An exhalation, slow and disappointed, comes from behind. I don’t have to turn around to see who it is. I know it’s my long dead grandmother, Reta, watching me beating a pie crust into submission with her ancient wooden rolling pin. Why did she have to show up right when I’m obviously failing pie crust, her specialty?

“And you claim to be my granddaughter,” she says, looking out at the muddy creek below the kitchen window, bloated from snow melting in the mountains.

Like so many times before, my imagination has her dropping by to revisit her favorite place in the cabin that she and my grandfather, Malcolm, built in the late 1950’s. A spotless apron, freshly ironed, covers her good Sunday dress because my mother’s family, her daughter, was considered company. Silver hair waves past her ears but doesn’t make it to her shoulders. She stands as if her back is held upright by a wooden spoon.

She glares at the mess being made in her dream kitchen, a domain that was once hers alone before it passed to my mother and then onto me. She tries to cross her arms over her massive bosom but they settle instead somewhere underneath, close to her small waist. I’m a child again, underfoot and failing to live up to her expectations.

“But I can explain,” I say. “I don’t want to make a heart attack disguised as a pie so I didn’t use lard and white flour like you used to do. I’m trying to make it out of whole wheat pastry flour and olive oil instead.”

She looks at the hard-packed glob smashed like a cow pie over the worn spot on the counter.

“It’s suppose to be healthy.”

Her eyebrow raises in a doubtful curve. “Healthy doesn’t necessarily mean edible,” she says. “But, I’m sure the squirrel will like it.”

I follow her gaze to the platform nailed to the side of the pine made especially for him. It still holds the soggy remains of last week’s fermented muffins. Even the magpies are giving it a wide berth.

“Actually, he’s getting tired of my cooking too.”

She leans on the scratched and pitted porcelain sink that holds the last of the apples picked last fall from the tree that my grandfather planted over 60 years ago.

“Maybe the squirrel yearns for the good ol’ days when I was the one cooking in this house,” she says. Softly, she adds, “Just like me.”

In her day she was considered one of the best cooks in this Wyoming mountain community. She was a master at pies and a champion with flowers. And yet here I am in her kitchen, acting as if I have the right to be here.

“You can’t tell it by this piecrust, but actually Grandma, I’m a pretty good cook. I just cook entirely different than you.”

I haven’t the guts to tell her I’m a vegetarian and that I won’t be trying my hand at a mince meat pie, roast beef or corned beef hash, some of my favorites when I was a child sitting at her table. I say instead, “You’d be proud, I think, if you gave me half a chance.” I’m sounding braver than I am. I’ve never talked to my grandmother this way. In a rush not daring to look at her, I continue, “For instance, I don’t cook with white sugar. Not even for a pie.”

I’m still holding onto the hope that the piecrust will fulfill its destiny, in spite of my grandma’s doubts. “I’m going to use agave nectar.”

I brave a look in her direction. Confusion furrows her brows. I burst out laughing and a rare smile blushes her lips.

“Weird, I know, but look.”

I reach down to open the two built-in drawers my grandfather made to her specifications. Long ago, the top one was filled with white flour poured directly from the sack she bought from the Best Out West mill in town. The bottom was filled to the brim with white sugar. A battered tin cup was half buried in the middle of the white mound. These two drawers, when she dictated what was put where, were uncluttered and pure.

Now that I’ve moved into her kitchen, I was careful not to break the tradition of flour in the top and sugar in the bottom, but with major variations. In the top, no white flour. Instead tins of whole-wheat pastry flour, brown rice flour, spelt, rye, buckwheat, quinoa and a bag of kamut elbow for room in the deep drawer.

In the bottom drawer, there’s no white sugar. Containers of raw sugar and date sugar fit securely in the corners while jars of rice syrup, unfiltered, locally grown honey, and agave nectar from the tequila plant leave sticky rings on shelf paper since the 60’s.

“Well, good luck with that,” she says, turning to go.

“Wait, Grandma,” I say, reaching out and touching her muscular forearm. The sensation surprises us both. My mother’s family was not demonstrative. I don’t recall my grandmother ever touching or hugging me, but surely she did, didn’t she?

The other day I came across a photo of the two of us. I’m standing in eight-year-old awkwardness in front of her, my hands placed stiffly on my thighs. The difference in how tall the spruce trees behind us have grown marks the years between. Our hair is almost the same, aged silver and innocent blond, falling to our shoulders in soft curls.

I’ve looked at this photo many times, but what I never noticed until now is that my grandmother isn’t touching me. It would have been so natural for her to rest her hands on my shoulders since I was standing so close. Instead, her arms are clamped resolutely to her sides.

“And I’m good at gardening and growing flowers too, just like you,” I say, looking for approval 42 years after she can no longer give it.

She looks toward the table where her old glass flower vase can barely hold the vibrant colors of spring tulips and yellow daffodils. Her gaze continues around the knotty pine walls, noticing what changes I’ve made to make it my own.

My collection of blue antique jars filled with grains, seeds and beans are stacked in righteous rows on a shelving unit I found in the garage. I’m curious if she notices which jar is hers – the one I found discarded in the basement as if it held no value.

She lingers longer on the photo of an 18-year-old Reta, newly married to Malcolm, framed in ornate chrome salvaged from an antique cook stove.

“Was I ever that young?” she says so quietly I barely hear her over the raging of the creek – a creek raging against growing old in this house, and for the growing seed of dementia that tangled her thoughts the last years of her life.

I make myself recall her in better times. “I remember watching your hands work as if on automatic pilot making the cinnamon rolls I had requested and looking out at that creek.” We both look out the kitchen window at the only thing that has not changed drastically in the intervening fifty years.

“And the smells coming from this kitchen– oh my, Grandma, it was the smell of my personal heaven.”

“Mine too,” she confides. “This is where I was happiest.” She pats the worn Formica counter. “This is where my heart still lives.”

“And I honor that every time I step into this spot.” I don’t tell her what an honor it is for me to stand here, or how it has grown to become a sacred spot in the old house. My grandmother wouldn’t cotton to sentimentality, but I gather the courage to add, “I intend to do it justice for the rest of my life.

“I know you will, Janey,” she says quietly. I smile. Calling me by my middle name instead of my first was her term of endearment for me even though I didn’t realize it until years later. It is as personal as my grandmother ever got with me, this secret between us, until I took it for my real name in the 6th grade.

She looks down at the forgotten piecrust.

“Start over.” A firm demand but the right choice.

She won’t let me subject my husband to this glop even though he bravely eats whatever I cook and doesn’t complain. I scrape it up with effort and plop it into the compost can. I doubt if the deer will even eat it.

I start over, but lard is out of the question and I can’t bring myself to use shortening, but maybe I can splurge this once and use butter.

“How about butter?” I ask, turning around.

But she is gone.

I set to work. As if Grandma is guiding my hands, they move swiftly and with confidence measuring the flour and salt, using the pastry blender to mix the butter, and dribbling in the ice water. In no time, the dough is not too wet, not too dry, but just right. A miracle. I pick up her wooden rolling pin.

“I think I can do this,” I whisper.

I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, reassuring. I smile and the creek laughs.

I go turn up the stereo until the harmony of the Eagles rocks the walls, breaking old traditions and setting a new precedence. I dance my way across the small kitchen floor where my grandparents once waltzed and my parents sashayed a two-step. I feel the aging floor creak and shift as the old gives way to the new. I step into the treasured spot, claiming my rightful place with no apologies, but with great reverence and gratitude.

I. Am. Home.

When Tupelo’s father was transferred into the hospice, we were told it wouldn’t be long before he’d pass on. We turned toward Texas at 1:00 in the morning after a performance in Arizona to get to his bedside as quickly as we could.

The following few days were unlike anything I had ever experienced and felt privileged to be a part of it. The family gathered close, forming a loving and supportive circle for his transition. The hospice provided a peaceful place for this to happen. The hospice staff was loving and attentive. A steady stream of friends came, bringing food, flowers, and saying prayers.

This was a new situation for me and many times I found myself not knowing what I could do to help. I’ve been a part of this family for over 30 years, and love my father-in-law deeply. I knew that just my presence was all that was required. Still, I wanted to do more.

So I make soup. It wasn’t much, but at least it made me feel like I was doing something. Tupelo’s family came to our RV to get a respite from the hospice room and a bit of warm nourishment on the side.

I met new people and hugged old friends, but one shimmered a bit brighter than most. Jan is a close friend of Karla, Tupelo’s sister, and unlike me, she knew exactly what to do. When Poppy was brought to the hospice, Jan was close behind bringing a basket full of snacks and fruit. It sat on the table ready for anyone who needed it at any time of day. She replenished it daily.

She had been a nurse, so her expert hands and medical knowledge was a solace to the family. She spoke softly but wasn’t afraid to laugh. When she arrived, joy followed her into the room like an eager puppy. In the long hours that followed, I got to know her better, and was comforted by her presence.

When Poppy died, Jan was the first to show up at the house bringing an entire meal, still hot from the oven.

She did this, and much more — aided by a wheel chair.

I marveled at her ability – her ability to know what to say, and exactly what to do at the right time. She knew how to calm, how to love, how to laugh during these amazing circumstances.

I wanted to be like Jan. I wanted to flow like cooling water into a difficult situation, filling what needed to be filled, making things easier for everyone.

So at the funeral, I asked her. Straight out — Jan, how do you know what to do.

She was surprised at the question. She didn’t think she was doing anything extraordinary. But my eyes told her I was sincere in asking and wanted an insight. She smiled.

I just let Spirit tell me what to do, and I do it.

Simple.

I know this. This is how I try to live my life too, but it took watching Jan in action to be reminded. When Spirit guides us it knows what is needed and when. We just have to relax and let it act through us. That was my problem. I worried too much that I’d do or say the wrong thing because I had never experienced anything like this before. I had self-doubts. Worry stifles and silences our inner voice. I’m working on not letting that happen again.

I saw first hand what happens when a light shines bright from the heart. It heals. It loves. It laughs. Its timing is timeless. It always does the right thing. Now that I know Jan’s secret, perhaps the next time, when I find myself in new circumstances, I will remember her amazing example, and let Spirit guide me in doing the right thing.

Tupelo and I meet a lot of people. On the nights we perform, we see new faces, shake new hands, talk to new people. Incredible possibilities to meet interesting people, but instead, small talk dominates these evenings because there is just not enough time to get to the big questions.

For example, the conversation never goes from, “So, where ya goin’ from here?” to “So, what’s your purpose in life and what have you been doing about it lately?”

I understand this and don’t fault it a bit. I can add to a conversation of small talk with the best of them. Traveling as we do to places where we’re not performing, I rely on small talk at first so that I can meet people.

Notice that I said at first. I can give it three, maybe four sentences/questions, and then I want a more meaningful conversation. It doesn’t have to come down to “So, what do you think happens when we die?” but if I haven’t laughed or learned something or heard an intriguing story, I’ve pretty much lost interest.

Some people don’t get beyond the small talk, not even with their family or their closest friends. This can be dangerous. In this case, small talk becomes our big talk. And it’s the big talk that can define us. If our conversations are mundane, chances are, our lives tend to be too. Sounds boring, doesn’t it? If we don’t stretch ourselves to consider new ideas, new feelings, have new conversations, small talk takes on a much bigger role. We give it more power than it deserves.

Here are some examples of small talk. Gossip is small talk. Complaining or whining are too. How about self-deprecating words such as “I’m so stupid,” “I’m too fat,” or “I’m clumsy, (or unlucky, poor, or ugly, etc.)”? Also unkind or sarcastic remarks to or about family or friends are demeaning to everyone involved.

Small talk can kill close relationships. Small talk can kill intimacy. Small talk limits us. Small talk becomes big talk when it dominates our conversations and dominates our thinking. We’re too big for that.

Notice the conversations you have during the next week. Does the small talk ramble on longer than it should? And who’s fault is it? Yours or the other person? If you find yourself not going to a deeper level with your words, chances are, the same thing is happening in your life.

Skimming the surface with friends, family, or strangers means that the encounter can be of interest for only so long. Don’t be afraid to kick it up a notch. Go deeper. Get to know someone better. Let them get to know you. The ones that still hang around after a few of these conversations are the ones we want in our lives.

Make room for them by eliminating the small talk.

I didn’t grow up in an overly demonstrative family. I don’t remember my parents ever saying to me, “I love you.” But the thing is, I never doubted their love for me. They didn’t have to say it. Instead, they showed me on a daily basis how much I meant to them.

I was shown in numerous ways – in the way they spoke to me, in the way I heard them talk about me, in the way they took care of me, and in the way they touched me.

The phrase “I love you” gets said with such casualness at times, that it is rendered meaningless and impotent. Such as, an automatic response in saying goodbye on the phone. The salutation at the end of an email or letter. The quickly said and-I-love-you-too, as if in a race to get to the obligatory response so that we can get on with our lives.

Words are sometimes inadequate when it comes to expressing love. More people than not find it difficult, and in some cases, impossible to say how they truly feel. So what else will work? It doesn’t take much. Give me a loving touch on the shoulder, a simple kindness or a heartfelt smile any day over the impersonal gesture of an expensive gift or flowers.

Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. And not in a sensible, oh-aren’t-they-pretty kind of way, but in a rather fanatical kind of way. They jazz me to my very core just to look at them. Tupelo knows this, but in over three decades of being together, I can count on one hand the number of times he has given me flowers.

His style is more subtle. Instead of an occasional tsunami wave of garishness, I get small reassurances of his love on a daily basis, as if coming from a constant babbling brook. And after all these years, that is much more to my liking.

To make this life sweeter, all we need is just a little love around the edges to soften, protect, and make us feel good. It can come from friends, co-workers, children, family, life companions, Aunt Minnie or the mailman. It can be a tiny kiss, a tender hug, a good deed, or a “random act of kindness” from a stranger. I see them on the edge of my life as little bursts of light, firing like an endless string of firecrackers on a Chinese New Year. The spark they ignite in me makes me feel good.

If we love the world and the people in it, the world will love us back. If we embrace our place in the world, get ready to be embraced back. The trick is to tune into and notice the myriad ways we are shown. Feel good about it and then reciprocate in kind.

If we enjoy having love expressed around the edges of our life on a daily basis, chances are, the person next to us does too. Get crackin’ and see what happens.

A car passed us one day while Tupelo and I were driving across the southeastern desert of the U.S. in our motorhome, Bailey. As it zoomed by I caught a glimpse of the bumper sticker on its tail end. “Celebrate Diversity,” it read. “Ooh, I like that,” I said, and proceeded to have many miles of pleasure thinking it over.

I don’t know the driver’s reason for plastering this statement onto his bumper for the entire world to see, but I came up with a long list of my own. As a traveler, I agree wholeheartedly about celebrating the world’s diversity – its peoples, its languages, its customs, its different ways of looking at things, and the big one — its spirituality and many religions.

It seemed to be such a simple statement at first: Celebrate diversity.

Oh yes, let’s do that, shall we?

The deeper I thought about it, the more complicated it got. In this tumultuous time when the world is splitting apart because of the different ways we look at God and the opposing interpretations of religious teachings, the simple sentence isn’t as innocent as it first appears. Now we have to question our beliefs and see if we truly can celebrate how different some of the world’s peoples act in the name of God. One is waging war on infidels, the other on terrorists. It’s hard to draw a solid line between what is right and what is wrong and then decide which side we are on. Diversity is dividing us.

If we choose to not take a side, then yes, we can celebrate with a clear heart the diversity of the world in all of its guises and contradictions. But it’s not easy. It’s hard to stay objective and loving in the face of so much hate. But who said personal and spiritual growth would be easy? Not me.

And perhaps the tougher question: How do we celebrate the diversity in ourselves? How can we celebrate who we truly are and not become so judgmental it’s to our detriment, not to our enlightenment?

We are complicated creatures. Our emotional stew is made up of so many ingredients it has kept therapists’ couches warm for centuries. And our mental state? Oh man, I don’t even want to think about that. And there are so many conflicting philosophies and beliefs when it comes to our own personal spirituality we’re afraid we might die and go to hell before we find which is the right path to be walking on.

If we want to celebrate diversity in the world, we must first celebrate the diversity in ourselves. If we can, change what can’t be celebrated, embrace that which can’t be changed — for instance, what Dr. Carl Jung’s called our shadow. We are not all good and not all bad and when it comes to choosing sides, we need to be on our side, no matter what.

Bumper stickers are one thing, putting the sentiment into action is another.

Celebrate diversity. Oh yes, let’s do that, shall we?

Hi {!name},

We all make mistakes. Or do we?

In life, we have plenty of should-have-dones, and if-I-had-only-knowns, but do we really make mistakes? No, I don’t think so.

Let me explain: A very close sister-friend of mine has had marriages that ended in nasty divorces. Obviously, this saddens her, and unfortunately, she feels unlovable and a failure because of them. We have had many conversations over the years where she bemoans the huge mistakes of marrying these men. I listen because she needs me to, but I don’t agree that they were mistakes.

I look at it like this: There are no mistakes, just hard lessons.

When our choices turn out to be less than what we wanted, it was no mistake we brought these tough experiences onto ourselves. It happened because we were meant to learn that lesson.

Make no mistake, I’m not saying that some choices don’t knock us on our butt. These are the ones that scratch the diamond who we are, but eventually, after the hurt subsides, we are polished because of them. The experience fine-tunes us, and hopefully, makes us smarter. Tall order sometimes, I know. But if we grasp the true meaning behind the raw emotions, hopefully we don’t have to repeat what isn’t for our greater good.

The harder the lesson the more we can glean from it. It may take awhile to lose the heavy emotions and gain a new perspective, but if we’re patient, there will come a time when we can grasp the enormous gift hidden inside. This is key.

But the first step is to believe we never make mistakes. Instead, we can look at it like this: Hard lessons catapult us to being the best we can be. We’re not perfect, don’t claim to be, but we’re expanding our perception to try and see the good in our choices — whatever that may be.

Recently, we were at a holiday gathering. The house was immaculate. The food superb. The guest list fascinating. The hostess was gracious and beautiful with everything under control and apparently running smoothly.

After dinner I found myself relaxing at a table with a few women, the hostess included. While a band of musicians were tuning up for an impromptu jam, a close friend of hers leaned over, put her hand on the hostess’s arm and commented what a wonderful party it was.
“I had a lot of help,” she said, deflecting the compliment with practiced ease.

This was not the first time I had heard her do this. Remembering the guided tour through the newly built house earlier, Tupelo commented how tasteful it was.
“We still have quite a bit to do,” she said, waving his impression away and turning to go up the stairs.

Later I heard someone congratulate her on receiving a major award in her profession.
“Oh, it wasn’t any big deal.”
But it was. She got major publicity and recognition, and rightly so. It proved she was exceptional in her profession and was honored for it.

I wondered why a talented woman like her was not able to accept a well-meaning compliment. What made her so uncomfortable? Did she think she would come off boastful or egotistical?

Another experience taught me how giving and receiving compliments could be perceived differently. While attending a good friend’s birthday party, the guests gathered in a circle, arm in arm. In a spontaneous gesture, one of the guests told her how much he appreciated her and how grateful he was that she was his friend. One by one, each in turn, told my friend the difference she had made in their life, myself included.
I was amazed and amused watching her accepting each comment, each heartfelt admission, every extremely personal confession. I thought she would crumble from so much gratitude and love, or try to dodge, duck and tumble out of the way of all the intense attention. But she didn’t.
Somehow she accepted each person’s love and radiated it back to them. There was no ego involved. It was beautiful to witness.

Here is the basic difference between these two women: My friend didn’t deflect any of the personal comments made to her, and by doing so, she honored the giver.

For many, it takes quite a bit of fortitude to voice an opinion, express their true feelings, or tell someone how much they care. Deflecting these admissions, for whatever reason, dishonors the giver and leaves the compliment hanging, useless and impotent.

So here is what I suggest if you are like the talented hostess: Next time someone gives you a compliment, smile a heartfelt smile and say a simple, “Thank you.” That’s all you have to do. You will honor the giver by doing this and you will both feel better for it.

Open yourself up to hear what others have to say about you and love will shine through everything you do.

Thank you.

I just got back from working on the irrigation ditch. It isn’t something I would necessarily choose to do on such a fine summer’s day, but we have been without water getting to our pond for many days now. We are the last homestead to receive water from the Dalton Ditch after a series of scenic pools and heavy water users. We get the dregs, if any. I went to investigate with shovel in hand.

In the middle of an Aspen wood, I found where the weed-clogged and neglected ditch needed help. The water meandered on its merry way, not paying much attention of where it should be going. If water is a metaphor for Spirit, it was up to me to get it flowing in the right direction. I dove into the task at hand.

It was hot and sweaty work. Shoveling, bending, lifting heavy mud, but for some reason, I was enjoying myself. I thought about my grandpa and how he did the exact same thing, year after year in this very spot. It was comforting somehow. I wanted to prove I could do it too.

Exhausted, I sat on a rock to rest with mud plastered from tip to toe. I was thirsty, but I had left my water in the car. (I guess I’m still a pioneer-woman-in-training.) I couldn’t help but notice what a lovely day it was.

I used to visit my grandparents here in the summer when I was a kid. It was my favorite place to come, and this glen reminded me of the Wyoming of my childhood. Buttercups and forget-me-nots were scattered through the forest floor. The wren was singing his heart out and a lone white tailed deer wandered through. A gentle breeze cooled my face. The smells were rich and deep, and there were no new houses crowding out the trees.

I invited Grandpa to join me, long gone since 1978. Here he came in his work overalls. He was shorter than I remembered, but still had the kind eyes and soft smile, looking at my mud-splattered and sweaty face.

I said, “Some things never change, eh, Grandpa?”

He replied, “Thank God for that.”

Some family traditions are of a Hallmark-perfect Christmas. Some are family vacations to the beach. Some have the entire family going to church on Sunday. These are not my family traditions. Mine involve mud and grime and sweat.

It may not be pretty, and I may never get the mud out from under my fingernails, but I did my grandpa proud today. Tomorrow, I’ll be putting up peaches in my grandma’s kitchen and will see what she has to say.

A beautiful, young woman from Brazil sipped her beer as we sat under a thatched roof in Costa Rica, dabbling in small talk. We had just met that morning. It had been one of the best days ever – a full day on the river, shooting Class 4 rapids. I was sunburned, tired, and content.

“How long have you two been together?” she asked.

I said, “Almost thirty years.”

We looked at each other. It’s always a shock to hear it said out loud. Surely, we’re not that old. But, yes, it’s true. Our new friend looked shocked too.

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re so kind to each other. You act like you’re really in love.”

Imagine that. Still in love after all these years — and treating each other as if we like each other too — what a concept.

She told us about her lost loves and disastrous relationships. She had given up on finding a true life mate, thinking it was an impossible dream. She were the first couple she had met that had given her hope that it was possible.

“How do you do it?” she wanted to know.

“I believe I have a good theory,” I said. (Don’t I always?) “I think that when you’re with someone, you not only have to love and like them, but you also have to love and like yourself in that relationship.”

When two decide to come together, we are no longer two individuals co-existing side by side. A large part of each of us melts to become one. One may be more dominant, but still the combination becomes something else altogether. In that combination, we must ask ourselves,

“Do I like who I am in this combination?

If you truly like who you have become, then the partnership becomes deeper and more enduring. It is never suffocating or demeaning. It magnifies your good. It brings out the best in you.

Together, you are stronger. Together, you are more balanced. Together, the years fly by so fast, you age as if you are dancing a slow dance, and the two of you are the only ones on the dance floor.

Dance with grace. Dance with respect. Dance with kindness in your voice. Love the dance just for the sake of the dance and who you are becoming.

I woke up this morning with sunshine filling every corner of the bedroom. Before looking out of the window, I could tell it was another glorious summer’s day. I turned to look at Tupelo. He was sleeping soundly, mouth slightly open, snoring gently, and I began to mentally sing the Carly Simon song, “These are the good ol’ days.”

Within the hour, I was sitting out in my garden, writing in my journal. I made a list of why I woke up singing that tune. It didn’t take me long to fill the page. Like the garden, joy was blooming in every aspect of my life.

This is nothing new for me. I’m grateful every single day. But how often do I take all of this for granted? Most of the time, actually. I hate to admit it, but I do. That song made me look closer and helped to bring me into the moment. It helped me to appreciate and realize that right now, something extraordinary is happening.

I tend to realize after the fact that I was in the right place at the right time. One winter I was on a Greek Island when less than ten foreigners lived there. I had no idea at the time that within two years, 10,000 kids would soon find out about it and transportation to the island had to close down to keep them from coming.

Tupelo and I were walking on a secluded beach in Mexico, enjoying the sunset, when we met up with a woman walking the other way. A fascinating conversation followed. I had no idea at the time that she would become such a huge influence in our life and a very close friend.

Reflecting back over a joyful evening of having friends here for dinner — remembering the fine wine, the laughter, everyone pitching in to clean up. It’s then I think, “This was one of the best dinners out on the deck we’ve had all summer.”

Why don’t I realize it at the time — in the moment? Sometimes I do, but I need to do it more.

Like right now, I’m having a blast writing all of this down – and I’m appreciating what a exceptional drop of time this moment truly is. Hey, I must be getting better at it. These are the good ol’ days, indeed.