Category: Family

A Dad’s Dream

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Though nothing is predictable in 2026, the arc of every life includes mostly ordinary activities: going to work; shopping for groceries; filling up the gas tank; navigating small and large challenges that enter unannounced.

But it is the less frequent, extraordinary moments–the rites of passage–that outweigh the mundane tasks of life. Graduations. Weddings. Births. Deaths. They supersede in our psyches. They flicker forever in our memories.

On Saturday, August 29, one hundred and twenty of us gathered at the Firehouse Chicago (a decommissioned firehouse transformed into a wedding venue) in the Edgewater neighborhood of the Second City. We came to witness the marriage of Kirk and Jennifer, my younger son and daughter-in-law.

It is a dream come true for any parent to see their adult child find their own path. To be more specific, this dad survived a heart attack on his sixtieth birthday. So, living to see Kirk marry the one he loves–the one who loves him–is the proverbial cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.

Jennifer’s and Kirk’s early-evening, outdoor wedding ceremony was a cultural tapestry. It melded elements from their collective Jewish and Catholic upbringing.

For instance, they were married under a chuppah, a rectangular wooden structure laden with flowers. In the Jewish faith, it symbolizes the home they will build together.

After they shared their vows, a proud gay couple (my husband Tom and I) read the couple’s loving intentions for their marriage, for their families, for those who have gone before them, for their community, for the world at large in need of a hefty infusion of love, hope, humanity, equality. In every instance, the response from the congregation came in return: “Hear Our Prayer.”

A brief, unexpected shower in the middle of the ceremony–ushered in by rolling gusts of wind and the steady thrum of chirping cicadas–never dampened our spirits. It only added to the texture of the day.

As I write this, Tom and I are back home in Scottsdale, Arizona. I am fighting off the remnants of a cold. We have unpacked our bags from Chicago but haven’t yet unpacked every indelible moment from this whirlwind family wedding.

I do know in my heart that this was more than a joyous wedding. It was a healing experience to mend fences with my ex. To conjure the spirits of family members gone but still loved. To stand tall beside my husband for all the world to see. To feel true love, palpable and present, beaming between my son and his bride.

All of it gave me hope.

Show Buzz

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Nine days ago, I wasn’t sure I would be well enough to take the stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus for our fabulous Broadway Lights show June 27 and 28 at Tempe Center for the Arts.

I contracted some sort of viral infection (not Covid) that pounded my head, ravaged my gut, kept me queasy, and spurred me to take a quick Saturday visit with my husband to an urgent care facility in south Scottsdale.

This all happened while my chorus mates sang and danced their way through an all-day Saturday rehearsal.

But, remarkably, after plenty of fluids and rest, I reemerged a week ago more like myself, five pounds lighter, and ready to embrace another dazzling concert experience.

There is something mysterious about the process of coming together with a group of friends to create a great show. You endure the frustrating moments when the energy isn’t quite there. When the mics aren’t working properly. When the entrances are slow. When you turn the wrong way or sing the wrong note.

But eventually if you work long and hard enough–and all goes well enough–the magic appears. The doubts fade away. The voices and spirits rise. The lights come up and the audience appears in large numbers. They applaud, laugh and cry when they are supposed to. They even stand up and cheer with abandon.

In those moments, as you gaze into the throngs from the top riser you are reminded again why you love to sing. Why you love live theatre. Why you are thankful for Being Alive (a Stephen Sondheim number we performed from his musical, Company).

In addition to singing in this concert, I co-wrote the libretto for Broadway Lights and coached nine storytellers. They channeled their acting chops to fuse the swells of Broadway music with stories that illuminated the joys and heartaches of our LGBTQ+ lives … angsting about a first date, obsessing over a “crush”, remembering a beloved uncle who died of AIDS, returning home for a grandparent’s birthday as the person you were meant to be, celebrating a joyous wedding day, standing up against the injustices of life, and embracing the beacon of Broadway music that soars through our souls.

It’s a lot of work, but a labor of love. Love for the music. Love for the singing. Love for the community of people I perform with. Love for the audience who probably needed to be there to hear beautiful, powerful voices that transcend the ever-present noise of our American lives.

***

A few years ago, our chorus tried something new. For a small donation to the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, we invited our loyal patrons to write a few words of encouragement on a “Bravo” notecard to be delivered backstage to someone in the chorus they love, or know, or simply want to support.

I was honored to receive several “Bravo” messages over the weekend. The loving, handwritten words from my husband, chosen family, community friends, and new acquaintances touched me deeply.

Today, tomorrow, and beyond I will treasure them and the memory of standing and singing once more … side-by-side … with my chorus friends. My chosen family.

Another Orbit

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This is my space, but I feel it has eluded me lately in the blur of life.

Like the game of Chutes and Ladders, in this month of April I’ve moved forward a few paces–writing another meaningful libretto for the next Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert, Broadway Lights, in late June–while sliding back to heal from physical and emotional setbacks: two discomforting dermatological surgeries; one momentous funeral for a close cousin.

Grief has a mysterious way of throwing you into another orbit. That is where I live and breathe right now. Part of me stands on the sandy soil of Scottsdale, Arizona. Another piece is spinning somewhere else in the stratosphere.

The loss of Phyllis cut close. Not only because I loved her. But because I know she loved me. And she was a significant part of the fabric of my young life in her proximity to others I loved. Others we loved. All of whom are gone.

Our grandparents, Albert and Louise. Her mother, Violet. My father, Walter. My mother, Helen. Our aunt, Thelma.

Despite my disrupted and sometimes traumatic home life in the 1960s–featuring my father’s bipolar swings and my mother’s evening coping mechanism behind the broadsheet of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch–love existed there in our suburban St. Louis house. Love I felt. Love I excavated. Love I salvaged and carried forward. Love I still feel today.

Phyllis appeared in our home a few times a year. Usually in July to celebrate my birthday in our big backyard and in December in our living room to share Christmas dinner and exchange gifts. She was an integral presence in those moments.

There is one other moment that was purely ours. It happened just once. She must have been twenty. I was ten. She was an undergrad at the University of Missouri in St. Louis (UMSL). We both loved sports. She invited me to join her at an UMSL Rivermen basketball game.

I don’t remember much about it … how we got there, what we said to one another … just that we sat side by side in the stands rooting for the Rivermen. I just remember being proud of her. She was pretty, smart, and fun … and she wanted to spend time with her young cousin. It touched me deeply

As I write this, I realize Phyllis represented a form of stability in my life at that time … an escape to a more even, peaceful place that no one in my family of origin could provide.

Identifying that helps me to realize why this loss has hit so hard.

***

On Wednesday, April 22–Earth Day–my husband and I attended a volunteer recognition event at the Scottsdale Public Library. Alexa, the supervisor of volunteers, recognized Tom for his outstanding-and-popular movie series–and then me for my memoir-writing workshops–at the library in 2025.

We each brought home a certificate, thanking us for our volunteering efforts, along with a tiny succulent plant bearing an important message. We placed both of them on the windowsill of our south-facing sunroom in Scottsdale.

They will serve as a reminder for me that–even in my late sixties–I’m helping others grow in my community.

I know Phyllis, a life-long educator, valued that, too.

Sensitivity

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I pride myself on my sensitivity.

In my book, empathy is an essential quality for writers and human beings in general. It opens the door to developing deep and trusting relationships, but it also exposes us to emotional and physical pain. In this month of April, I have experienced both.

***

On Friday, April 10, Tom and I said goodbye to my cousin Phyllis.

The day before, we flew to St. Louis and enjoyed a nostalgic salad-and-pizza dinner with family in St. Charles, Missouri.

We gathered around a round, wooden table–balancing paper plates piled with food, while sifting through dog-eared photographs of Phyllis with living and deceased members of our Johnson family from the past seventy-five years.

In that space, I felt a meaningful connection with Tom (Phyllis’ husband), Austin and Bryant (her adult sons) and their respective spouses (Amanda and Kelsey).

Meanwhile, Phyllis’ four grandchildren–ranging in age from three to eight years old–danced around the island in Bryant and Kelsey’s kitchen, occasionally patting the head of Bennelli, their large-and-lovable labrador.

Despite the grief associated with the loss of Phyllis, it was a family moment I will cherish. One Phyllis would have loved.

The next morning, Tom and I drove to the funeral at Immanuel Lutheran Church in St. Charles with my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve.

In a large open space connected to the church, Kelsey and Bryant had carefully assembled still photos–from throughout Phyllis’ life–on boards anchored by easels. They placed them beside her closed casket adorned with sprays of colorful blooms.

Overhead, at the other end of the room on a large screen, other images of Phyllis and her family and friends faded in and out on a large screen TV.

As people began moving into the church for the 11:30 funeral service, I felt anxious. Jumpy.

A mix of nostalgia and peace washed over me, as Tom and I found a place to sit at the far-left end of the fourth pew. Diane and Steve joined us there.

I scanned the program and saw that after readings from the old and new testaments–slotted between two church hymns–I would walk to the lectern to share “Words from the Family”. To give a eulogy. To pay tribute to my closest cousin’s life.

I’ve done a lot of public speaking, presenting, and singing on a multitude of stages in my life–but few things as personal as this. I breathed in deeply to quiet my nerves. I unfolded my prepared words and looked out over a congregation of probably two hundred: Phyllis’ family, friends, teaching colleagues, students, caregivers.

In that moment, my anxiety lifted and flew away. “I am honored today to remember Phyllis. She was my cousin. We were born a decade apart in St. Louis,” I began.

The words and phrases flowed effortlessly from there, as I looked into the tearful eyes of immediate family members–three generations side-by-side spread across the first pew.

“I admired Phyllis’ poise, her style, her intellect, her ambition, her sensibility,” I continued. Before I knew it, I was reciting verses from I poem I wrote for Phyllis: The Love We Shared.

I closed my notes. I left the lectern. I paused to pat Austin, Phyllis’ eldest son, on the shoulder for reassurance, kissed him on the forehead, then returned to the fourth pew and sat beside my husband.

I pulled a wrinkled tissue from my suit pocket, dabbed my eyes, and felt sadness and love reverberate throughout the church.

***

Tom and I returned to Arizona last Saturday.

Today I found myself dealing with another form of sensitivity … sensitivity to the sun.

This morning my dermatologist–in an out-patient procedure called MOHS surgery–removed a small patch of cancerous cells from the bicep of my right arm. As I write this, I am taped up with a sizeable patch over that area.

The good news is he removed all of the problematic tissue. There is no pain, just the anxiety (and the pinch of a few needles for numbing) that immediately preceded this morning’s appointment.

In a few weeks, the remnants of that procedure will fade. My dermatologist will extract the stitches.

I will be left with my fourth such scar–one on each limb ironically–from excisions and dermo procedures.

In a sense, these scars are “badges of honor” for having lived nearly sixty-nine years and survived a series of setbacks.

They are proof that as long as I live–as long as I write, sing, slather on sunscreen, and pause to remember the ones I love–I will also remain super sensitive to the blazing Arizona sun.

The Love We Shared

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Phyllis was my St. Louis cousin. We were born a decade apart–she in November 1947, me in July 1957. Her mother Violet and my father Walter were twins.

On Tuesday evening, I learned that Phyllis died March 24, 2026. A series of health complications over the past eighteen months ultimately led to her passing. Ironically, she left this world almost exactly twenty-five years to the day after her mother’s passing in March 2001.

When we were children and teens–at every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas gathering from the late 1950s to the 1970s–my sister Diane, Phyllis and I represented the youngest contingent of the Johnson family lineage. We were loved and nurtured by our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.

I felt close to Phyllis. As I recount my earliest family memories, I admired her style, her intellect, her ambition. Years later, in the 1980s when my sons (Nick and Kirk) and hers (Austin and Bryant) were all born within a five-year period, the arc of our parallel lives as parents brought us together whenever I visited St. Louis from my home in the Chicago area.

Then, in the 1990s and early 2000s, both of us were consumed by our busy careers. She was a life-long educator. I was a communication consultant. We lost touch a bit as all four of our parents aged and died.

But the beauty of family and longevity is that–if you are willing and able–you can recapture the loving connections hard-wired in your early years.

Ultimately, Phyllis and I did that. In our retirement years, we traded texts frequently. We cheered for our beloved St. Louis Cardinals through the highs and lows. We shared family news and photos. Phyllis absolutely adored her four grandchildren!

Even though I left my St. Louis home in 1980 to build a life and career in Chicago–and later moved to Arizona with my husband Tom in 2017–the love I feel for my cousin remains.

I’m thankful that I was able to see Phyllis four times in the last decade of her life. In 2016, we celebrated her and her husband Tom’s fortieth wedding anniversary. In 2017, Phyllis and her family met Tom and me for dinner at an Italian restaurant on The Hill in St. Louis.

In 2021, we gathered for a family breakfast and reunion at Phyllis and Tom’s home in St. Charles, Missouri. Then, in September 2025, Tom and I visited Phyllis and Tom one final time at Breeze Park where she was convalescing.

Because Phyllis was a dedicated teacher and reading tutor, she enjoyed reading my books. She also followed my blog and supported my writing journey. In fact, she encouraged me to capture nostalgic memories of my paternal St. Louis family on the page. That became my second book, Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator.

So, in a sense, today I not only feel I’ve lost my cousin. I also feel I’ve lost a literary friend.

At one point, I remember Phyllis telling me she hoped to write a children’s book one day. Though that never happened, I am certain my cousin–a devoted teacher–had a positive impact on the lives of hundreds of children in her long and successful career. Her legacy will ripple through their lives and those of her children and grandchildren.

Today is the home opener for the St. Louis Cardinals. The first pitch will be thrown in about an hour. I will be watching the game on TV from my home in Scottsdale.

When the Cardinals take the field, I will be thinking of my cousin. She was a knowledgeable, lifelong, tried-and-true Redbird fan. I will imagine her rooting for them from a heavenly perch.

But, most of all, I will remember the family moments and the love we shared for nearly seventy years.

***

The Love We Shared

Heaviness in my strong heart,

numb with dread,

tells me this chapter has ended.

But I will always know

the love we shared,

the stories we treasured,

the early etchings of memories

with those who came before us,

those who embraced us,

those who left us long ago,

and the ones we shaped and loved later,

who have carved and created

paths, deeds, and destinies

of their own.

Now it is time

for you to rest.

And, as you go, I remember

the person you were,

the gifts you gave,

the lessons you taught.

But, most of all,

I remember the countless ways

your love has touched our lives.

***

Phyllis (in the center below) was eleven years old–Diane was four, I was one–when the three of us posed on November 26, 1958, at the golden wedding anniversary party for our grandparents, Albert and Louise Johnson.

Looking Over My Shoulder

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Back and forth from one end of the pool to the other on this hotter-than-average, magnificent March morning. March 24, 2026, from 9:00 to 9:30 a.m. to be precise. Thirty lengths in the deep end of Eldorado Pool in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Somehow, I wrangled my own lane today. I don’t mind sharing but always feel freer on unobstructed Tuesdays and Thursdays. There are fewer swim-class participants to contend with on those days and–now that the Cactus League baseball games have ended–some of the snowbirds have begun to flock home.

Breathing every eight or ten strokes, looking over my right shoulder, swimming south to north, I spy the blazing sun that threatens my sensitive skin and the wispy-white contrail of a commercial plane flying high above.

Serendipitously, the repetitive swimming motion reminds me what I want to write about today. It is the tenth anniversary of publishing my first book: From Fertile Ground.

On March 24, 2016, Barack Obama was president. I didn’t imagine the waves of what was to come: the growing political insanity, the dismantling of once-reliable American institutions, the general implosion of our democracy in one decade. Who could?

Back then, Tom and I were snowbirds–splitting time between our homes in Mount Prospect, Illinois, and Scottsdale, Arizona.

I wrote most of my inaugural book–a three-generation writer’s mosaic about love and loss in my family–from the suburban flatness of northern Illinois.

But working online–back and forth like a swimmer logging laps between my editor and book designer in Nashville, Tennessee, and me in Scottsdale–I made my final edits in the rugged western landscape of the Grand Canyon State.

I remember the pride of holding the first physical copy of my first book later that week. I know I cried. It was a release of joy and amazement. Most definitely, a seminal moment I shared with my husband.

Sadness crept in, too, because I had written the book to process my grief after my mother’s passing. In a physical sense, I wasn’t able to celebrate that literary moment with her.

But I also know that writing about her and her wisdom-filled letters, my father and his unrealized poetry, my grandfather and fifty-three years of diary entries, and the general sense of freedom I felt visiting my grandparents in the 1960s at their rambling North Carolina farm allowed me to create a healing path out of my grief.

It was–and still is–a story I was meant to write and publish. One I wanted to share with others navigating the devastation of grief.

In the past ten years since From Fertile Ground was born, writing has become that free, unbridled swimming lane that is purely mine. Welcome waves of water and creativity running from my mid-fifties to my late sixties.

Whenever I jump into my writing in the deep end of my emotions, I find a way back to the surface with a new story. Many of them have landed on the pages of my other five books: Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator in 2017; An Unobstructed View in 2018; I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree in 2021; A Path I Might Have Missed in 2023; and Sixty-Something Days in 2025.

Of course, I take pride in that body of work and–more recently–find it tremendously gratifying to share what I have learned with other writers, who need an experienced coach … and a few practical ideas … to tell their own stories.

Today, I also pause and wonder–with a touch of sadness as I write this–how many more stories lie ahead for me. Though I still feel strong, capable, creative, and alive in these golden years swimming back and forth under the Arizona sun, I also feel more vulnerable.

Part of it is the process of aging. The other is the narrowing swim lanes of American society that constrain freedom and the expression of ideas.

Having said that, I choose to end this story on a positive note. Today, I choose to relish the goodness of my life with Tom in this rugged landscape. To give thanks for all the stories that have come from fertile ground over the past ten years … as well as those I have salvaged from the depths of the pool looking over my shoulder to beloved people and places that now live on the page.

They Still Remain

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Without words, they supply sounds, scents, and texture to our everyday lives.

Their furry souls exist unconditionally, by our sides, under the table, on the coolest tile, or the warmest trail to nowhere special or somewhere sacred.

While they are present, our ever-lovable companions spread beauty, comedy, continuity, responsibility, laughter, goodness, grace, and wisdom across crowded kitchens, cozy front porches, and boundless backyards.

And, when nature calls and they pad along to another plane, they still remain family, they still inhabit our hearts forever.

***

For Mason, Katie, Poly, Maggie and all our furry friends who have gone before us.

Thirteen

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It is inevitable that we will lose some of those we love along life’s journey. But all is not lost.

When seminal I’ll-Be-Seeing-You moments, birthdays, anniversaries, songs reappear, we can’t help but acknowledge them.

Over the years, I have chosen to pay tribute to those I love in my memoirs in significant ways. None more than my mother.

These three sentences appear in my first book, From Fertile Ground, which I wrote and published in 2016.

“She died in the wees hours of January 26, 2013, at age eighty-nine and a half. The air was arctic cold and the moon was full. Every time I see a full moon now or experience the change in seasons, I’m reminded of my mother’s undaunted spirit.”

On this — the thirteenth anniversary of her passing — I pause.

I give thanks for Helen Matilda Ferrell Johnson.

I remember her unconditional love, her letters, her wisdom, her level-headedness, her resiliency, her love of nature.

And I do my best to carry on.

I keep writing.

Eight Years and Four Books Ago

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Eight years and four books ago, it was January 20, 2018.

I hawked my first two books–From Fertile Ground and Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator–in the vestibule of the Civic Center location of the Scottsdale Public Library with dozens of other Arizona writers at a popular local author book fair.

It was a fun, exhilarating Saturday. I greeted book lovers, exchanged ideas with other creative writers, and even sold a half dozen books.

When Covid came along two years later, right after the February 2020 local author event, library management decided to nix the annual gathering permanently.

It was one of many personal losses in a world where we were all forced to retreat to save ourselves. We had to discover new ways (thank you, technology) of being together without really being together.

I can tell you this. I wasn’t sure Tom and I would survive the Covid ordeal. But, like you, we did … with the help of in-home creative strategies and life-saving vaccines.

I certainly didn’t imagine I would write and publish four more books between 2018 and 2026. But that happened, too.

Isn’t it remarkable, how life has a way of sending us a mix of ominous clouds and sunny skies? Often, we don’t know which will appear next on the horizon. Or in what form.

Case in point. Even now as the walls of democracy feel as if they are caving in upon us in the United States, the Scottsdale Public Library has asked me to be a Writer in Residence in February and March at the same location depicted in this photo.

Eight years ago, I didn’t have this moment on my Bingo card or expect it would become a new chapter in my life journey. But it will. My role will include two components:

I have developed and will lead a 2.0 version of my Memoir-Writing Workshop (which I facilitated four times in 2024 and 2025) on three consecutive Friday afternoons: February 20, February 27, and March 6. Up to sixteen writers will participate.

If you live in the area, you can register here https://calendar.scottsdalelibrary.org/scottsdaleaz_library/260120702?utm_source=bewith&utm_medium=calendar.

Separate from the workshop, I also will offer thirty-minute, one-on-one writing coaching sessions between 1 and 2 p.m. on Mondays in February and March (in an office near the workshop location).

This will give folks who aren’t able to make the workshop a chance to receive feedback on their writing. (The library is creating a process to register for the individual sessions in advance. I will ask writers to bring just a page or two of their writing to make the experience productive and manageable.)

At any rate, I am thrilled and honored to be a Writer in Residence at the Scottsdale Public Library. It is a creative haven I have come to love in the eight and a half years Tom and I have lived in Arizona … where my movie-loving husband has created quite a following with every one of his film series.

The next one (Movies That Matter: Hollywood Families 1970-1996) begins next Monday at 3 p.m. Tom will lead film discussions and screenings, beginning with a cultural primer on the American family on January 26. Then, for the following eight Monday afternoons, he will show these fabulous eight films: Moonstruck, I Never Sang for My Father, Breaking Away, Kramer vs. Kramer, Ordinary People, Terms of Endearment, The World According to Garp, and The Birdcage.

Hopefully, this story is giving you the impetus to rediscover the programs offered at your local library … no matter where you live.

Happy reading, writing, and viewing!

Rolling Out the Dough

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Back in the early 1960s, Mom plucked two mounds of dough out of our Philco refrigerator.

She plopped them on the kitchen counter to let them soften and warm to room temperature, then pulled her rolling pin out of the cupboard.

Diane and I took our places on either side of her, holding our primitive cookie cutters. Grey. Flimsy. Metal.

One was a simple star. The second, a classic Christmas tree. The third, a basic bell. The fourth, a reindeer in flight. The last one, a profile of Santa Claus carrying a pack of toys.

Further down the counter, two slightly bent cookie sheets waited, along with green and red sugar sprinkles we would soon shake above our freshly formed Christmas cookies.

But, in this gauzy 60s slice of life featuring baking, rolling out the dough had to come first.

Mom reached into her container of flour and tossed a handful on the counter. Then, dusted the wooden roller with the remains.

She leaned in with the rolling pin and pressed the dough. Back and forth with equal measures of love. The surface expanded with our hearts and imagination.

We took turns dipping the cutters into the flour, creating our shapes in the dough.

Then, we lifted them carefully with a spatula onto the cookie sheets, added the sprinkles, and slid them into the oven for eight to ten minutes.

While the first batch of cookies baked, Mom gathered the bits of dough that remained. She created a smaller ball and flattened it out with the roller. Together, we repeated the process.

It was 1961. I was four years old. Diane was seven. We felt loved, safe in the presence of our mother.

***

Earlier this week, I found one green Christmas cookie cutter in our kitchen drawer here in Arizona. It was a gift from our friend Jillian a few years ago, but I hadn’t made sugar cookies from scratch since those early days in suburban St. Louis with my long-gone mother.

Tom and I bought a wooden rolling pin, and I found an easy sugar cookie recipe online. I assembled the ingredients to make the dough: butter, sugar, flour, one egg, a teaspoon of vanilla extract, and a dash of salt.

I mixed it all together and let the dough settle in two large discs in the fridge overnight.

On Monday, I rolled out the dough, cut the cookies, and topped my Christmas trees with green and rainbow-colored sprinkles. Then, I slid several trays of cookies into the oven to bake.

Why this year? I don’t really know, except to say it’s been an awful period in our country even though I’m a survivor and somehow have reached new creative heights in my personal life in 2025: several memoir-writing workshops, two joyful holiday concerts, and another book.

And, of course, I still miss my mother. She’s been gone since January 2013, but the grief reappears with the holidays. I suppose I needed to feel her presence again.

I needed to rescue my past Christmas-cookie-cutting memory with Mom. To keep that sweet, simple goodness alive in the stillness of my kitchen. To shepherd it into my present Arizona life with Tom and breathe new life into that tradition.

Merry Christmas, everyone.