There were nights I couldn’t sleep, worrying how we would pay for school fees and music lessons and clothing for our children. Something had to change. 

Ten years ago next month, we made a big change: we moved into a house half the size of our previous home. 

Forgive me if I’m getting all “what is life” on y’all, but I recently had a big milestone birthday, and as the old Steve Miller Band lyrics say, “Time keeps on slipping … into the future.” The past few months have me taking inventory. What are the things I’ve accomplished? Which life goals need to be pushed to the front of the line? Which goals are probably going to fall by the wayside? Who am I, besides a daughter, wife, and mother? 

Growing up, Caraher watched Nancy Dickerson, a pioneering TV newswoman, report on John F. Kennedy. “I thought, I want to be a part of that,” remembers Caraher. 

“It fits with all kinds of metaphors,” she told me. “A snake sheds its skin, it lives close to the earth, things like that.”

Back in November, finishing up Dad’s birthday cake at my sister’s large dining room table, we reminisced about our childhoods.

That saying runs through my mind these days, as I take my high school daughter to tour prospective colleges. For one day, she tries each campus on like an outfit, checking to see if it’s the right fit.

Carol Finckle reprises the role of Golde, the brusque and long-suffering wife of Tevye. Finckle portrayed Golde on the Sun City stage before, 18 years ago. She says she is thrilled to return to the role for Fiddler, which she considers a timeless, timely, and important staple of musical theater.

As I continued chopping, he described that during band rehearsal, he wanted his students to “let go” and get a louder, fuller, freer sound.

“I told them, ‘I need you to care while also not caring,’” he said.

I stopped chopping. My knife hovered mid-air, while I tried to make sense of this phrase.

This got my attention. The only other Surgeon General’s advisory I can think of is the one on cigarette cartons. But parenting? Is it true that parenting is hazardous to our health?

Last year at this time, my husband and I were feeling overwhelmed. We were overscheduled, tired, and worried about money. From our conversations surrounding these problems, a theme emerged: we were getting lax. Undisciplined. We knew what we needed to do, but we weren’t bringing our A game.

Of all the things that can be canceled or delayed or rescheduled — a meeting, a dentist appointment, even a tax deadline — a storm moving in, chased by thunder and lightning, refuses to bend to anyone else’s schedule. Between the curtains on the window over my sink is when I first see the trees swaying wildly in the wind, then notice that the late afternoon sun is lighting up a huge thunderhead cloud. Fluffy white columns billow higher and higher. Below it, a blanket of dark gray clouds moved in.

Kovar has worn many hats in his lifetime: a veteran of the U.S. Navy, an information management professional, a mentor to veterans searching for civilian employment; he is also a husband, father, and grandfather. Now retired and living in Sun City, Kovar has taken on yet another identity: author.

The clothes are from my friend Jennifer’s closet. She called us over because she was ready to clear some space from her ample wardrobe and wanted us, her friends with similar figures, to get first dibs.

Tonight, our first concert is in Prague. We have rehearsed, but now that the performance is drawing near, tensions are high. It’s hot. The performance hall we are in does not seem to be air conditioned. 

Like most pet owners, we subject our poor Baxter to many nicknames. Some are run-of-the-mill like “Puppy” or “Puppy-Schmup.” We call him “Booxie” and “Booxinator.” On days when Baxter is freshly brushed and walks with a certain swagger, I refer to him as “Lord Buxton.” This is always pronounced in an awful English accent for absurd reasons that I can’t explain. I hope you agree with me when I say it is our absolute right as pet owners to be reduced to sappy ridiculousness when it comes to our pets. No explanations required.

Recycled Rhythm got its start in 2018 when its founder, Anthony Maland, wanted a way to share the positive effects of music therapy with other young people. Maland, who was diagnosed with ADHD and Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) at age 5, benefited greatly from his musical training and refused to allow his diagnosis to hold him back.

When I went away to college, I lived in a dorm named after Rev. Niebuhr, who was a pastor, theologian, and ethicist. My father wrote me letters addressed to Niebuhr Hall, and he would tuck a copy of the prayer he had clipped from a church bulletin. On the back, he would write with his customary post script: “You may keep.”

The play is set at a remote guesthouse, where seven strangers are trapped by a snowstorm. When a police sergeant arrives to investigate a murder nearby, suspicion is cast in all directions as the strangers are questioned and reveal their sordid pasts.

I know myself to be an introvert, but I’m always a little bit shocked, on these rare occasions when I’m left alone, at how much of an introvert I am. 

We knew they were coming, but it didn’t make it any less jarring to see the tiny holes in the soil where they had suddenly emerged after their 17-year-long buffet of tender tree roots. They’re not a welcome sight for many, and cautious homeowners along neighborhood streets have carefully wrapped young saplings in white nets as a way of protecting trees in their infancy from the attack of cicadas.

My daughter, tall and slender, stands at the apex of most of the group pictures. She is taller than the other girls, so she tips her head slightly, not out of shyness, but in deference to the height difference. She is as elegant as I’ve ever seen her. The dress she is wearing, she told me, makes her feel beautiful. I can see it, too; the way her shoulders are back, the way her eyes sparkle, the way she delicately lifts her skirt to navigate stairs, revealing her strappy black shoes.

It is wild to me that over a week ago, we picked up two strangers from the airport. Ten days later, tears rolled down my cheeks as I said goodbye as they left for their flights home. I will miss them, my new Italian daughters. My own daughter, with three older brothers, now has sisters she can call her own.

When Dolores Fischer was a junior in high school studying WWII, her U.S. History teacher suggested that his students interview their fathers who were war veterans. Fischer knew that her father flew in the U.S. Army Air Forces during World War II, flying Boeing B-17s, a four-engined heavy bomber aircraft. Beyond that, details were scarce. When she asked him to let her interview him, he seemed uneasy.