Tuesday night rehearsals have become a sacred space for me. During these evenings, nothing else gets scheduled, and I often trudge into rehearsal still carrying the burdens from the day. As I climb the steps to the second-floor choir room, the day’s headlines swirl around in my head, bumping into family worries, missed deadlines, and things I wish I hadn’t said. But as soon as 7 p.m. hits, our director plays a full chord on the piano and we begin our vocal warmups. For the next two and a half hours, my entire focus is on deep breaths, reading notes, and counting rests.

I don’t spend a lot of time out there during the coldest winter months. It’s not too great spending time in there when it’s blisteringly hot, either.

Maybe the song is right: What the world needs now / is love, sweet love. Love is wonderful. I’m a huge fan of love. But hear me out: Love can be complicated and fraught. Love can bring us together, then turn right around and tear us apart. There’s a song about love for almost any situation, and they’re not all good.

Okay, it wasn’t really the middle of the night — but it was late, considering that my husband and I have recently decided that, unlike Cinderella’s carriage, which returns to its original pumpkin state at midnight, we turn into pumpkins much earlier, somewhere between 8:30 and 9.

Out of habit, because bedtime was always such a ritual when the kids were little: bath, jammies, teeth, story, my husband and I have developed our own routine, and even our own vernacular concerning the end of the day. 

“Gooch wears these orthopedic Oxfords and she dresses like a frump,” says Woods about her character. “It’s a fun role. She’s the good Catholic girl and she’s in with Mame who is a high-flying, big-living, big-life type of person. She has to kind of grow into this family.”

It is a big job, and my sister and brother-in-law are doing a lot of the heavy lifting, by virtue of them living nearby. In their spare moments, of which they have very few, they go to Mom & Dad’s house and pick up boxes to take to the donation center. They offer moral support. The job of sifting through a lifetime of belongings is not only physically strenuous, but each unopened box holds the potential of releasing a flood of memories, good or bad: a letter from a long-gone relative; Mother’s Day cards on brittle paper with “I love yous” scrawled in crayon; a serving bowl that brings back a long-forgotten detail from their wedding day.

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.”