Cicadas, sing your summer song

One morning, they were suddenly here. Cicadas lay strewn across our lawn, the driveway, and the sidewalk. They lined the tree trunks in a frozen parade, some leaving their empty shell to keep their place as they flew off to higher heights.

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.

Prom: The tale of two dresses

My daughter’s high school prom fell on a gorgeous spring day. The air was fresh and damp with the scent of lilacs and new life springing from the ground. While posing for photos, the breeze made the skirts of the girls’ gowns sway, a hint at the dancing that would happen later.

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.

A friendly exchange of strangers

Two high school students from Italy, Ilaria and Giulia, have been guests in our home for the past ten days. This completes an exchange student experience my daughter enjoyed at one of their homes earlier this month.

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.

Waiting for the sun

I’m nestled cozily in my chair, still wearing my pajamas, socks, and slippers. Hat and gloves ward off the damp chill of the early morning. My husband hands me a cup of coffee, and I take it gratefully, watching the steam rise, curl, and dissipate into the morning air.

Relax, reset, recharge

Coming home to an empty house is eerie, even in broad daylight. There are strange creaks and clicks. Whistling drafts reveal themselves through cracks and doorways when there is no one else in the house.

I am accustomed to a house filled with voices and noise: laughter, instruments being practiced, “What’s for dinner?” being shouted, or the shower running for far too long. I’m used to hearing footsteps overhead, before they recede across the ceiling the way a shooting star appears in the corner of our eye, then disappear just as suddenly, leaving us to wonder if we only imagined it.

Putting style on a pedestal

Thankfully, in the office where I work as a communications specialist for a public library, I am surrounded by people who love the written word as much as I do. As our team creates copy for newsletters, brochures, and even social media, we get to ponder and discuss the placement of commas, apostrophes, and semicolons. We debate, and sometimes we argue. When all else fails, we go to the ultimate source: the Associated Press Stylebook.

The AP Stylebook is a substantial volume for journalists, students, and writers that, to me at least, deserves its own podium, open to the page about nonessential clauses, marked with a rich leather bookmark, a single light trained on its text. Instead, it stands upright on my desk, crammed beside file folders and various notepads. As an improvised bookend, I prop it up with the mug I use to drink my daily cup of tea — it has “No Drama” emblazoned in gold letters on its side.

Why social media is boring me to pieces

I’d like to thank Elon Musk for purchasing Twitter. Ahem — I mean ‘X.’

As soon as Elon Musk walked into Twitter’s headquarters carrying a sink (the caption to the video read, “Walking into Twitter HQ. Let that sink in,”) it was clear that Musk was more concerned with crafting Dad-jokey quips than he was about making the platform better, or at the very least keeping it clear from hate speech and disinformation.

Doing away with dread

I’ve been thinking about dread lately, namely how much I’m dreading these months leading up to our next presidential election. I dread the endless rhetoric, the talking heads regurgitating empty promises and attacks and criticisms ad nauseum to fill the hungry belly of the 24-hour news cycle. I dread the ads, the bumper stickers, the way I will sidestep social conversations about politics like I’m tiptoeing through a minefield.

Even the word “dread” sort of sits in the mouth like a lump of wet clay and falls out with a thud.

The false promise of January

Is she gone yet? Is January out of earshot, so we can talk behind her back?

Before December is even over, I get excited about hanging out with January. I start making lists well before the turn of the calendar, to be ready when she comes. I plan out all the fun things we’re going to do together: exercise, self-care, healthy eating, budgeting, family time, career goals.

Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.

Rejecting holiday hubbub: A pep talk

The old song says, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” but the weeks before Thanksgiving and spanning all the way to New Year’s Day can be a difficult obstacle course for many of us.

The local radio stations barely wait 24 hours after Halloween to switch over to holiday music. It may seem incongruous to drive through streets lined with golden maple trees while hearing “Frosty the Snowman” over the speakers, but here we are. As the ghosts and cobwebs are cleared away, the bells and wreaths and candy canes immediately rush onto the scene to cram every crevice with lights, tinsel, and excess.

Permission to cry, permission to feel, permission to rest

Tragedy is the first thing that shows up when I turn on the news, or log in to social media. The cruelty that humans can perpetrate on other humans takes my breath away. In so many ways I want to retreat into the world that I believe existed when I was a young child, where everyone was a friend and anyone would offer help if you needed it.

Besides the spectacle of war, natural disaster, and crime broadcasted on our screens, tragedy has touched my own community, too. A 17-year-old boy’s life was cut short this week, and the high school where my daughter attends has been reeling from this senseless snuffing out of a beautiful life that was just getting started.

Venturing into Vege-sorta-terianism

Last night I tried a new recipe for dinner: Vegan Sloppy Joes.

The “vegan” part of the recipe went straight out the window the moment I decided a trip to the grocery store for vegetable stock was out of the question: the beef stock in my cabinet would have to do.

This is precisely why I’ll never embrace veganism. I’m simply too lazy and don’t have the discipline required.

Traffic jam jammin’

It was a nearly perfect fall morning, the kind with a clear blue sky as sharp as glass. The tips of trees were just starting to be touched by edges of gold and red. My gas tank was full, and I’d thrown my overnight bag into the back seat. I was taking a quick trip up to Wisconsin to visit some relatives who were staying at my parents’ house.

Someone else’s house

She is practically my neighbor, but I don’t run into her at the block party or chat with her at garage sales. This mysterious woman was, until a few months ago, an elected public official—and she just happens to live down the street from me. Even though I know her by name, I’ve never spoken to her face to face. But she’s visible in other ways. I’ve seen her at ribbon cutting ceremonies, sports tournaments, and public meetings. I’ve read her Op-ed pieces; I’ve scoured countless news stories, tracking her role as a public servant. She fascinates me, this local quasi-celebrity.

This tender heart

I come home from work to find my teen daughter crying on her bed. She is 16, a high school junior, a virtual replica of myself at that age, both in looks and demeanor. The tears rolling down her face are hot and angry. When I try to hug her, I can feel the way every muscle in her body is taut, and my mind immediately thinks of a snake, coiled and backed into a corner, ready to strike defensively at the slightest provocation.

A DIY writing retreat

For as far back as I can remember, going on a writing retreat has held a certain allure. Blame it on my third-grade teacher, who encouraged me to enter a writing contest through the school. When my story advanced to state, I got the exciting news: I was invited to spend an entire Saturday at Illinois State University with other elementary school-aged writers. That day, I met my first real author, as I clutched a hardcover book that she signed on the inside cover with large loopy letters. I was star-struck. I was hooked.

The cosmic loophole of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse

The headline came to my phone while I was at work: “Pee-Wee Herman Actor Paul Reubens Dead at Age 70.” My heart sank. I waited for the world around me to take a collective moment to remember Paul Reubens. But in the office, phones kept ringing and computer keyboards kept clacking. My younger coworkers may not even know who Paul Reubens is. Was. But I knew.

Vactation, I’ve dreamed of this

It’s T-minus five days until vacation, and my legs and arms are restlessly pulsing along to the tune of the cicadas. It’s all I can think about.

My highly scheduled existence consists of work schedules, school schedules, and deadlines. My grocery lists are categorized into four columns where I systematically tick off each item as it lands in my cart. I write menu plans, fill out calendars, and make to-do lists: Lists of things I want to do. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of things I want other people to do.

Snapshots of the heart last a lifetime

After raising four children, I have certain mental snapshots I keep close to my heart. There was the day when my 5-year-old held my hand to cross the street. He paused to look up at me and said, “Momma, I love you so hard.”

There are those first few seconds when, after glancing over their shoulder, the realization sets in: Dad has let go of the back of the seat and they are, in fact, riding a two-wheeled bike.

Weaving in the Imperfections

I slid a slightly crooked hand-woven bookmark into the envelope before sealing it and mailing it to a friend. I attached a note:

“My newest fascination is hand weaving on a loom. I made this bookmark for you. It’s one of my first, but I’ll send another one after I’ve had more practice. Hopefully you’ll see my progress. Happy Reading!”

Taking a 10-minute mini vacation

Even though my school years are long behind me, I still expect that once the calendar flips to June, summer vacation is supposed to magically appear. Remember those delicious days of summer vacation as a kid? Sprinklers on the lawn? Dreamsicles from the ice cream truck? Long days at the city pool, counting out change at the concession stand to buy nachos and a slurpee while the grownups commandeered the pool during Adult Swim?

A second chance at hello

As much as I’d like you to think that my Gentleman Friend and I have been married blissfully and perfectly happy for the past several decades, I’m going to take a risk and tell you that sometimes, we fight. Our fights aren’t typically the loud, plate-throwing variety. We’ve mastered the art of subtle tiffs, starting out as a tiny slight that grows into a stand-off —— and I am the half of us most guilty of this —— in an all-encompassing silence that can be louder than a freight train.

Uninvited: Man vs. fowl

My husband is in a week-long standoff with a robin who insists on building a nest on the crossbeam of our porch.

We are a bird-friendly family. We don’t put chemicals on our lawn, put out birdseed in the winter, and we are delighted when our bird friends chirp happily from the branches of our crabapple tree out our front window. But even our bird loving has limits.

Somewhere in the ‘In-Between’

I never met a notebook I didn’t like. My bookshelf is crammed with journals with creamy white paper. Some of the books have beautiful covers with vibrant colors; others are simply notebooks, the kind with the spiral binding made of metal wire. On the pages, I scrawl goals, recipes, scraps of ideas that I write down quickly, thinking I’ll come back later and recapture some brilliant idea that I didn’t want to let slip away.

Too difficult to even try: a conspiracy

This week I made spanakopita for the first time. It is a savory spinach pie consisting of spinach, feta cheese, egg, and fresh herbs, surrounded by flaky layers of phyllo dough. I love it.

Given the choice, I will always choose a spanakopita appetizer or entree at a restaurant or party.

Loving in specifics, not platitudes

I may have mentioned before in this column about my love of true-crime shows and podcasts. I enjoy hearing about the evidence, the motives, the sometimes arbitrary clue that will reveal itself by chance, leading to some top-shelf detective work. All of this, plus the final swift arm of justice that comes down on the perpetrator, are all satisfying parts of these shows.

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