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Amelie and Me

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Nancy Duncan when I grew up. I didn’t want to be LIKE HER, I wanted to BE her. She was my hero. And it is because of her that I know to call her a hero (and not a heroine). You see, Nancy Duncan was the first feminist I ever met. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time.   It was around 1976, which would make me 10 years old, and I was smack dab in the middle of the Midwest in Omaha, Nebraska.   Nancy Duncan was my theatre teacher, my director, and (like I mentioned), my hero . Everything about her was perfect in my eyes.   Her wavy, messy hair.   Her loud laugh.   Her funky, multi-layered clothing.   Her smile.   Her genuine way of caring for those around her.   Her wit.   And her kindness.   I was just one of hundreds (thousands?) of kids she taught and directed.   I am sure nothing stood out about me that made me special in her eyes.   But in my eyes, oh in my eyes , Nancy Duncan was who I wanted to be when I grew up.
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Recent posts

Corned Beef and Wheat Pennies

I had the sweetest thing happen to me today.   It reminded me of the importance of COMMUNITY.   I share it here in case you, too, need a reminder of how surrounding yourself with caring humans can make your world a better place. Someone knocked on our front door this morning.   This is not unusual, our home has become a “community center” of sorts and we get a lot of doorbell rings and knocks. This time when I went to answer the door, I was greeted by a Pantry guest that I know as “Mr. Corned Beef”.   I call him this (not to his face, it is my nickname for him) because his favorite thing to get at the pantry is….   You guessed it - corned beef!   Now, Mr. Corned Beef doesn’t usually come to the door.   He stops by the pantry periodically and gets what he needs, then moves on.   If I see him out there I often pop out to say hello (and ask if he needs corned beef, which he usually does).   We’ve had some nice conversations.   He is a very snazzy dresser, and when I remarked about t
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Existential Gatorade

Do you ever get into a “holding pattern” of deep thought?   Like, just pondering things in your head, “big” things, things you will not find an answer to (because, frankly, there are no answers) but you still can’t shake the thought of them? I do. You probably could’ve guessed that, eh?   I mean, if I DIDN’T, then why would I have raised the question here, right? Maybe I have been in the over-thinking cycle (and, let’s be honest, the sadness cycle) because of everything going on in the world.   I mean – WARS.   People dying.   An upcoming election that I honestly can see no good outcome in.   Poverty.   People with no housing, not enough food…   If I think about it too long, I can find myself in a vortex of darkness. A few years ago, I met a man that I now admire from afar.   He is living with brain cancer, and I crossed paths with him at a brain cancer event shortly after my sister died of glioblastoma.   His name is Adam Hayden and he is a rock star.   He is well know
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The Presents

We are old. Giving gifts has always meant a lot to me.  I was raised in a household that valued gifts, valued “things” actually.  At Christmas time, the base of our tree would be piled hiiiigh with presents wrapped in brightly colored paper tied with neatly curled ribbons.    Birthdays would mean being spoiled by more gifts.   Even Valentine’s Day came with a present.   So, without being overtly taught, I learned that love was shown by giving something tangible.   As I became an adult, I noticed people older than me asking for things for the holidays that I thought were silly – cheese, wine, nuts…   “Those aren’t PRESENTS,” I remember thinking. “Presents are touchable, physical things – things to be KEPT, not to be consumed.”   So, when I found my life partner, I showered him with GIFTS.   Gifts wrapped just as I had been subconsciously taught must be wrapped in beautiful paper, tied tight with a bow.   But it didn’t take long for me to notice that my love and
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Mary Day 2023 (Call Your Mother)

I am a firm believer in HOLIDAYS.   Like, all holidays. They don’t have to be events tied to your religious belief.   They don’t have to be things celebrated in your country.   They are just holidays .   Days to celebrate, to mourn, to eat, to party – whatever tradition dictates.   HOLIDAYS. And I am perfectly fine inventing holidays.   No, not the lame ones that greeting card companies try and get people to buy into.   And no, not the “national cotton candy day” types invented just to fill space on the calendar. But significant, important holidays . One of my most sacred is Mary Day.   I celebrate it every October 20 th .   Mary Day is the anniversary of my mom, Mary Eleanor Thompson’s, death in 2002.   My mom and dad at Christmas in the basement of the house I grew up in on Borman Street  Wow – this October 20 th was the 21 st Mary Day celebration.   It is hard to believe it has been that long. Anyway, the traditional way that I celebrate Mary Day is b
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Black Beans

Lots of my mind.   A miles long “to do” list with more that needs added to it swirling in my head.   Decisions to be made.   Laundry to be done.   Suitcases to unpack.   A. DAY.   OFF.   WORK. “Should” use the time wisely to focus on getting things accomplished.   “Should” triage the to-dos and focus on steadily checking them off.   Should, should, should, should, should. Instead, I slept in.   Woke up around 10:30 am, tossed around the bed a bit thinking I “should” go back to sleep.   No, I “should” get up.   What is the deal with all of these should s ?? Then I heard someone on the front porch.   That’s not that unusual – could be someone dropping off donations for the free pantry, an Amazon delivery, someone picking something up that I offered on Buy Nothing. The doorbell rang.   I peeked out the blinds – it was my artist friend.   She has been coming to work here daily for the last month and a half in preparation for the big Kindness Fundraiser Yard Sale.   She
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The Girl Who Can't Ride a Bike

I am “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. I guess to be accurate, I should say that I WAS “the girl who can’t ride a bike”.   But it was such a big part of my identity growing up, that the never formalized (but often teased about) nickname stuck in my psyche. You know how most kids love to jump on their bikes and pedal around the neighborhood once they have figured out how to balance, brake, and GO?   Yeah, that wasn’t me.   I wasn’t that kid. I am not sure WHAT really happened. The one thing I do remember is being on a bike in my family’s garage in Omaha, Nebraska trying to ride my bike.   It must’ve been winter, otherwise, why wouldn’t I have been outdoors??   But I think my foot slipped off the pedal and I know for sure my knee hit the handlebar.   It hurt.   I remember crying. But I am guessing that it hurt my pride more than it hurt my knee.   I think I was already past the age where kids were “supposed” to ride a bike.   But then and there I must’ve secretly made
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