s Day. The only way to survive January is to be well-armed with homemade vegetable soup, popcorn, hot chocolate, favorite movies and comfy blankets.

February is no time for resolutions, either. February is usually our worst month of weather with the coldest temperatures and highest chance of snow. All of these are great for the ski resorts and the snow bunnies, but for the sun lovers, February is drab. Not even Valentine’s Day can salvage that month. Even while most of us do not suffer from serious cases of seasonal affective disorder, short days and lack of sunshine can cause the winter blahs and mild cases of cabin fever.

Logically, we should set our resolutions to begin in spring. After all, spring is the season for renewal. It is easier to make resolutions and keep them when the days begin to lengthen. The first crocuses of spring bring us hope, encouragement that warmer weather is approaching. Resolutions happen more naturally when one is cleaning closets, washing windows and planting flowers. Spring is nature’s season for renewal; it just makes sense to me that humans should follow.

So, I propose changing New Year’s resolutions to spring resolutions. Resolve to eat better, walk farther, visit the gym more often; but do it at a time of year when the world is awakening, flowers are blooming and the sun is shining. For now, go light a fire in the fireplace, heat up a cup of cocoa, wrap up in your snuggly robe and watch Titanic. It’s January. Be easy on yourself.

“Ouch!” yelled Iris.

“What was that?” asked Amanda.

“I’m not sure,” said Meredith. The three girls scoured the pavement for evidence of the material that had pelted them as they returned from their walk on the beach. There was no question; they had been assaulted by chocolate chip cookies.

“Sorry!” boomed a chorus of voices from a deck on a nearby house. “We didn’t think they would hurt.” The three teenage boys scrambled down the outside steps of the deck and further apologized to the girls. Quickly, the girls reassured them that the cookies had not caused any real damage. Introductions were made. The boys were from New Jersey; the girls were from Virginia. All were at the Outer Banks of North Carolina for spring break with their parents.

Amanda, Iris and Meredith brought the boys to our cottage for parental approval. We three moms agreed that the boys could visit and watch TV in the second-floor den as long as we moms were home. The teens enjoyed TV, snacks and drinks and made plans for a walk on the beach the following day. The next few days were a delightful combination of icy plunges in the neighborhood pool, long walks on the beach and dashes into the chilly waters of the Atlantic. The six teens enjoyed their week together and returned to their homes armed with e-mail addresses and promises to keep in touch.

Amazingly, several did keep in touch. One guy in particular, Frank, e-mailed the girls regularly and sent letters by regular mail occasionally. Throughout their high school years and the first year of college, Frank remained a frequent correspondent. They sent photos and news of proms and graduations across the miles. Whenever I brought in a letter with his return address, I would give it to my daughter with the comment, “It’s from the cookie tosser.”

In August of 2003, tragedy struck. My daughter, Amanda, was killed in an automobile accident. My family and her friends were totally devastated. Meredith e-mailed Frank in New Jersey with the news of Amanda’s death. He sent us a thoughtful card of condolence, mentioning not only his grief at Amanda’s loss, but the friendship and comfort he had found throughout the years in her letters and e-mails. We were humbled by many such letters from high school and college friends, amazed at the impact our 19-year-old daughter’s loving spirit and zest for life had had on so many of her peers.

The first few months of grief passed in the blur that is caused by our bodies’ reaction to pain; the numbness, the shock, the anger – there was no mental or emotional stress that my family and I did not feel. Everything we had read about in the books on grief was true and present, perhaps not in the prescribed order, but all the expected results of trauma were with us and in us. We were surviving, one day at a time.

We dreaded the coming holiday season, as we had never dreaded one before. My husband and I had previously endured the first holiday without a parent, first my dad, then his dad, then his mom; this was different. We made plans to visit our other daughter, Melissa, at her home in Myrtle Beach. We could not face the thought of being in our home on Christmas Day without Amanda.

About a week before Christmas, my husband brought in a box along with the usual assortment of Christmas cards. The return address was in New Jersey. I drew a blank. Who did I know in New Jersey? I opened the box to find a Christmas card from the cookie tosser, Frank, and two dozen chocolate chip cookies. In his card, he once again shared warm memories of my beautiful daughter and the joy that knowing her had brought into his life.

Every year since Amanda’s death, my husband and I have received a Christmas card from the cookie tosser, along with another batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. More importantly, he sends us a reminder that Amanda’s loving nature and kind spirit are still remembered, even by those who knew her only for a short while. And even in the depths of grief, that knowledge brings us joy.

I was perusing a magazine, while at a beach cottage last spring, when I first saw it. It seemed so simple, yet it drew me in, it spoke to me. It was a full page photograph of three white-haired ladies splashing in the surf. The photographer’s expertise was impressive, capturing the spray of the water, the blue of the skies, the very fabric of their bathing suits. But I am no photography scholar; it was not the artist’s technical skill that seized my imagination. What captured my attention was the ability to express the zest, the smiles, the absolute joy of the moment that these older ladies were experiencing. I walked across the room to show the picture to my daughter and then to my husband. “This,” I said, “is how I want to feel when I am old.”

I wanted to take the magazine home with me, simply because that picture made such an impression on me. But I didn’t. I didn’t need to. That picture still pops into my mind every now and then. The ladies’ white hair gleaming in the sunlight, and their infectious smiles flash upon my “inward eye” just as Wordsworth’s daffodils appeared to him. Were the ladies lifelong friends? Were they all residents at the same retirement home? Did they all own splendid cottages along this rocky coast? I will never know. It doesn’t really matter.

None of these ladies seemed particularly beautiful. Their bodies had rounded with age, their waistlines protruded rather than indented. Their faces were creased with wrinkles. No doubt they awoke that morning with some of the aches and pains that old age seems to bring to us all. But what the photograph shows is that they still had the zest for living. They had not forgotten how to play, and they had not lost their exuberance. That is what I long for – I want to feel that zest for living, I envy their joie de vivre.

How do I capture that exultation in life, when I am still living in the shadow lands? I am not quite so much in the dark as I was, but I realize I am still in the shadows. In a few days, it will be the seventh anniversary of my 19-year old daughter’s death, a split-second of time that plunged me into the valley of the shadow where only the grieving dare to go. And only a few of us make it out.

I know of a local woman who shut out life completely after her teen-age daughter was killed by a drunk driver. No one in town ever saw her again. Her husband did the grocery shopping. She quit attending church. She became a recluse.

People more experienced in the ways of grief attempted to soothe me. “Time will make it easier,” one lady told me after church. “Before long, your daughter will be just a pleasant memory.”

I was not in the mood for reassurance. “I don’t want her memory,” I replied. “I want her here. Now. In the flesh. I want her back.” The lady didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t expect a response. I hadn’t received a response from God Himself, so I certainly wasn’t counting on one from a mere human.

The woman’s comment did contain an element of truth; I just wasn’t ready to hear it. Time does assuage the pain. Life helps to assuage the pain. But the grieving must choose life. There were many times after my daughter’s accident when I thought about the grieving mothers who refused to get out of bed for months after losing a child. But I chose to get up every day. I remember reading an article about grief that was entitled, “First, you tie your shoes.” How true. First, we grieving people must choose to continue our own existences here on earth.

Friends and family also help in those first steps out of the darkness. One of my husband’s friends just came over at night and made conversation with us. Hearing news of the community and local school helped us see beyond our pain, if only for a little while. My family and friends invited me to go shopping with them or to sample a new restaurant.

Day by day, month by month, life itself helps ease the pain. I had started a new job; I was teaching seventy-five students. There were people who needed my skills. All of those demands helped pull me out of the abyss.

Then three of my girlfriends and I planned a cross-country trip. The natural and spiritual wonders I experienced on that trip brought me moments of joy I did not think would be possible for me again. Nature helped bring me out of the shadow lands and into the light.

Last year, I took a trip to England. That was another item on my bucket list. I had been an English major in college, and visiting the birthplace of Shakespeare and Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey were just two of the highlights of a trip that brought me closer to rapture. I wept with joy and grief on my last day in London when our taxi passed the Queen’s carriage, with its royal insignia and prancing steeds. I knew I might never pass that way again, but I was thankful for the experience.

A person cannot travel forever – at least not a person with my modest income. I have experienced great joy from my travels, but the joy of the ladies in that photograph did not come merely from new scenery. Their faces expressed such delight in the present moment, in allowing themselves to feel, truly feel, the cool water, the ocean breeze. That is the type of joy one may find in any location. That is the exuberance I truly seek. Let me be mindful of the joys of this day, wherever I may be. Let me be fully present in this moment. Let me feel the optimism and love of my much-anticipated grandson when he arrives this fall.

I have tied my shoes. I have started the walk. May I continue the journey from the shadow lands of grief into the light of joy. Grant me the exuberance of the white-haired ladies, and give me the presence of mind to be grateful for it.

There is a well-known comedian whose signature line is, “Here’s Your Sign!” When my husband of 32 years and I started dating, there were many signs that should have warned me what lay ahead. I was given many hints during our rather short courtship (less than one year) about the true nature of the man, but love had rendered me rather blind.

The first sign that should have grabbed my attention was the setting of our first date. Most couples think back to their first date at a lovely restaurant, perhaps one with candlelit tables and soft music in the background. My first date with my husband began with this romantic proposal, “Suppose I bring over some steaks to your place Saturday night, and you can cook them up with a salad and baked potato?”

Now, ladies, this was a sign that should have sent me running, shouting, “Cheap! The man is cheap!” But no, this did not deter me. I thought it was rather cute at the time, and I willingly agreed to broil the steaks and fix the salad. Our first date was in my tiny kitchen, in my equally tiny house that I shared with a fellow teacher. She had gone home for the weekend, leaving the two of us to enjoy a simple meal and the opportunity to become better acquainted.

Another of our early dates was his Sunday school class Christmas party held at his teacher’s house. Even in my hey-day, I was never a real head-turner, but on this occasion, I definitely made heads spin! When I walked through the door with my date, every head in the room swiveled towards my direction. At first, I thought my slip was showing or my blouse was unbuttoned. I soon found out that my boyfriend had not dated anyone in several years, and all of his friends were in total shock when he walked in with me. “Wayne has a girlfriend!” The room was abuzz. This should have been a sign too, a sign that this is not a talkative fellow.

We started having real dates after the Sunday school class supper. I suppose I had passed muster with his friends, and he actually began taking me to some nice restaurants. We also spent time with some of his friends who were newlyweds or had young children. Watching my boyfriend spend time with their children unveiled a tenderness I found both touching and promising.

Things seemed to be progressing smoothly in our courtship until the school year ended. My roommate wanted her house to herself again, and I moved back home in June. My boyfriend had to drive more than thirty miles one way to see me each weekend. After two weeks of separation, he popped the question, or at least he made a suggestion. I believe the actual statement was, “Well, we might as well get married.” I agreed. We might as well. There was no romantic declaration of undying love, no kneeling down on one knee, no sparkling diamond in a black velvet box. We simply drove to Best Products and chose a simple solitaire together.

Now, this occasion should have sent red flags flying! This was a preview of a life without romantic declarations, grand gestures or sentimental notions. I paid no mind. We jumped headlong into wedding preparations, chose a date one month away, started looking for a place to live and then bought the basic furnishings for it. I purchased a wedding dress off the rack at Smith & Welton’s, had my bridesmaids’ dresses made out of a peach fabric that was all the rage in the seventies, and my husband and his friends had their tuxedoes fitted. It rained on my wedding day, but that sign we both ignored.

We honeymooned at the Peaks of Otter, a mountain resort about three hours from our home. Most of my friends were going to the Poconos or the Caribbean for their honeymoons, but we went to a back-to-nature-type resort that did not have television or phones in the room. The setting was lovely, and I remember thinking that it was rather romantic. It should have been a sign that this man does not like to travel more than three hours from home!

We then left the Peaks of Otter to visit Dixie Caverns. We spent the night in a Holiday Inn which had phones, and we both called home to speak with our families. That was a mistake. My husband’s family relayed a message from the youth baseball team that my husband helped coach. The boys had made it into the tournament. Could he come home early and help? Now, this was a sign which I should not have ignored. I probably should have ranted and raved about cutting our honeymoon short to coach a tournament ballgame.

I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t make a stink. Now that I reflect on all the signs during our courtship and early married days, I believe I saw the signs for what they truly were. My husband was pretty much the same fellow in 1976 that he is today, with the addition of a few grey hairs. We have lived a life that has reflected many of those early signs, a life of modest purchases, little extravagance, daily work and chores, and occasional vacations. We raised two daughters in whom we attempted to instill an appreciation for the little things in life that bring so much joy.

Perhaps I read the signs correctly after all. The signs were all there that this man was a man I could trust, not only with my heart, but with my life and my future. This man was a man who would be a dependable father to my children. This man may not bring me flowers very often, but he brings me joy. After thirty-two years of marriage, he still makes me laugh, and my spirit picks up when I hear his footsteps enter the door. Yes, I think I read the signs. Despite all signs to the contrary, this man would be my true love.