60 Allison Truths

Each birthday I celebrate by taking account of my life. This year is sort of a big one—the kind where people gently ask you how you are doing? So, in the spirit of it all… here are 60 Allison truths.

1. I am happiest making others happy

2. The more glitter and confetti, the better

3. Friends are my life’s trophies

4. Just as soon as you get pretty OK at something, it always seems to change

5. Being a parent never ends. It just changes

6. I am a collector … hearts, glass bottles, garden trinkets, great coffee mugs but my best collection of all are the people in my world!

7. Anything and everything I love brings me both happiness and sadness.

8. Thank you notes still matter

9. Standing under a tall tree is life changing

10. Feeding birds is pure happiness

11. Rescuing a treasure from someone’s garbage is thrilling

12. Volunteering is the definition of a win-win

13. Music directly affects my heart

14. I was born to be a teacher

15. Being grateful isn’t always easy

16. My phone is both my friend and enemy

17. Chalkboards make me smile

18. Recycling is a passion of mine

19. Hugging cures sadness

20. I actually like my “glitter” gray hair

21. You’ll still find me in the kitchen baking if I’m sad

22. Morning coffee, the color of a paper bag, is still my jam

23. Pastina is my go-to sick food

24. Social media brings me closer to some and further from others

25. “No” used properly, is the move! 

26. I still do not enjoy gambling

27. And still despise mayo

28. I believe in angels

29. Making friends is my superpower

30. I continue to talk to my plants and backyard birds

31. Don’t believe I ever want to live without a dog

32. Basement stairs without backs still petrify me

33. It’s a Wonderful Life is still my top movie

34. Disney songs reign on my playlist

35. I am braver than I ever thought I was

36. Twinkle lights are magic

37. I think of the people I love more than they might imagine

38. In the game of football, I cannot root against friends, even though it would be beneficial

39. I take notes at funerals—for future reference 

40. I drive in hopes of letting someone merge or cross

41. Conversely, when the person in front of me steals my opportunity, I get angry

42. My sleeping pattern has returned to my toddler years

43. Now it seems I am forgetting I’ve forgotten. That’s progress, right?

44. Perhaps my give-a-damn levels are rising alongside my years

45. I greet my home every time I drive in our driveway

46. The people I chose to surround myself with is stronger than any force field

47. I still avoid stepping on sidewalk cracks

48. My most productive hours are between 4 a.m.-11 a.m.!

49. A stadium filled with fans singing The Star-Spangled Banner makes me cry

50. I love being a sister, daughter, aunt, niece, and cousin

51. I am an empty nester for a third time now. It’s easier this time

52. I absolutely love a nice salad…and crispy french fries

53. I appreciate the sunrise more than the sunset

54. Words run through my veins

55. I adore time with people I respect, but also cherish time alone

56. Violence and hatred shake me to my core

57. 73 and sunny is my favorite weather day

58. I admit it, I wear Birkenstocks now

59. I cannot tolerate meanness 

60. I’m far from perfect … but I work on getting better each year!


I am beyond overwhelmed, touched and delighted at how many people choose to love me, and am eternally grateful for each and every single one of you….

with love from your birthday gal,



Reality Check-in

I feel it. I know it’s there. It’s a hint of what’s to come perhaps. A peek into my future. Neither good nor bad, just is. Picture yourself hearing a distant rumble before a powerful thunderstorm rolling in. It causes you to pause and question whether something really happened or you’ve just imagined it. That, my friends, is the very moment it’s already begun.  

A month or so ago I heard the distant rumble. I attended our Annual Kick-off Dinner for the football Coaches Significant Others. It’s a chance to meet new staff additions, hug the ones ya’ know and catch up before the season charges in. Always enjoyable because football coaches tend to choose life partners who are independent, efficient, adaptable, smart, strong, resilient and generally exude positivity. Yes, I may be a bit biased, but I also know this to be true through years of experience.  

But with those years comes the “honor” of being the oldest on our staff. Yes, I know my husband has been coaching over 30 years. I am keenly aware most of the other coach’s children attend school. I see I am the only gray haired one in group pics. I notice my game day attire doesn’t particularly match up. This isn’t a pity blog, though. It’s merely a reality check.  

I remember starting out as a coach’s wife and being drawn to the older wives and the comfort, motherly hugs and sage advice they shared. It seemed they always knew just what to say. They were wise, witty and had an air of calm about them. Or was it a don’t give a sh*t attitude. Perhaps it was a combination of both, but I stand in their shoes today. Like them, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve survived many moves, said goodbye to many friends and neighbors, acclimated to new communities and attended too many football games to count.   

It’s an honor and privilege to step into this role, but it comes with a price. That price is aging and it hit me dead in the face on a trip with fellow football team spouses. We boarded a bus for an away game, shared some bubbly and wonderful conversation. Our first stop had to be a bathroom. There were about 11 of us and just one working bathroom. A man walked up to see us in this forever line, and me, being my kind self said, “We’ll give you Headsies if you like?” And with that one sentence as he was eagerly running away, I drew a deep aged line in the sand.

Mind you, not a bad one, as we’re all still laughing about it to this day, but one there was no turning back from for me. I was now the old lady who says unintentionally inappropriate stuff. The stuff that was perfectly innocent in my day, but not these days. You see, “headsies” was a kind gesture of letting someone get ahead of you if there was a long line. Today it is an entirely different type of kind gesture. Times and language change. Every generation at some point realizes the history they were taught in school sometimes becomes defunct or worse proven invalid and very politically incorrect when spouted later in life.   

As that young girl I also wished for time to pass quickly so I could grow up and sleepover at a friend’s house. I dreamt of the day I would finally get my period like all my friends and wear a bra. I saved eagerly for my very own car and a place to live on my own. Most of my life I couldn’t wait to be a teacher, wife and mother. But with my 60th birthday on the horizon, I’m seeing age differently. There is absolutely no way I am living 60 more years and therefore wishing now for time to slow down.   

Are the rumbles I hear getting louder and more frequent, or are those my knees creaking? Am I working out harder or is getting sore just easier? Has my hearing changed a tiny bit or have I finally mastered the art of selective hearing?  Am I getting more forgetful or do I just really enjoy retracing my steps all day long? Is my ability to retell the same story to the same person the work of a skillful torturer or someone proficient in forgetfulness? And who knew I had such a knack for creating new passwords every single time I log into my endless accounts?  

As with life, there are pros and cons. I am healthy and happy therefore fortunate to be alive and aging. I work out and go walking most days. I have people I love to share my stories with and who love to listen. I move and go more than I sit. Sure, I don’t always remember why I go upstairs, but today, at least I’m still climbing those stairs.   

Moral:  Aging requires a new level from you. You’re gonna have to embrace change to get to the other side.   

 

just being realistic,   

A little thing you should know: A family friend passed away and left behind a simple black lock box. I was so intrigued by the concept and what might be inside, but alas it was filled with just important paperwork. I’ve decided to follow suit, except I plan to paint flowers all over my box and fill it with not just the important stuff but letters and mementos for those I love, untold stories and any other things I deem worthy. That is, unless I forget. 

Another thing: Love and gratitude to all the beautiful football faces I included in this blog xo, allison

Something borrowed- something blue

The first wedding blog I attempted was absolutely lovely—just like our son and daughter-in-law’s wedding. Yet, it was missing all the bits- the ones that brought angst, uncomfortable situations, difficult decisions and potentially hurt feelings. For me, balancing the traditions I grew up with versus those of the younger generation were at times uncomfortable. In my day, we followed traditional wedding guidelines but this generation questions everything including those traditions. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade sharing this experience with them for anything, but the moment the ring slid on our daughter-in-law’s finger the struggles began. 

photos courtesy of Abbe Foreman Photography

Abbe Foreman Photography

They tirelessly searched for a unique intimate wedding venue that offered both outdoor and indoor space to no avail. That is, until they stepped foot onto Appleford Estate. A beautiful 300-year-old stone mansion tucked into a quiet residential neighborhood on the Philadelphia Main Line. Its acreage loaded with weeping willow trees alongside a pond, an arboretum, waterfall and endless, yet meticulous, gardens. Now they had their dream venue, a wedding date and the solid number of guests that could be invited.

That meant making a list and checking it not just once or twice but a hundred times! Being a rule follower and worrying about hurting people’s feelings made this my worst part. Apparently, these days being a family member does not guarantee an invitation. A meaningful pre-existing relationship was their requirement before an invite was to be considered. I only pushed back a few times, feeling excluding certain people was, as my dear friend always says, “Not worth the stain!”  Truth be told, the kids had the right idea all along and I learned a very important life lesson. Traditions can and sometimes should be broken. What helped us all agree on the toughest decisions was this singular question, “When you see them at your wedding will they make you smile from the inside out?” It was after all, their wedding, not ours.

With venue and guest list done it was time to focus on the Gift Registry. I had anticipated a registry filled with housewares and such. Instead, it was a comprehensive list of experiences. Wine tastings, pasta making, air & train tickets, hotels, etc.  I felt awkward they were basically asking for money. They felt since they were already living together, they would much prefer and appreciate honeymoon memories they might not be able to experience without the support of those they loved. As their “gifts” rolled in, it was clear these two and their generation were indeed onto something brilliant.

Somewhere along the way, the topic of a Day of Wedding Coordinator came up. As a gal who loves a good themed party and attention to details … I thought we could do without. I WAS A GAZILLION PERCENT WRONG. Jess began as the final month pressure rose. Our first meeting she listened with a full heart, kept us all on task, had solutions for all questions and handled our concerns like she was taming a tiger—calm yet strong.  Wedding day she donned angel wings and a Ringmaster’s hat. She masterfully reassured nerves, juggled strong personalities, kept us hydrated and fed, appeared magically when needed most and managed our wedding day timeline like a pro. She was a wedding game changer without a doubt. 

Abbe Foreman Photography

As for my MOG dress. I already covered this in a prior blog (click this link), but here are the promised loose ends. After months of stewing, I selected the dress my friends, family and most importantly, the bride chose. They loved Krystle, the one I thought was too bright, too risqué and perhaps too much. She wasn’t. What she was though was comfortable, beautiful and made it easy to find me in the crowd. Poor gal is still recovering in a heap on my bathroom floor. 


I can relate. As the night came to an end, guests went back to their lives and days weren’t filled with lists, jobs and planning, I couldn’t help but feel blueish. As mother of the groom, I was beyond happy and couldn’t love our daughter-in-law any more, even if I tried really, really hard. But I knew though a new chapter was beginning so too one was ending. Blueish hung around a bit longer than I had anticipated and left me dazed and flitting between elated and exhausted. But as special packages in the form of texts, phone calls and pictures arrived from loved ones I very slowly returned to my natural shade of happy.

Abbe Foreman Photography

Abbe Foreman Photography

Your true blue friend,  

allison

Abbe Foreman Photography

Moral: Just as I said in my wedding toast, “…choose your people carefully and wisely, because it takes a village to maneuver all life throws your way.”

A little thing I think you should know: A wedding is all about the personal touches. Hotel boxes for our out-of-town guests. Personal handwritten letters from the bride and groom waiting for each guest at their seat. Rosemary infused olive oil in glass bottles as wedding favors. Zeus, their dog, was the ring bearer. Tables names depicting places with special meaning to the couple. The ceremony was led by the groom’s uncle in English and bride’s sister in Portuguese, so all the guests could follow along in their native language. Homemade traditional Portuguese dessert Brigadeiro was served. The night ended with each guest taking home a late-night snack from the newlywed's favorite bagel store at the Jersey Shore. All those details took endless hours and people to execute but will forever live on in the hearts of those who shared in their special day.

Abbe Foreman Photography

Abbe Foreman Photography

Abbe Foreman Photography

Abbe Foreman Photography

It's the Final Countdown

If you have football family blood running through your veins I’d bet anything you understand this musical reference. If you don’t, let me help you. This song pays homage to the final week of summer vacation for the man of our house. He goes by husband and dad in our home, but in one week’s time he’ll be answering to Coach pretty much all the time. Please take a moment to listen to this perfect little ditty.

See, this is the last week of his summer hiatus before he returns to his job as a full-time football coach. So for all intents and purposes, this week marks the end of summertime for our family as a complete unit. 

Check your calendar, it’s a thing people! I should know because this year marks my 27th final countdown. Yet each year it somehow sneaks up on me. Usually it’s the comments that get me, “You know, this weekend is probably the last time I’ll be able to go out for dinner until next year.” Or, “We better do that this week. You know this is my last week, right?” Or, “This’ll be the last time I take out the garbage.” It may sound like am taking literary liberties here, but I promise you that I’m not.

2019 family vacation to Cabo San Lucas

Why it catches me off guard is a conundrum. I see the fall-scented candles starting to line the shelves at the mall. I can smell the extra cinnamon in the air at our local coffee shop. I am sure the other morning walking our dog I felt a slight chill in the air. Oh, and of course I noticed our 2019-2020 season schedule was released the other day. But, it’s amazing how our family can get caught up in the new norm of having him around full time. We jam pack this special time with our treasured family vacation. Often we road trip to visit family and friends. We try to start and complete a few projects around our home with his help. In other words, we get comfortable having him back around the house. So I suppose it is a good thing it still catches me off guard. 

Our week began innocently enough tuning into the 2019 Wimbledon Championship Men’s Singles match. What was to be a backdrop to our lazy Sunday morning turned into a match of historic proportions and a 4-hour, 57-minute commitment. You should know I am a one sport gal. My heart only has room for one sport and I choose football—more specifically the Philadelphia Eagles. After all, they graciously employ my husband and in turn provide us a wonderful home and life we truly love. The Philadelphia Eagles organization is an extension of our family and so all of my heart is fully committed to them. 

Oh how I empathize with Mirka Federer during her husband’s match

Oh how I empathize with Mirka Federer during her husband’s match

But, this tennis match ambushed me. The camera panned the crowd and settled on the players family members. In a nano second I felt their stress, angst and sense of helplessness run amuck in my body. Moms desperately kissing good luck charms hanging from their necks. Wives running their hands through their coiffed hair and picking apart their manicured fingernails. My heart raced and my anxiety increased and I morphed into my emotionally vested sport watching self. I pounded the countertop, cheered emphatically for my guy and fist pumped the sky. In other words, I was all in. My husband was literally stunned. While I was thoroughly engrossed on the match my husband was focused on me. In 27 years of marriage he had never seen this side of me before. You may be wondering how in the world this is possible. Because he is always on the field coaching and I am always either in the stands or at home watching when my Incredible Hulk persona takes over me. Lucky for us both, I look really good in green.

And I can relate to the original HULK-Bill Bixby

So, as this countdown week creeps closer to zero I took a quiet moment alone to listen to my heart and assess the season ahead. I am hopeful yet cautious. I am excited for the promise of what is possible. I am indeed rejuvenated and ready to tackle another football season. I am prepared. And in the background I hear, “Allison, can you cut my hair today? It’s my last one for awhile, so let’s cut it very short.”

XOXO,

A little thing you should know: I truly hope all my fellow coaches’ wives have stored enough rays of sunshine and wonderful memories for their family to last the long, always exhausting and emotionally draining upcoming season. May you have more wins than losses, smiles than frowns and cheers than jeers!

Searching for Middle Ground

A few months ago, I traveled to Florida, and it got me thinking. I’ve been visiting the Sunshine State my whole life. I can remember my grandparents parading me around their Senior complex like a prized possession. I can taste the meals my grandma taught me how to cook in her kitchen. I was lucky enough to accompany my Aunt and Uncle as their babysitter on a few family vacations. And surprisingly enough, I can even recall a few bits of my epic Spring Break trips. But always dear to me was when my husband and I took our children to Walt Disney World.   

It's changed from Baby Oil to SPF 50. Bikinis to tankinis. Carry-ons filled with kid friendly entertainment items to now just my computer. I’ve sat in pools amongst senior citizens chattering about the good ole days and way too warm kiddie pools. Now you’ll find me in a quiet, shaded corner.  

This most recent trip was two-fold—first bit was relaxing with my husband after a very long football season. We relaxed on the beach, ate delicious meals with friends, rode bikes on the boardwalk and it was really nice.   

The second part was visiting with my mom and sister to catch up on quality time, too. Unfortunately, my mom's husband was not faring too well, so lending a helping hand was the priority. Caring for someone who isn’t well is both physically and mentally exhausting. On our drive across the state, I planned to switch from relaxing to supporting mode. Not so much, as cars were traveling 85-90 mph jockeying for position until the next sudden traffic stop. Feeling overwhelmed, I slid over to the middle lane and that’s when it hit me—this drive is just like my life.  

During that five-hour drive I noticed everyone, everything and everywhere seemed to have changed, including me. The roads are bigger, wider and more complicated. Gas and toll prices are so much higher. I know what you’re thinking: Allison, you've changed and are older too. But I’m not talking about another birthday candle kind of old. I’m talking about the getting older that changes your life and can complicate things, too.   

The four days spent with my mom and her husband gave me a front-row seat to that kind of getting older. I’m not here to say it’s all doom and gloom, but definitely a jarring wake-up call. One day you’re scheduling golf matches and dinners out. A few months later its doctor appointments, trips to the bathroom and eating home because it’s just too much effort to leave the house.   

I see tiny glimpses of this happening in my life. I’ve taken to going to bed earlier and enjoying waking before the sun rises. That means dinners are earlier too. And if I am being honest, sometimes lunch happens at 11 o’clock. That’s what I felt on that Florida highway, sliding over to let those rushing past me have a clear path.   

I’ve been telling myself I'm choosing this new “not caring to keep up” life philosophy. But just maybe it is age. My knees creak. I find myself asking people to repeat themselves more than before. I often don’t “get” the lingo used by the younger crowd. My cellphone, computer and television are far too complicated. I’ve even caught myself saying, “When I was a kid…”  

Yet, I still believe I am a long way from what I witnessed. A man on the front line—one who sprinted between life as a real estate attorney, college professor, golf and tennis player and his families. Now, he shuffles with a walker to sit on his lanai quietly watching the golfers play past. He seems content and perhaps peaceful, or is that what accepting your fate looks like to someone who cannot comprehend what’s around the bend?  

As the old saying goes, “Don’t judge someone else until you’ve been in their shoes.” Except, I know today, I don’t want to be in his shoes, but expect neither did he. I’m baffled why so many people leave this earth from disease and sickness. It shakes my deep belief that being a good and kind human secures you a dignified and peaceful death. I know dying too soon is heart crushing, yet it seems staying here on earth too long seems to be just a different awful kind of the exact same thing.   

Or perhaps it is just the wisdom that comes with age. When we’re younger we’re concerned with longevity. As we get older it tends to shift to being more about the quality of our life rather than the quantity. The reality is that I want both, elusive as that may be.  

 searching for a middle ground,  

A little thing you should know: My mom’s husband passed away just a few exhausting, emotionally difficult and painful months after my trip. Though incredibly complicated, he was a father figure to me for more than half my lifetime. During my last visit we spent hours together finishing a jigsaw puzzle. Adding yet another memory to my Sunshine State album. 

Saying Yes to the Dress Ain’t Easy

If you’ve been the mother of a groom or bride, then I’m pretty sure this blog will strike a chord deep in your soul. If not, then consider yourself forewarned. From the moment our son’s forever person said yes, I entered my personal portal of hell.  

Before we get started, let me make it blatantly clear how grateful I am. You see, this July our son is getting married. He found the most wonderful person to spend the rest of his life with and we couldn’t be more delighted with his choice. She is kind, loving, thoughtful, intelligent, respectful, hardworking and a family girl. She betters our family in every way possible and we couldn’t love her any more than we already do. That’s not the problem.   

The problem is choosing a dress to wear for their wedding celebration. I want to meld into their day just like she melds into our family. I want to spend little and look great. And yes, I am fully aware how shallow this worry is but sharing my personal struggles with my readers is what I do.  

My friends were quite vocal about their shock that I hadn’t begun my dress search yet. Similar to the way I historically dismissed advice about childbirth and parenting, I smiled, respectfully listened, but in the end dismissed their sage advice believing that would never be the case for me.  

Welp, apparently my friends were right—finding a MOG (Mother of Groom) dress was indeed complicated. My first waste of time was going to department stores only to be redirected to their website. Once online, I crammed to comprehend each of their return policies as if I were taking the Bar exam, only then did I begin my search.   

I wasn’t looking for anything ridiculous really. I just wanted a beautiful, flattering, unique dress that would match the happiness inside my heart. I wanted to put it on and know right away it was the one for me. I wanted love at first sight. After endless hours of hunting for the right size, color, style and price point I ended up ordering over seventeen gowns and picked up nagging carpal tunnel, too, from all the time spent clicking to browse and buy.  

As the boxes began to arrive it became crystal clear I had absolutely no idea what I was doing or what I was searching for. It seemed I was choosing gowns that looked good on the models forgetting they are typically 5-foot-11 or taller and have the body of a giraffe when I hardly hit 5-foot-1 these days and resemble more of a koala. So, when I say every dress was pretty ridiculous on my “small frame”, I’m not exaggerating. It wasn’t even just the styles but the sizing was all off, too. With each dress my self-esteem sunk, and my insecurities rose.  

For some levity I began giving each dress a name. There was Glinda—blue, sparkly, just missing the wand. Baby Ruth was metallic bronze, fitted and, well, you can guess the rest. Three dresses looked like I was working a street corner; Vivian, Kit and Julia. Lest we leave out Cleopatra, Carmela Soprano and Violet Beauregard.  

Good news is I was able to return them all for a full refund. Bad news was I was back at square one. That’s when my friend dragged me to a few local wedding shops. It’s there I learned what did and didn’t look good on me, but most of all I learned buying a size up makes a seamstress’ life much easier. My mind grasped that concept, but my heart wasn’t on board at all.   

Armed with this new knowledge and another friend with a no-nonsense attitude coupled with great fashion sense, I ordered five more dresses. After praying to the dress gods above I have whittled it down to two. One dress captured my heart. I call her Robin. She needs quite a bit of tailoring, okay maybe a lot, but when I am in that dress, I feel my heart flutter in happiness. The other dress fits me perfectly. It’s comfortable, flattering and beautiful. Most of my people like this one best. But when I am in it, I feel like I belong on the set of “Dynasty.” I call this one Krystle.  

 I’ve been pondering both these dresses for weeks now. It reminds me of my younger days when I was dating. All my friends liked the nice safe pretty perfect guy but I was attracted to the gorgeous risky one who wasn’t a perfect fit for me. My friends were right, he wasn’t for me. I wonder if this time around I will smile, respectfully listen, but again dismiss their sage advice?  

 Torn between two…dresses,  

 A little thing you should know:   

Robin, Krystle and I met with the seamstress. She eyed them both up and admitted she was torn too. She gently suggested I get Robin one size up to be able to make all the alterations I was suggesting. So we wait … and in the meantime, I am now hunting for undergarments. I say hunting because they are the enemy. If you’ve ever worn them, you know they promise to smooth out all the parts you’d rather not share with the world. What they forget to mention is when it’s time to get out of them, you may need to call on the Jaws of Life! 

Takin’ Care of Business

Often lately, I worry I am becoming colder as I grow older. It seems these last few years I am choosing to make choices and decisions based on what might be good for me. And to be clear, that isn’t something I am used to doing and therefore it’s pretty uncomfortable.

Most of my life I based my actions on how they would affect someone else, ignoring how they would make me feel. The thing is, I honestly didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I was proud of the skillset I mastered as a little girl. As an adult, I’m ashamed to say I’ve even judged others for being selfish and focusing on their own needs. Turns out it was me who was in the wrong.

As a young child I was a rule follower hoping to please my parents. I was the mediator when my mother and father divorced. I helped care for my younger sister when our hard-working mom raised us pretty much on her own. I worked two and three jobs to help pay my way through college. Those younger years created a human who understood hard work, abiding by the rules and caring for others meant success. I am not angry about any of this. More like proud. 

But as I grew up, my decision-making skillset did not. I was an adult people pleaser extremely proud to be such an unselfish person. I was baffled how others made choices driven by what was good for them. I wondered how they could look themselves in the mirror at the end of the day. 

Years passed and I became a teacher, wife and mother. Three roles I dreamt of my entire life. Seriously, my entire life groomed me for them. Caregiving, mediating and hardworking are imperative to be successful at each of those roles, let alone life. Millions of decisions were made for the good of all those I loved before I even thought of myself.

So, was I born a caregiver or groomed to be one? I guess I’ll never know, but I do know it’s my niche. It is a natural fit and one I believe I excel at. That was until my teaching career ended, our children grew up and I was left standing with a vast amount of unscheduled time on my hands. No pick-ups, drop-offs or waiting times. No family dinners to plan, shop and cook for every single night. Hours of quiet time, just me and my thoughts. This “freedom’ if you will, left me feeling sort of purposeless. I was accustomed to making my decisions for people who were no longer a part of my daily “unselfish” lifestyle. I wouldn’t say I was exactly unhappy, but for sure I was uncomfortable.

I filled this “newfound” time with home renovations, gardening and blogging. All activities I rarely prioritized with the little “free” time I found. Though I loved all those activities, I always had a nagging guilt I was being selfish. It eased with knowing the improvements were beautifying and increasing our family’s home value. I believed my blog helped readers with its humor, candor or tidbits on how I do life. If at the end of the day I saw proof I did something positive for others, only then would I feel a sense of pride and accomplishment.

But somewhere along the way, I began listening to my restless heart. What was she so patiently yearning for? What had she been wanting to do for so long now? And there in the quiet corner of my heart was a thing. A crazy notion she’d been protecting for 56 years. A life hope that meant facing fears and dedicated time. The time was now. 

When I was four years old I almost drowned. My little hands slipped off the pools edge and I went under. My mom dove into the shallow end and reached me before the lifeguard. They performed CPR and I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Ever since I‘ve been anxious in all bodies of water. All my life I’ve never faced the water in a shower and hardly washed my face. Truth. 

And this brings me back to the very beginning. These days I base so many of my decisions on what I need, desire and dream because the time to care for me is now. It’s a healthy living I proudly practice for my grown children to witness. Wait, nope, actually, it’s because it’s what’s most important for me. 

Moral: Habits are hard to change but not impossible. It just takes time.

The rest of the story: After the many obstacles placed in my way, I found myself a swim coach. What started out with crying in the locker room with fear is now crying with pure prideful joy. I have a sense of confidence like never before. My last lesson I swam freestyle the entire length of an Olympic-sized pool. I’ve even invested in facial cleansers and enjoy facing the shower nozzle too. But perhaps best of all, I’ve realized I’m not becoming self-ish by prioritizing my happiness and well being, just practicing self-care.

 A little thing I also do: I practice saying no. Yeah, you read that right. I look in the mirror and practice all kinds of honest and genuine no’s. See, I was also a yes girl. No more. Try it. It takes some practice but I know firsthand you’ll get the hang of it.

"It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me"

Let me tell you something: losing is no fun. I can promise you nobody wakes up, puts in endless hours of work, blood, sweat and tears to lose. It’s never anyone’s end goal. But every competition has one. When all’s said and done, there’s a winner and a loser. This weekend I sadly found myself on the losing side. 

I didn’t see it playing out this way. I suppose I may be biased, but I was envisioning confetti angels on the field. I dreamt of parading down Broad Street in the great city of Philadelphia. I planned an outfit for the celebration of winning the Super Bowl. I was looking forward to coming home to neighbors who decorated our driveway and home. I couldn’t wait to walk my dog and hear all the congratulations as we passed one another. 

 I am ashamed to admit I may have become a tiny bit cocky. Having a regular season of 14-3 can do that to a person you know. I fear I listened to outside voices more than normal, because, honestly, it’s really hard to ignore all the hype. If it’s not on the evening news, or filling my social feed, it’s being forwarded to me by well-meaning family and friends. I may have even worn my after-party bracelet ticket on my wrist before the game even began! All these are what I refer to as rookie mistakes. I should have known better, but the glitz and glamor of being in the Super Bowl got the best of me. I sincerely apologize.

 As games go, it was close. A tremendous competition right down to the final seconds and then just like that, it was over. As the Kansas City Chiefs confetti was slowly descending down on us, so too was my sadness. Sad for the players who fought up until the last second. Sad for the coaches who missed seven months of family dinners and important life events. Sad for a city that was so looking forward to the parade of a lifetime. Sad for all the devoted fans. Just plain sad. And of course, sad for the all the families who support the football program. Sad for the coaches and player’s kids who had crocodile tears running down their cheeks. Sad for the spouses whose hearts broke for the person they love. 

 Notice I didn’t say angry or mad. Not here for that blame game either. Yes. there may have been a few questionable referee calls. Or a play call or two we would take back. But we played a talented team and darn it all, we were the team that came up short. I get that none of us wanted this, but let’s please keep this in mind: we got here. Those same humans who got us here are the same ones who lost. All the comments, opinions, would haves and could haves do not matter. It’s done. Just please, be kind with your words. 

Those young men who wear numbers across their backs are hardworking, dedicated people. They are employed young men earning a living. Their career of choice places them in the spotlight. The players I know and love use their platform for good. Always making time to help in anyway they can. Hell, a few of our offensive linemen even made a Christmas Album this past season and raised over a million dollars for Philadelphia based organizations who make a difference. 

And don’t get me started on the coaches. They are in the office before the sun rises and long after it sets. They miss family birthday celebrations, dinnertime, bedtime rituals just to name a few. Basically, they miss the everyday life of their own families to teach, instruct, mold and mentor other people’s children. Okay, so they aren’t actually children, but I’m sure you get my point. 

 And finally, I will leave you with very powerful words from the young man who leads our team. He is wise beyond his years, a true team player and an honor to follow into a battle. After our painful loss he met with the press, part of his off-the-field duties. He was poised, professional and poignant. 

“You want to cherish these moments with the people that you’ve come so far with, your family, your loved ones, your teammates, your peers, everyone that you do it with and do it for. I’m so proud of this team. I would say I’m so proud of this team for everything that we’ve been able to overcome. Obviously, we had a big-time goal that we wanted to accomplish, and we came up short. I think the beautiful part about it is everyone experiences different pains, everyone experiences different agonies of life, but you decide if you want to learn from it. You decide if you want that to be a teachable moment. I know I do.” Jalen Hurts

 I do too Jalen,


My “Bird's” Eye View

In my wildest and most ridiculous dreams I never thought I would write another blog about being part of a team competing in the Super Bowl. At best, it’s a once in a lifetime experience. But a second time? You’ll still catch me shaking my head in disbelief and gratitude.

It’s a game of inches and an oddly shaped leather ball that unites all walks of life. Bringing strangers together and turning them into a close-knit family all with a common purpose. Every August all 32 NFL teams begin the season even. As the weeks go by the wins and loss columns are revealed. Hopes are dashed and potentials revealed. Lucky are the cities whose teams are winning more than losing. Fans rally. Television and radio have endless pools of stories to spotlight. Social Media goes wild. But that is just the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

I should know because I have had a front row seat for the last thirty years. I met a guy and that first night we met we swapped the typical information. I told him I was a kindergarten teacher. He told me he was a football coach. I thought to myself, “How is that a real job?”  I replied, “So you only work about 15 weeks out of the year then?” Well, I survived the rude awakening and am here to tell all of you, being a football coach is a real freakin' job. 

I sometimes compare our courtship to the grueling recruiting process in college football. Hours on the phone, in person meetings to confirm if it’s a good fit. Well, it was and he quickly moved to “snatch” me up before another “school” did. Instead of a scholarship I got an engagement ring. We married during the off season, as most coaches do, even squeezing in a honeymoon before the season began. Our happily ever after consists of moving amongst seven different teams in six different states. Despite all of that, we raised two awesome children who are now successful, productive and kind adults. We are even fortunate enough to be adding an amazing daughter-in-law to our family as well.

Our traditional pre-game family photo

My husband’s career to date, has allowed us to work at wonderful colleges and universities alongside some of the best people ever. It’s a life I wouldn’t change for anything, but one that took years of crystal-clear hindsight and a healthy dose of therapy too, to successfully navigate. It may seem like football life is a romantic life from the outside looking in, and I agree there are those times for sure. But mostly, the coaching life can be a lonely one. It means being prepared to move at the end of each football season. It means grappling with the guilt of uprooting your family. It means being vulnerable enough to make new friends and become part of the neighborhood and community, knowing there will inevitably be a painful goodbye. It means saying goodbye to one home and recreating a new one from scratch somewhere else. 

Annual neighborhood Holiday Coffee

For me personally, it also meant putting my career aside and following that of my husband. It meant leaving my hometown. It meant being far from friends and family. It meant often times raising our children “alone” because his job is incredibly demanding of his time, attention and dedication. It meant smiling when sometimes I wanted to cry. It meant times when I was scared, overwhelmed and drowning with responsibility. But always it meant carrying on.  

Our family has had the esteemed honor and pleasure of being part of the Philadelphia Eagles football organization for the last ten seasons. If you’re looking for an organization not just succeeding in football but truly making the world a better place, then look no further. Buildings, stadiums, fields, cafeterias, offices and meeting rooms filled with great humans not only working towards a common goal on the field, but making a huge difference off it as well.

 Of course, if I am being honest, I did worry about the mystique of the “colorful” Philadelphia fans at the beginning. But with most legends, it is always a mix of truth and lore. Those fans I feared are just honest to a fault, deeply devoted and true game-day difference makers. And now that their “Iggles” are in Super Bowl VII, their excitement is palpable. You cannot go ten steps in the city without a “Go Birds” or “Fly Eagles Fly.” Anything or anybody that can be donned in Eagles green is! “It’s a Philly Thing!”

Philadelphia Skyline

Go Birds,

A tidbit or two: It seems my husband’s hard work, dedication and devotion to his team and players has reaped the benefit of a contract extension. We couldn’t be a single bit happier or feel more fortunate. Cheers to calling Philadelphia home sweet home for a few more years!

 Our family is devoted to the Philadelphia Eagles. They are devoted to supporting the highest quality and most impactful autism research and care to improve the lives of affected individuals and families.  Here is a link to the full fantastic story of how one of my husband’s players made a little comment on Monday Night Football and it turned into a raising almost $100,000 for the cause. Get your t-shirts here! https://tinyurl.com/stoutlanduniversity

Season of Growing

Hello friends, like you, we are in the thick of the holiday season, the season of giving. In keeping with that spirit, I am giving you a gift. It’s not the traditional wrapped up kind with a bow and ribbon, but it’s just as precious. It’s a very important lesson I worked hard on this past year. My hope is it will make your world a softer place.

Before gifting you, I must share a bit of backstory. All my life I have suffered from Truster Syndrome. Simply put, I prefer to trust people. I inevitably default to believing a person actively chooses to be kind, decent and honest. I think the best of people and often give second chances—sometimes third ones, too. It feels best for me to live a life of believing in people and building relationships. 

Truster Syndrome; a set of emotions, opinions, or ways of behaving that are characteristic in believing in the goodness of people

 As someone who struggles with Truster Syndrome, I refuse to live in fear of all people because few are bad. Of all the apples I have ever eaten in my lifetime, 99% I have either loved, liked, appreciated or respected. You could say I am an apple fan. But, of course, there’s always that one percent, and I share them with the backyard animals. Though I may not appreciate those particular apples, the animals delight in them. My point is, I refuse to give up eating apples because of those few icky ones. The same applies to people.

 All the dirty details of the event that catapulted me to write this very blog are mostly unimportant. But it follows the same blueprint. A person I know mistook my kind and friendly disposition for someone they could take advantage of. Above all, they demonstrated a complete disregard for me as a fellow human and my feelings. Under the guise of concerned conversation or friendship I was “had.” I bit the cheese. I took the bait. 

But so as not to keep you guessing, this particular case involved a “friendly neighbor” who eagerly discussed the frustrating and upsetting troubles we were made to go through the past year to rebuild our dock. Yep, you guessed it, a few days ago as the workers were making a few of the necessary changes in the freezing rain to meet our looming deadline, she stated proudly to them, “I’m the one who made the call that started this whole mess for them in the first place.”

 All my life, until now, I always felt “taking the bait” equated to my failure. Since I let my guard down, I was made a fool of. For as long as I can remember, I have beaten myself up emotionally for these many happenings. I always felt I must have done something wrong, therefore it was my fault and I owned the blame. I’ve carried these heavy feelings with me all my life, until recently.

 This most recent time, and for the first time, I handled it entirely differently. After the first rush of shock and dismay then came the self-loathing right on cue. “How could I not have seen this coming?" “What is wrong with me?” “You fool!” But then positive self-talk and conversations with some of my nearest and dearest people took over. I was able to redirect the disappointment I was feeling towards myself and focus it on the perp. So although I am still disappointed, they made the conscious decision to hurt me. It ultimately was their choice, not mine. Therefore, it becomes their burden to carry and not mine. 

 Redirected disappointment was great and all, but I also do not want to be that angry individual who pouts, moans and complains. After a day, my anger melted into pity for the person who took advantage of me. It’s a shame for them to miss out on my friendship. But truth be told, I would never want to be friends with someone who tricked, or took advantage of people. I often wonder what awfulness happened to them that caused them to live that way. And then quickly reminded how very lucky I am to live the life I do, the way I do.

 So, I shall embrace Truster’s Syndrome, continue trusting people and be ever so grateful I have finally learned how to manage the feelings I get when life hands me a bad apple. 

Moral: It’s the bad apples that make it easy to spot the great ones!

A little thing I leave you with: Yes I have been hurt, fooled and taken advantage of. I believed in people who let me and my heart down. I placed faith and trust in people who didn’t deserve it. But in the vast scheme of things, the friends I have found in my lifetime are a part of my life I not only treasure most, but am most proud of.  I have the most diverse collection of humans who are smart, kind, generous, supportive, honest and there for me, even if I live far away. Imagine the shame of having missed all that wonderfulness because of a few unworthy ones.

Wishing everyone the happiest holidays and brightest New Year,

Once Upon a Free Little Library

Once upon a COVID time, there was a Mom (that’s me) and her daughter Madi. They learned to paint like Bob Ross, bake sourdough bread and create Asian-fusion meals. Running low on ideas, Madi got the great idea to turn a $40 dollhouse into a Free Little Library, something she knew I’d secretly yearned to do for some time.

When we picked up a very-loved three-story dollhouse made of particle board, the owners were curious what our plan was for it. Madi explained once we gave this dollhouse a proper wood exterior and roof it would become our neighborhood’s Free Little Library. A place where people could come to take out books and leave their own read treasures behind. The owners loved the idea so much, they not only gave us their dollhouse but said, “Here’s a huge bag of books to help fill up all the rooms of the dollhouse. It’s the least we can do.” 

We got that dollhouse right home to clean her up and took all her measurements. With more trips to Lowes than we’d like to admit, and perhaps a few miscuts, all that was left to do was her doors. Doors neither of us had the talent to create, so another kind soul built us two plexiglass doors with a latch. With a fresh coat of paint and some artistic touches, we carried her out to her final destination beside our mailbox. 

Once filled to the brim with books, people of all ages came. With COVID in full swing, and the library being outside, it made for a safe activity for families. It became part of their COVID routine. Nap times began with picking out a book. Families took after dinner walks to return yesterday’s read and get a new one. My personal favorites were the bedtime visits. Kids in pjs, with their blankies and bottles in tow, carefully choosing their special bedtime stories.

Time passed and so did COVID. People thankfully got back to work, kids went back to school, and the Free Little Library continued to stand her post at our driveways end. Seasons changed- weather came and went, as did the library. No matter how we tried to protect her, the weather and bugs seeped into her cracks and crevices. Her walls began to sag and doors would no longer shut. Worried she would collapse, we sadly took her down.

While I was cleaning up the empty space left behind, I wondered if replacing her was necessary. After all, life had mostly gotten back to “normal.” But then, just a few hours later, I witnessed a group of girls on bikes stop at my mailbox and looked bewildered. Then they noticed the library in pieces beside our trash can. Their mom came down the street and clearly a big discussion was underway. The girls were attempting to balance the doors of our dismantled library on their bike seats. 

I stepped outside and explained why we had no choice but to take her down. They said how sad they were, and how they loved visiting the last two-plus years and would really miss the library. Their mom asked if it would be okay if the girls took home her doors and rebuilt her. As I watched these girls carefully haul away the doors, I knew what I needed to do. 

The next Free Little Library (FLL) needed to withstand weather. My online searches produced FLL’s much smaller than our original, which just seemed foolish. I noticed people repurposed file cabinets into FLL, but it seemed like a lot of work that might eventually rust and most importantly, my daughter no longer had free time. I posted on my social media pages for a handy-person willing and able to be paid to make our next FLL. Weeks went by and the space beside the mailbox remained empty. 


One day, a neighbor and her two sons stopped to ask about the status of the FLL. I explained the current state of desperate affairs and how I was losing hope. She said, “I think I know someone who can help you.” 

Fast forward one month, and I am now the proud owner of a brand new, custom built, sturdy and weather proofed FLL. The Free Little Library of Todmorden is again open for business, and she’s a beauty I tell you. And it is all possible because a young high schooler offered to build it with the help of his Pop Pop, father and younger brother. They refused to accept any compensation for any of their time or supplies. It was, simply put, a pure kind deed… and the Free Little Library lived happily ever after.

So when you are feeling low, which is pretty easy to do these days, be reassured there is hope. There are good people, some of which are part of the younger generation, who hold our future in their very talented and kind hands.

Moral: “You don’t need a cape to be a hero. You just need to care.” Kid President

A little thing you should know: It should be no surprise I have a Free Little Library-since I am a kindergarten teacher, Reading Consultant, and published children’s author. But I bet it is a surprise our sweet FLL actually resides on our neighbors property. Talk about kindness!

An Open Letter to my fellow Coaches Wives

I know many of you have wondered where my blogs have been, and I’m always touched by those who check in to make sure I’m doing okay. Truth is, I am, it’s just I haven’t exactly been moved enough about anything to want to write about it lately. That is, until this past Monday night, when my feelings got the best of me. 

Photo credit to my friend Kristin Istvan

Tailgating at Lincoln Financial in Philadelphia, PA

Let me set the scene for you: My husband coaches for the Philadelphia Eagles football team. This means different things to different people; but for the sake of this blog, it means I was at the Philadelphia Eagles v. Minnesota Vikings Monday Night Football game. Not only was it our first home game of the 2022-2023 football season, it was a nationally televised night game and a formidable opponent. Shaken, stirred or on the rocks, it was a stressful evening kind of cocktail. I worried about the final score, injuries, traffic, tailgating fare, forgetting our tickets, parking pass and a bottle opener! Fixating on these details distracted me from the raw emotions bubbling up inside of me. 

My football grown kid lending a hand to another football kid.

Why so emotional? Conflict. One of my dear friend’s husband coaches for the Minnesota Vikings. She and I met as strangers 10 seasons ago when both our husbands were on the Philadelphia staff. Our “like” of each other was immediate, and so began our football friendship. There is something very different about a football friendship. You respect each other’s children for braving the “new kid at school” angst. You live the same crazy schedule. You’ve moved more times than most want to count and created a new life for your families every time. This commonality gives the friendship a jump-start and intensity. So, we eagerly planned to meet up at halftime. 

Sideline double hug from our buddy Chance Warmack

As part of my family’s pre-game ritual, we go on the field to watch warm-ups and see our husband/dad. Another perk of that tradition, which surprises most, is visiting with the opposing staff and players. Why would we co-mingle with the enemy? Because, if you’ve been in this business long enough, you have a few “football family friends” on every team you play. So being able to quickly catch up with them is sometimes the true highlight of the day. Boys we coached in college come up and hug us as adults, husbands and even fathers, too. Coaches who’ve stepped into our lives come running over for hugs, updates and a quick picture with the fam. We all understand how important the wives and families are to each other and to the success and happiness of their own family. It’s a love fest on the sidelines just before the coin toss. 



When the whistle blew for halftime I eagerly made my way to my friend. She was waiting for me, with her quiet demeanor and bright smile. We hugged like it had been forever, even though just two seasons had passed, and then came the tears. All true friendships feel this way. It’s not about the quantity of time you spend with someone, it’s about the quality. It’s a cliche, but so true. Shared memories, forgotten stories, sharing scary feelings, catching up on all the big and little things. And the realization just how important a person is to you and how deeply you miss them in your daily life.

Since our meeting, I’ve been raw with emotions. Reminiscing about all the other true friendships I have made during my 30 years as a football coach’s wife. No, I’m not going anywhere just yet, but I am counting my blessings. To all the strong and honest wives whose paths I have crossed, I thank you. I am a better, kinder, stronger, smarter, sassier and more dependable person thanks in part to adopting a bit of each one of you in me. I deeply miss my “old” friends, but also look forward to making wonderful new ones. Because in this line of work my friends, it’s a necessity.

Moral: A strong friendship doesn’t need daily conversations; doesn’t always need togetherness. As long as the friendship lives in the heart, true friends will never part.

 

A little idea I have:  Have you watched an episode or season of HBO’s Hard Knocks, a television show that follows one NFL team through training camp? It depicts all the challenges players and coaches face during pre-season. Well, here’s my two cents for what it’s worth. I think they should do a Hard Knocks season on the football families. You want drama, hardship, adversity, high emotions and depth of character. Look at how football families handle the public’s raw emotion of love and hate of their team when they win or lose. The pressure of the media and press, sometimes including the calling for the firing of a coach. The constant threat of moving to a new team, city, school and neighborhood hanging over our respective heads. It’s not always great to be living that, but that sure would make for great television.

 







The Meaning of Life

My family just returned home from a two-day, 400-mile road trip. We braved awful Friday afternoon New York City traffic, snow squalls, icy roads, dense fog and whiteout conditions to say our final goodbyes to a dear family friend.

George; my husband’s coach, mentor and a friend of us all.

The moment we pulled into the driveway and unpacked our car, I threw in a load of laundry, changed into my cozy sweats and grabbed my computer to write. I just couldn’t wait one more second to tell you that I believe I’ve discovered the meaning of life. 

Jerry; Father, Pop Pop, Father in-law and fairest man in the world.

Over the course of my 58 years on this planet, I’ve attended my fair share of funerals. As a child, ironically, I recall funerals scaring the life out of me. Open caskets were commonplace back in my day and seemed so primitive to me. If I am being honest, and no disrespect to those who appreciate a good viewing, I still don’t like them. They leave me feeling physically ill.  “Don’t they look great?” And what’s a person to say, “Nope, they look dead, puffy, slathered in makeup and nothing like how I wanted to remember them?” 

Then the cluster of what to say? What not to say? How do you console a person you’ve never met? “Hello, I worked with your husband and loved him. I am going to miss him at work.” Do they really care? Do they think I am comparing my loss to theirs? Aren’t they tired of all this social kindness? Wouldn’t they just rather read my sympathy card at a later time, alone with a glass of wine? 

These last few years, however, I have lost some pretty wonderful people—mostly people I’ve loved deeply. People who directly affected my life, my path and who I am. These funerals were different for me, so I asked myself why. It wasn’t just that I was close to these people. Could it just be that I am more mature? Is it because I am actually older and therefore closer to my own final chapter? Maybe it has something to do with my strong belief in angels and the afterlife? Or perhaps it’s just a special concoction of them all. 

Cathy; my friend, illustrator, business partner who turned my dreams into reality

Whatever the reason may be, I now feel honored to attend a funeral. This is not to say I anticipate a happy occasion full of laughter and confetti. But I no longer dread the conversations. Instead, I see it as an opportunity for everyone who loved, admired, respected, worked beside the deceased to come and pay their respects one last time. Share their story, tale and sorrow with others in the same boat. Meet strangers who now somehow feel like a friend. Put a face to a name you heard so much about. Hug a family member who strongly resembles them. Hear someone speaking who has their same tone of voice. 

As I stated before, these last few funerals felt very different to me. I noticed the people who showed up and the lengths at which people traveled to be present. I looked at their faces and saw their heartache. I noted all the different relationships people had with the deceased; be it family, friend, co-worker, coach, wife, husband, teammate or neighbor. I listened to the reasons they loved them and why they will miss them so much. I could have listened all day to the “I remember the first time I met …” stories. 

Ira; my Uncle, who faithfully loved and supported both me and my dreams his entire lifetime.

But what struck me was how each person attending the funeral knew the why. Why the person who is no longer with us changed their life for the better. This for me is indeed “The Meaning of Life.” It wasn’t ever about money, gifts or riches. It always came down to giving of themselves to others. It was about their time, attention, kindness and being accountable. 

I now know this … I want a closed casket, please, so you may remember me in your best light. I want people to cry. I want to be missed, really, really badly. I want to leave gaping holes in everyone’s heart. I want an open microphone so everyone can share their stories, but also want the stories of how you helped me included, too. I want good food at the after gathering and I want everyone who attended to leave with a thoughtful parting gift. But above all, I want to know I left this world, and my people, happier than had I not been here at all. 

My Uncle often spoke of a Farewell Party instead of a funeral. His family honored his wish and threw him a lovely party. The only thing missing was the guest of honor.

A little thing you should know: Weather mimicked our life for sure this weekend. As many weather elements we experienced outside our body, so too did our hearts inside. And about 45 minutes from home the sun poked out of a clearing sky and a rainbow appeared. A sign for sure.

Moral: Every pain gives a lesson and every lesson changes a person. Abdul Kalam







Wayne's World

I am a big believer in learning something from everyone I meet. It’s part of my life game plan. On a clear day my path will cross with someone and I wait for the lesson. On a foggy dark day I am often unwilling or unaware of the lesson right in front of my face. And that my friends, is my challenge. 

Long Beach Island, New Jersey

Now, before you get agitated by my “Polyanna” spin, I’m not saying all “crossings” are sweet and happy. Most are downright aggravating and challenge our patience. Others break our hearts and shatter ideals.

I also believe crossings are not coincidental. Running into an old high school friend who gives you the inspiration you’ve been searching for. Witnessing a squirrel dangerously dash across a busy road is the best sort of reminder to take it slow and be aware. Overhearing a daughter’s tone of voice when speaking to her mother in a doctor’s waiting room offers a whole new perspective. These are the “crossings” I am referring to. Everyday run of the mill interactions that mold us into who we are today.

I want to share a few I experienced recently that might seem small and silly to you, but were oddly enough, game changers for me. And therefore, I felt worthy of an entire blog. If just one reader benefits from this, I shall consider it a win. 

Atop Skaros Rock

I am a "rusher," but not the kind who rushed for a sorority back in her college days or a football running back. I am referring to the way I conduct myself. When someone requests a simple action or response from me, I respond as if my hair is on fire. My gut reaction is not to take up too much of their time or be a nuisance. Albeit, a phone conversation where I speak too quickly, which inevitably results in having to repeat myself. Or I thrash through my wallet at checkout only to get everything in a tangle. Maybe you do this too. But, every single time these sort of things happen, I berate and shame myself for handling them like such an amateur. 

So, imagine my dismay when I was shopping with a dear friend and witnessed her calmly take her time to sort through her wallet for just what was needed. Even the shopkeeper didn't seem to mind. Instead of chaos, there was calm. She handled the task with grace and confidence. Had I blinked, I may have missed it. But thankfully my day was a clear one and I was paying attention. I knew immediately I was going to embrace her way as my new way.

The other “crossing” took place over the last few weeks. We hired a gentleman to help address and rectify a puzzling flooding problem at our home. After meeting many different people and hearing their plans, Wayne won! He’s not your typical winner, honestly. Nothing sexy about him. No swagger, no fancy truck or tools but he embodies everything you want. He is professional, methodical, timely, fair and has an amazing work ethic. He arrived bright and early every single day with a smile on his face, including weekends. He rarely stopped to take a break, other than to eat the lunch his wife packed for him. Yet, he always made the time to explain his progress and plan for the day. He’s quite literally old school, as Wayne is 75 years young.

So yes, I watched Wayne carefully. It was a very tricky, technical and arduous job and I am not ashamed to admit I was a touch concerned about his welfare. But, what started out as a watchful eye quickly turned into fascination. He not only worked tirelessly, but happily. He never panicked or got angry when a challenge presented itself, actually it seemed he almost enjoyed it. He paused, made the necessary adjustments and moved forward with no fuss. I, for example, get so angry with myself if I’ve forgotten my rake in the garage and I am just in my backyard. I decided I wanted, and more importantly, needed to work more like Wayne. I want to enjoy the job at hand, take pride in the little details and learn to embrace the inevitable bumps in the road as well.

Moral: Gosh golly, can’t we all use a little “Wayne” in our worlds?

Just me trying to keep up with my new friend Wayne and his world.

Watch and learn my friends,

A little extra thing you should know: As a reminder to stay on track and reward myself for working on me, I bought the very same wallet my friend uses! And you guessed it, it works like a charm!

The Ugly Truth

Finally, after months of not feeling much like writing, the drought is over. I cannot explain it, but there’s just something about uncomfortable economy plane seats that get my writer juices flowing. Seems since COVID brought our world to its knees it took me and my writing down with it as well.

Remember back when businesses shuttered one by one, airports were ghost towns, countries closed borders, schools went virtual, special occasions postponed and life inside your front door became your whole world? Computers and video calls for many became our only connection with the outside world. I remember it well because that’s when my own hibernation began.

Inside my cave I mastered the art of sourdough bread and refurbishing furniture. I watched and worried alongside the entire world about rising infection rates, the health and safety of loved ones and the progress of a vaccine. I fretted over the lack of Clorox wipes and toilet paper. I worried about accommodating four people all working from our home. But in addition to those seemingly reasonable concerns, I was shamefully worried about how I looked. There, I’ve said it. 

It wasn’t the “Covid 20” I gained from no open gym coupled with eating all my sourdough bread—it was my closed hair salon. You see, pre-COVID I mindlessly colored my gray hair every three to four weeks.  So, as the pandemic grew so too did my gray roots. It was a massively humbling time for me because I realized what others thought of my appearance mattered to me—a lot. My gray roots robbed me of my ability to make direct eye contact and I became a shadow of my people person self.  I’m no Albert Einstein, but the correlation between my increasing grays and my decreasing self-esteem was blatantly obvious.

Typically, my life is a constant balancing act of people visiting, social events and football. Never would there have been a long enough swath of time to even contemplate committing to growing out my gray roots. So, there was never even a moment I considered stopping. But then on a silver platter I was handed the perfect opportunity to stay at home with no end in sight—enter the COVID QUARANTINE! Hibernation became my excuse to stay in a safe, comfortable and judgment-free space. Except for the moments I passed a mirror and hurled a look of utter disgust and bewilderment at myself. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. 

A few months into my hibernation, Mother’s Day was around the corner and that meant so were pictures. I wasn't at all comfortable with my gray hair, yet there was something about those stark gray roots growing that were oddly empowering. I was so fortunate to have had a core crew of super supportive people, but the vast majority were visibly stunned by my Cruella DeVille hairdo. I fell victim to my negative self-talk and colored my roots again.

The moment the hair color was slathered on I knew I’d made a dreadful mistake. I watched the brown colors wash down the sink drain and felt my disappointment rise—wishing I had believed in myself more. I looked into the mirror and actually missed that hard earned inch of gray growth I had so fiercely disliked. So I again began the waiting game of days, weeks and months until it turned into a year and a half.  

Oh, and somewhere in the midst of this my hair stylist and friend helped blend my roots to my ends! #priceless

I am proud to say I came out of hibernation a changed person. It’s not just the silver hair, yeah that’s what we gray folk call it. But there is an essence of bravery about me now. I am stronger and more confident because I taught myself to be less concerned about what others think and focus more on what I think and feel. I base decisions on what I want, like and need now. Not all the time of course, but more than not and that's good enough for me! I even smile now when I pass a mirror these days and sometimes even slap myself a high five!

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Looking back now, I view this whole experience as a gift of sorts, the perfect storm if you will. Shuttered down hair salons and mandatory quarantine for months on end was the perfect time for me to choose to go silver. I’m not saying it was easy or it’s a choice for everyone, but it was indeed my right choice.


Moral: To be secure about things that make you insecure is securing.

your brave silver-haired friend,


A little reminder for you from me: I am fully aware this challenge of mine pales in comparison to the troubles of others. I by no means am saying woe is me or trying to diminish the troubles of others. I am just continuing to share my view on my everyday life. Take it or leave it—but please do not be offended by it.

Until we meet again

Once again, I unwillingly find myself here. This time the chair has a leather cushion. The beige room has just one extra large framed geometric print. The only window overlooks the northern Philadelphia skyline. The people beside me are different too. But the scene within these four walls is the same. I am sitting beside a person I love who’s struggling with his last breaths. Whoever said, “Third time’s a charm” was for sure not referring to this particular scenario. 

I know this drill. As I said, I have been here before. I’ve read “Gone From My Sight; The Dying Experience” which is more commonly referred to as “The Little Blue Book”. I’ve been schooled on what signs to be on the lookout for, and their potential meaning. I notice staff gently walk into the room as if the floor were covered in eggshells. I hear their carefully worded questions to glean important details about their newest charge. I watch their eyes carefully, for they speak the unspoken. 

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I know Hospice workers too. They are the ones who quietly swoop in to care for those experiencing advanced, life-limiting illness. They keep their patients comfortable during their last bit of life here. Their primary language is compassion; saying enough to comfort loved ones, but never too much. They speak in hushed tones while navigating a room filled with loved ones sitting vigil. These super humans measure time in minutes, hours and days. Patience and empathy are their super powers. Hospice caregivers have hearts of gold and a special talent to walk even though they have angel wings to fly.

I don’t remember much these days, but I remember this. Every minute feels like an eternity, yet it seems like no time has passed at all. I find myself counting breaths, searching for a pulse and noticing the temperature of the hand I've been holding onto so dearly. My heart replays happier memories on a loop. My inner voice makes deals with God. I call on all my angels to help the transition from here to there, wherever there is. 

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Of course you must know I have my own concept of “there.” You're greeted by all those you’ve loved who arrived before you; think wedding reception line. The weather is your version of a perfect day. It is a place where time no longer matters so reunions and hugs can last forever. Tables are filled with every single food you have ever loved. Your favorite scents fill the air. You are led to the coziest room you've ever seen and snuggle up with all your past pets to view your Life movie. Afterwards, you meet with an angel to discuss the highlights and lowlights, answer a few questions, explain a few actions and receive your report card. Your grade determines the amount of time or community service you must serve before being ushered to the heavenly gates. Some may spend eternity at this stage whilst others may sail right on past. 

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It is at those gates you are handed your Angel Star card. Similar to a credit card except your balance is angel stars awarded based on your level of human kindness, compassion and heart. These stars are used to perform miracles on earth. Sitting beside your loved one during their darkest hour. Turning a traffic light red to avoid a dangerous accident you know will be up ahead. Flickering a light bulb, leaving your scent or a special token, selecting a song on the car radio or visiting in a dream.

I wish you a smooth transition Dad and a receiving line as long as the horizon. Please spend a few of your million angel stars to let us know you've arrived safely.  

with a melancholy heart,

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Just a few important things you should know about my father-in -law:  Jerry H. Stoutland (5/1/29-1/24/21) was a true “gentle” man. I recall meeting him many years ago. He was Lutheran—I was Jewish. He was a man of few words—I was a chatterbox. He shook hands— I hugged. But we shared a common love of gardening and his son. Time passed, grandchildren arrived, hugs replaced handshakes and I learned to appreciate the quiet between our conversations. And up until the very end he made sure to mail me a card for every Jewish holiday. 

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Moral: Actions do indeed speak louder than words.

Letter to a friend during COVID

Dear Michael,

We’ve known each other most of my life. I mean seriously, I cannot imagine my life without you. No matter where my family has moved, you’ve always been there for me. When my world is falling apart and out of my control you have this crazy knack of refocusing my energy onto a project. You light up my life and give me purpose. There isn't usually a week that goes by we don’t get together and visit. I love how we share new ideas, excitedly hashing out a plan and list of materials. Sometimes our visits are frantic but other times we quietly stroll along just to be in each other’s company.

I guess this is my way of saying I miss you. I miss our time together. I find myself rummaging through my plastic buckets of projects we've done together in the past, trying to drum up that same feeling of excitement. It’s just not the same without you. You’ve always been there for me when I need a pick me up—and this past year I have needed that often. 

Who knew our trip together back in March would be our last for so very long? Remember how we decided to learn how to paint like Bob Ross during our two-week lockdown? We filled our cart with all those tubes of oil paints, brushes, canvases and you shared your coupon with me? If I had known then what I know now—I would have been more present. Hindsight is indeed 2020 and it has been crystal clear to me I took our time together for granted. I am so sorry about that.

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Now, you don’t answer my calls. You've never been great at texting and your emails feel so generic. It is as if you send them to the entire world or something. Sometimes I get in my car and drive by your home, I see you are spending time with others, others who are not taking this pandemic as seriously as me, and it breaks my heart. Are you being careful? Are these new friends of yours wearing their mask properly? Do you share your clever ideas with them now? Seems perhaps you have moved on—and maybe you think I have too. Yes, it is true, I have been spending more time with Amazon, but only because it is safer for our world. But I promise you, it is not the same as face to face time together with you. 

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With the new year fast approaching I have hope. I hope. I see a light at the end of the tunnel and a trip in our future. I look forward to appreciating the little things I clearly took for granted. I am eager to hear all your new ideas and projects we will do together in our future. I will not hold a grudge as we all have had to make tough decisions about how we survived this once in a lifetime pandemic experience. 

Send my love to your family and friends, especially JoAnne. Tell her I miss our time hanging out in her fleece department. Oh, and don’t forget TJ! Tell him my wardrobe is in shambles and kitchen towels are in tatters too!  

Until we can craft again,

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A little thing you should know too Michael: My holiday gift giving season was a bust. I had no idea how much you’ve helped me figure out crafty clever gifts for all my family and friends. And, I’ve just about run out of that artificial bag of snow you had me buy to sprinkle on my Christmas trees. You were so right when you said, “Allison, this right here is the best bang for your buck in Christmas tree decorating!” Can you please save me a couple bags on clearance and I’ll pick them up the next time I see you. Hopefully sooner than later! 

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Whispers from Christmases Past

Once upon a time, when the kids were young we made an entire day out of getting our Christmas tree. Each year our tradition started with bundling up the kids and dog and caravanning to our local Christmas tree farm with friends. We then hopped on a rickety wagon which slowly meandered through the countryside where the trees grew towards the sky. We spent the next hour traipsing through the woods in search of the perfect Stoutland tree. Once chosen and cut, we saddled up beside the roaring fire with a cup of hot cocoa. And, as you can well imagine, tree decorating was another drawn-out, but wonderful, process.

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Times are different, and especially more so this year. To be honest, it’s been years since my grown kids and husband enjoyed all that hoopla. So, this year, we drove to our local tree farm, selected a pre-cut tree and were home in less than 45 minutes. My family is happy to help if I ask, but I am happy to handle the rest on my own because it still brings me joy. 

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With endless time at home this 2020, I decided to maximize the tree process. I let her, yes our tree is always a her, chill in our driveway for a few days taking in the view, water and allowing her branches time to fall. Then she moved into her new digs and I filled her stand up with more water. Every morning and night I check her water levels because I worry about her. If you know me, you're not surprised by this. A few days later she was ready to handle 700 mini white lights and our treasury of ornaments. Again, this is probably not much of a revelation and something many of you likely do.

As I unwrapped our ornaments I was overwhelmed with memories of Christmases past. To some, the rather ugly mouse on skates ornament is just that. Yet my husband and I are whisked back 25 years finding this little guy hanging onto a discarded tree while walking to speed up the labor of our first born child. Those adorable little sneakers are actually the first pairs of shoes we laced up on our kid’s itty bitty feet. There are ornaments from every family vacation we’ve ever taken. That lion finger puppet from my childhood has been an ornament for over 35 years.  I have an ornament given to me by a dear friend who knew it would guarantee when she was gone, she would always be a part of our holiday tradition. There is an entire selection of ornaments from my Uncle, who embodied the spirit of Santa. I could go on and on, since we have two plastic tubs full.

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If all these ornaments could speak, we would have ourselves a new tradition. But for now, in the quiet of the night lit by twinkle lights, I swear my tree and I can hear voices, the laughter and all the stories being retold. I also believe she stands a bit prouder now, knowing she was chosen this 2020 holiday season with the honor of carefully displaying and caring for our Christmas memories. 

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 Moral: Everything has a story to share-the trick is to listen.

 Your sentimental friend, 

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A few little holiday things I do:

Hanging lighting can be a real holiday mood killer. I split my tree in thirds and string lights of 100 from the bottom to the top, linking new strands as I go. If any lights go out during the season it’s far easier to add strands of 100 to fill in. The bonus is these shorter strands are more manageable for me on my own.

During 2020 I grappled with my potential hoarding tendencies, but for some reason couldn't bring myself to dispose of a basic white glass globe from an old light fixture. Well, thank goodness, as this holiday season I filled that sucker with tiny colored lights and turned it upside down on a table. It looks like the moon at night and reminds me of a lesson from Put Your Best Foot Forward, “The moon taught me… there is almost always a bright side.”

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