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Whatever Happened to Calling People Names

I have a serious question about something I honestly thought we all learned somewhere between finger painting and nap time. I completely understand that people think differently, vote differently, eat differently, dress differently, worship differently, and see the world through different experiences. Honestly, that’s one of the things I enjoy most about people. If every one of us agreed on everything, life would be incredibly dull. What I don’t understand is the need to call each other names. Stupid. Idiot. Moron. Ignorant. Fill in the blank with just about any insult you can think of. Really? We survived potty training. We learned not to eat the paste. We figured out how to stand in line without shoving the kid in front of us. Somewhere along the way we even mastered “please” and “thank you.” But apparently, “Don’t call people names” didn’t stick. I’ll admit it. Every now and then I’ll read a comment online and actually say out loud, “Who raised you?” Then I catch myself...
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America 250

​ Fifty years ago, I was a high school senior getting ready to graduate during America’s Bicentennial. At 18, life felt like it was just getting started. I had a great boyfriend, talking about marriage. He was joining the Navy, and I was filling out college applications. The future felt wide open, and I couldn’t wait to see where it would take us. That doesn’t mean 1976 was perfect. It definitely wasn’t. America was still trying to recover from the Vietnam War. People were shaken by Watergate and the resignation of Richard Nixon. Inflation was high, unemployment worried a lot of families, the energy crisis had disrupted daily life, and the Cold War was always there in the background. But here’s what I remember most. In my little corner of the world, life still felt hopeful. The Bicentennial wasn’t just something on the calendar—it felt like a big deal. Small-town parades filled the streets. Mailboxes were painted with patriotic scenes. Flags were everywhere. Store windows were deco...
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Tragedy averted

​ I’ve been thinking about the tragic story of the woman in Florida who lost her life after entering a pond and being attacked by an alligator. I’ve been to Florida more times than I can count. I’ve traveled all over the state, visited Gatorland, and even stopped at one of those small alligator farms near Lake Okeechobee where they raise gators for visitors. If you’ve ever been to one, you know exactly what I mean when I say they’re loud… and they have a smell all their own. But here’s what stands out to me. For more than twenty years, every single trip to Florida came with the same warnings. “Stay away from the water.” “Don’t walk your dog near the edge.” “Never assume there isn’t an alligator.” The signs are everywhere. The locals repeat it over and over. It almost becomes background noise because you hear it so often. This woman’s death is heartbreaking, and my heart truly goes out to her family. I don’t write this to blame someone who can no longer tell her side of the stor...
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Aging - is it graceful?

​  Because life is too short to not appreciate a good self depreciating story….. The Great Calf Catastrophe of 2026 There comes a point in life when you realize you’re no longer competing against other people. You’re competing against gravity, furniture, and apparently… turning sideways. My latest adventure began with the incredibly dangerous act of standing and rotating my body. That’s it. No mountain climbing. No marathon. No CrossFit. Just a simple pivot that my calf apparently interpreted as an act of war. A sudden, sharp pain shot through my leg and immediately introduced me to the floor. It was less of a graceful descent and more of an unplanned meeting with the carpet. Being a person with an impressive fear of doctors, I naturally did what any reasonable person would do—I followed up with TeleMed. Why seek immediate medical attention when you can spend quality time analyzing every possible diagnosis from the comfort of your couch? Over the next 24 hours, I became an amateur ...
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Time to Stop Searching

  I have been blessed with a lot of friends over the almost 70 years of my life. Looking back, I find myself asking one question over and over. Why do I keep finding the same kind of friendship? I seem to be drawn to people who need someone to listen. They want to tell me every detail of the latest family drama, the controlling parent, the difficult coworker, the unfair situation… and I listen. I really listen. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes—it doesn’t matter. If they need someone, I’m there. But when I try to share something from my own life, it feels like I get about ten seconds before I can almost see the interest disappear. If I share a fear, a hurt, a worry, or just something that’s weighing on me, it somehow gets brushed aside. Sometimes I’m even told that what I’m experiencing isn’t the same, as though my feelings need to qualify before they deserve to be heard. It leaves me wondering… how do I keep attracting this dynamic? Is it something in me? Do I simply give off the...
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  May Not the month. Just my reflective thoughts at three in the morning. During this season of my life, I found myself saying, “I can’t do one more thing.” Not out loud necessarily, but in my head. Sometimes several times a day. I didn’t think I could do one more Monday. I didn’t think I could set that alarm one more time, get dressed, put on a smile, and head off to work pretending that everything was perfectly fine. But then Monday came and somehow I did. I got up, got ready, grabbed my coffee, and headed out the door because people were counting on me and life didn’t really care if I was tired. I didn’t think I could spend one more day worrying about the people I loved. My daughter had surgery on her feet. It was outpatient surgery and everyone assured me it would be fine, but if you’re a wife or a mother, you know those words don’t always quiet the thoughts in your head. You still worry. You still wonder. You still imagine every possible outcome and then try to convince yourse...
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Never Again Is Not a Memorial. It’s a Warning.

In 2013, we took an extended tour of Western Europe and Hungary. One of the places we visited was the Dachau concentration camp—located not on the outskirts of civilization, not hidden deep in the woods, but in the very center of town. The same center of town it occupied in the 1930s. The homes, the streets, the daily routines—largely unchanged. The biggest difference today is the absence of the busy rail lines that once brought human beings into what was described as a “work camp.” When local citizens questioned what was happening there, they were told it was for protection. That the Jews, the Gypsies, the mentally ill were being kept safe. That they were learning skills, contributing to society. That this was the best option for them. The explanation was accepted. No one asked again. That may be the most disturbing part of Dachau—not just what happened inside the camp, but how ordinary life continued all around it. Trains came and went. Smoke rose. Bureaucracy functioned....
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