Broccoli

When viewing land from the air, trees look like broccoli. And there’s a lot of broccoli in the Midwest, covering huge swatches of land interrupted by occasional rectangles of fields and huge circles of watered crops. Vegas, on the other hand, is just a big populated area surrounded by brown. And while there are trees within the city, they aren’t there naturally - they’re all connected to the water supply by a huge intricate sprinkler system.

In the Midwest, I drive along little bumpy country roads and marvel at the fact that not one of these plants or trees or bushes is hooked up to a sprinkler. And the roads aren’t just lined with weeds – they’re lined with huge groups of orange lilies with huge flowers and lush green foliage. No one had to plant these – they’re here naturally. Naturally.

To get water in the Midwest, you can hook up to the town water supply, or you can tap into a spring or dig a well. When I was a kid, before we got town water, our supply came from the spring far above our house on a hill. When it rained, our water turned muddy. In Vegas, I feel extremely guilty every time I water our plants because I know I am contributing to the draining of the already low Lake Mead. And yet, every plant in Vegas, every palm tree lining those casino entrances, has to be watered by Lake Mead.

When I’m in the Midwest, I drive past greenhouses and plant stands and wish I could go buy some flowers, trees, or bushes for our Vegas home. The plants are varied and vibrant – they just cry out to be taken home and put into the fertile earth where they’ll settle with a contented sigh and happily live their lives with you. In contrast to Vegas where we have to use a pick axe (I’m not kidding) to dig a hole to plant something, Midwestern soil just lies there and invites you to softly dig with a hand spade and add life to your yard. I miss gardens that are supposed to be, plants that want to grow there, and ground that doesn’t fight you with lifeless dirt and rocks. Midwestern gardens don't instill guilt.

Yes, I may be a tree hugger who hates wasting water, but my desire to create an escape in my backyard – a mini Midwestern oasis to remind me of my roots and take me home – will force me to continue to hook up sprinklers and make my husband get out the pick axe. My apologies to Lake Mead and my husband.

Eh oh, don't be a stunad...have some gabagool & proshut.

My mother-in-law is visiting right now, so our house is full of the temporary smell of cigarette smoke and old-lady perfume (not meant to be an insult, just a fact). George loves having her around because she tends to drop food on the floor randomly, unknowingly, so he follows her around and waits for the goodies to fall. When she’s here, she makes her old standard recipes that she made when my husband was a kid: asparagus, eggs, & onions (a mixture that is eaten on Italian bread as a sandwich); homemade spaghetti sauce & meatballs with raisins in them (she’s been told repeatedly for 40 years that no one likes the raisins but she insists on them); and chipped beef on toast.

I grew up in a town where everyone was culturally the same: a mixture of various cultural backgrounds, mostly from Europe, whose families had been in the United States for hundreds of years. Until I met my husband, I never even asked what our family background was. I’d never thought about it – no one in my hometown ever claimed any certain heritage. And while I did travel a bit during my life, I always saw other cultures through the eyes of a tourist.

So it was eye-opening to suddenly marry into a family that is Italian. More specifically, Italian American. And I find it fascinating to compare the differences – the generations of Italians that have been here since their grandfathers came over are very different from the Italians who are in Italy. The American experience has morphed them into their own unique culture.

I never noticed this culture until the first time I was taken to my husband’s friend’s house for dinner. It was here that I first heard the loud “Aaaaaaaaaaay!” greeting (rhymes with day or pay) that Italian Americans always seem to use, to greet any long lost friend or relative, or just anyone new who walks in the door.

Lance and I had been dating for about a year when we went to his friend Craig’s Mom’s house for a dinner at Christmastime. Craig and his brother were what I considered almost stereotypical Italian-Americans, minus the New York accent. They were both big guys with dark-tanned skin and facial hair. They wore t-shirts that proclaimed their heritage and talked about wrestling, “Philly”, and their mama’s pasta. Their Mom, Edie, had the Philadelphia accent, short dark hair and constant smile, always telling us to “Eat!” No matter how many times we said we were stuffed, she would open up pots and pans to show what was cooking. “Looooook, it’s Pasta Fazool.” “Looooook, it’s Sausage & Peppers,“ she’d say, lifting lids while constantly stirring a pot of thick red sauce with her other hand. We ended up at the table, which was covered with plates of antipasti and half-eaten pasta. The eating had begun hours ago.

The house was full of activity. Edie ran back and forth between the kitchen stove, the table, and the front room, making sure everyone was eating. The kitchen table was packed shoulder to shoulder with family and friends who were used to piling their plates high when they came to this house. Craig sat at the table next to Lance and yelled a conversation back and forth to his brother Kirk, who sat in the overstuffed chair by the TV with a plate of food on his lap and a can of Coke on the floor. The TV blared a football game – probably some team from back East - because everyone on the couch shouted at the TV every few minutes.

Amid the chaos, somehow Craig heard someone at the door. “Come in!” he yelled above the din, and the door burst open. It was four people Craig and everyone in the room knew well, obviously, because suddenly the whole room – including the couches, kitchen table, and kitchen – erupted in a loud, long “Aaaaaaaaaay!” Edie ran to them, sauce-covered spoon in hand, giving them hugs and a kiss on the cheek. Kirk raised his Coke can in salute and resumed eating his plate of pasta. Not moving from his sardined spot at the table, Craig motioned for them to go into the kitchen, “Come and eat, there’s plenty of room!” but Edie already had them in the kitchen and was opening lids for them to see.

I sat at the kitchen table and marveled at the scene before me, which seemed straight from TV. My hometown had absolutely no minorities or people of any type of culture besides “Mutt,” as Lance called me. But these people were straight out of the kitchen scene from Saturday Night Fever or old gangster movies, which were my only frame of reference for Italian American families. I grinned through the whole meal, glad that this little Hoosier girl had broadened her horizons.

(Since then, I learned that I am a mixture of English, Danish, and Irish, and some of my ancestors fought in the American Revolution. I think it’s good to know where you come from, to give a sense of permanence – a linkage to the land and the people. I thank my husband for giving me reason to discover my history.)

The Numbers

This week I began writing Part Two of my book. Or, actually I wrote PART TWO at the top of the page and then sat with George on my lap, staring at the screen for an hour. In the bottom corner of the document, it told me that I had already written 87,005 words. Those words are on 117 pages, single spaced. Not bad, I thought.

It’s not enough to tell someone I’m writing a book – I feel required to give some type of information to quantify it and make it real. And numbers give it validity - people hear how much I’ve written and know I take it seriously.

So while I waited for the first sentence of Part Two to come to me, I thought about other numbers I could give myself for validation. I often see on facebook that a cousin of mine ran 2 miles or rode her bike for 5, and I have to admit that these numbers show me she is serious. Just like in gym class in school, we can judge people’s fitness by the number of sit-ups they can do in a minute (I did over 30 back as a freshman) or how long a girl can last in the “Flex-Arm Hang” (about 5 seconds).

I have lived for 14,370 days on this earth, and according to life expectancies I have about 14,830 more to go. Or maybe I should count up the minutes – it makes them more precious, more important, by doing so.

During my singing & dancing career, I performed live for over 4,000,000 people. I always wish I could look at a map and have a light pinpoint every person who has seen me perform; it would feel like I have friends all over the world.

It took me 10 years to get my bachelors degree, and 2 to get my Masters. I am still paying for it all. I used my Masters for exactly 2.25 months. (But I don’t regret it at all; I would never regret education.)

I have been with my husband for over 1/4 of my life. My Mom was in my life for about 2/3 thirds of my years so far. George has been with me for about 1/6 of it. Those fractions will change in good ways and in bad ones over time.

I’ve lived in Vegas for 16 years and lived in my hometown in Indiana for 13, I think. That is a truly weird comparison – am I a Las Vegan now? The numbers may say so but my heart doesn’t.

I spend about eight hours a week at Starbucks. (I won’ t tell you how much money I spend there.) I go there to write, so I don’t feel guilty about those numbers.

As I write this, I am still sitting with George on my lap, waiting for the first sentence of PART TWO. Now I’m going to go buy another Chai Tea Latte (#5 for this week), write (or try to) for another 120 minutes, and then drive the 1.8 miles home. I still have 2,206 minutes left of my weekend!

Hoosier Hysteria

For those of you who don’t know the term, “Hoosier Hysteria” refers to basketball. And if you’ve never experienced it, you simply cannot grasp the unbridled fun it represents. So in honor of March Madness, I want to explain what it’s like to grow up in Indiana, the Basketball State.

My hometown’s population is 3,500. Our town’s high school basketball gymnasium seats 5,000. That fact alone could allow me to end this story right here. But let me explain further.

My family were not fans of Bobby Knight – I think we tended to be basketball purists. Knight was rude and unsportsmanlike; we respected fair play, hard work, and quiet talent instead of in-your-face victory. Boston Celtic Larry Bird grew up in French Lick, the town next to mine, and he exemplified the talent I refer to – a good old boy who made it big due to his talent, hard work, and ambition. Qualities to respect.

In my high school in Paoli, Indiana we were taught to respect the sport and to respect the other team. If our crowd’s cheers started leaning toward disrespect, our principal let us all know the next day in the morning announcements what was appropriate and what wasn’t. We were taught right and wrong through basketball. We sang along with the National Anthem, cheered on our team, and then clapped for the losing team when it was over. But don’t get me wrong, we weren’t too Goody-Goody; we had our share of slams, like at the end of the game when we were about to win and we’d yell to the opposing team “Go start the bus!”

My earliest memories of basketball, besides the men in my family playing ball at the basketball hoop that was requisite at every house, was in 1979 when our high school basketball team won the sectional. I received an autographed picture of the team when I won a kindergarten poster contest, and I treated that photo as if it contained movie stars. I got to go to the Sectional and see the packed gymnasium in all its glory, with the band playing, the cheerleaders yelling, and the crowd members – every single one of them – on their feet and into every moment of the game. It showed me that basketball was important.

This was back at the beginning of the good old days of Celtics vs. Lakers, and we watched every game in Grandma and Grandpa’s living room with my uncles and anyone else who dropped by. To this day, the ambient sound of a crowd on a TV is the most comfortable sound I can think of on an otherwise quiet weekend afternoon.

When I was in the fifth grade, our fifth grade team was undefeated, and I predicted that when we were Seniors we’d have a great team. Little did I know…

In the late 80’s, Indiana’s high school basketball was not divided into divisions as it is today; we played the teams in our area, no matter the size of the school. So it was amazing when our little town of 3,500 won the Sectional, then Regional, and went to Semi-State for the first time in our town’s history.

We were like the movie Hoosiers. Our team was featured in the big-towns’ nightly news and in Louisville and Indianapolis newspapers. We were the tiny town with smart players who went up against Goliath.

And boy was it exciting. The whole town went crazy, putting our slogan “We play ball!” on the sides of semi trailers and buildings. Townspeople attended our pep rallies and joined in caravans to our games. The whole town was decked out in our purple and gold school colors. In fact, they already were, year-round.

Hoosier basketball fans are like Cubs fans, supportive no matter what. When our guys lost their semi-state game, our fans – all of them on one side of the huge big-city gymnasium – stayed in place far after all the other winning team’s fans had gone. We stayed and continued cheering for our guys, who had played with honor, talent, and wholesome ambition.

I watched that whole basketball season from the edge of the court, my press pass allowing me closer access as I took photos for our yearbook. Later I went on to college, excited to attend my first basketball game and get all excited again, but in Missouri it was different. Yes, the fans cheered, but it wasn’t the same. The people were there but almost seemed indifferent. That’s when I learned that Indiana basketball is special.

Indiana is the land of corn, cows, and basketball. If you ever get a chance, please go to a basketball game there (preferably between rivals like Purdue and IU, or Paoli and French Lick). Now and then I go to a UNLV game to get into the spirit, and although it isn’t Indiana, it reminds me of home and those good old days in the popcorn-littered stands, together as one town, cheering for our boys. I can just hear the PHS fight song now…

Not-so-dirty Laundry

On Saturday it was gloomy outside, with an 80% chance of rain that teased us all day before finally donating a few drops after dark. I love overcast days, because they make it fun to hibernate inside with a hot drink, or they put me into Domestic Mode and I get in the mood to do housework or projects inside.

This Saturday I found myself doing laundry, and I have to admit that it is the one household chore that I don’t mind. I won’t say I like it – it seems crazy to ever say I like any type of cleaning – but I have to admit that the prospect of laundry does not fill me with dread like vacuuming, doing dishes, or cleaning toilets does.

I realized this when I turned on the dryer on Saturday, and the laundry room filled with the warm rattle of the dryer’s drum turning lazily over and over. That sound – the rhythmic hum – is actually comforting to me. It brought me back to weekends as a child, when Mom was in the other room doing laundry, and it meant that I was at home, safe. Laundry days meant we had free time, an afternoon, a whole block of time to while away however we wished.

On cold laundry days, Mom would take a load of hot towels or sheets straight from the dryer and plop them onto me, where I sat on the couch, so I could snuggle into them like a cocoon. She had a knack for turning everyday things into fun.

In the Spring and Summer, Mom hung the laundry outside on our clothesline that had a bird feeder hanging from one end. This was partly an economic choice, but more likely, she liked the way clothes smell after they’ve dried outside. You just can’t beat that smell – no dryer sheet or fabric softener can capture it, no matter how hard they try.

In Las Vegas we’re not allowed to put clotheslines in our backyards because the neighborhood associations prohibit it. But my laundry room tries to make up for it. I have a retractable clothesline so I can hang things across the room if I want, I painted the walls a bright sky-blue, and I hung Mom’s painting of picnic tables above the washer/dryer. And covering the main wall are framed photos of clotheslines…one of romantic Italian clotheslines from a trip with my husband, one of my Mom’s sheets blowing in the Spring breeze, one of my great-aunt’s frozen clothesline in the snow, and one of me hanging towels with my childhood pet cat at my feet. Doing the laundry brings me closer to all of them.

Yes, I competed in the Olympics.

One morning this week, I watched a group of six adults run laps around the soccer field next to the dog park. One was more athletic and eventually passed (several times) all those who straggled behind and were forced to walk. And as usual, I sat on my bench and tried to get motivated to exercise more.

I was never an athletic child. Sure, I took dancing lessons, played in the hills behind our house, skied at our local ski resort, and went to the public pool every summer, but I was never considered athletic. I did win first place in the skipping contest in second grade, but I was always one of the last girls chosen when we picked teams in gym class.

Despite this, when I was ten years old I signed up to be in the regional Girl Scout Olympics and run the 880-yard race in the big town of Bloomington. I have no idea what possessed me. Maybe I didn’t want to be left out. Maybe I liked feeling important when adding my name to the list. Most likely, I didn’t know how far 800 yards was!

While I remember very little of that big Olympics day, the race itself is very clear. I was the only contestant there from my hometown, and I realized at the starting line that I was way out of my league. This was no longer the Girl Scouts; this was like the Olympics I had seen on TV. These girls did not look like ten-year-old me. They were tall, lean, and chiseled. They stretched at the starting line and warmed up, knowingly. I looked at them out of the corner of my eye, copying the way they put their feet on the starting blocks.

The gun fired and we were off. I began running, trying desperately to look like I belonged. Most of the girls easily broke away from the group and picked up the pace. I kept running, trying not to think about how tired my legs were. This was far longer than I expected, and the end was nowhere in sight.

The girls were all far in front of me now, and I began to get embarrassed. I fought the urge to cry, and instead adjusted my arms to the position the other runners used. I tried not to imagine what the bystanders were thinking as they watched me straggling behind.

Eventually as the race went on, a runner moved to the side and slowed to a walk. As I passed, she leaned over with her hands on her knees in exhaustion. “She’s quitting!” I realized in surprise. And as I continued, another girl slowed to a walk, then another.

I kept running. By this time I had very little energy left. But I kept running. We had gone around the track 1½ times when I began to cry. I was tired and embarrassed and overwhelmed and wanted my mom. By now I had no semblance of form left. I saw the tallest, most graceful girl cross the finish line far ahead of me, with her arms thrown above her head and her back arched against the tape. An eternity later, I crossed the finish, my arms and legs flailing wildly, and sobbing uncontrollably. I kept running straight into my mother’s arms.

At the time, the race was not a momentous occasion. Mom cleaned me up and we drove home, stopping for ice cream on the way.

But looking back I am very proud of that day. Now when I face obstacles as an adult, I see my 3rd place ribbon and remember that somewhere deep down I have an inner strength. The little girl in me remembers that I am not a quitter. I may flail a little and shed a few tears, but overall I can hang on through anything.

In Praise of Vegas

My Las Vegas-born husband did not like my last post, claiming that in it I bashed Las Vegas. I assured him that the stereotypes I discussed exist everywhere – they are just more prevalent in Las Vegas. But he still seemed miffed. And I don’t blame him – I don’t hide the fact that I don’t like Las Vegas and would rather live somewhere else. But because I am an optimist and always try to see the bright side, I sincerely would like to like Vegas. Seriously. I know that if we moved away, I would see more of Vegas’ virtues and I would miss certain things. So in honor of Las Vegas, and in an effort to appreciate it more, I will devote this week’s entry to trying to see its good points.

1. The first thing that comes to mind is that Las Vegas does not have many bugs. In the Midwest, it is impossible to sit outside at night near a light because of the huge swarm of ugly bugs that fly around. In Vegas, hardly anything comes near a light.

(I am trying very hard to avoid pointing out that the reason there are no bugs here is because nothing grows here for them to feed on. Oops…a negative about Vegas. I digress. I will avoid these for the rest of the post, because there is probably a “but” to everything I list.)

2. In Las Vegas, you can plan an outdoor event very easily. Wind is usually the only thing that might ruin outdoor plans. But generally, outdoor events like parades, festivals, and picnics are a great thing in Vegas. In fact, we love to go out to Spring Mountain Ranch in the summer to see their outdoor shows - they’re hardly ever canceled due to the weather.

(But this is because we never get rain, never have a thunderstorm, never have a good old cloudy-curl-up-at-home kind of day. And I LOVE rain! Oops. I did it again. I will keep the buts out, from now on.)

3. You can get anything you need at any time of the day in Vegas. Need a pair of shoes at 3am? Go to the 24-hour Target. Need more sugar at midnight? Go to the 24-hour grocery. Alcohol is sold on Sundays, and you can go to a movie at 2am. If you’re a night owl, Vegas is the place to live.

4. When the weather in Las Vegas gets too hot, Mt. Charleston is a short drive away. There, the temps are always at least 20 degrees cooler, so you can find relief in the summer or play in the snow in the winter. And it’s a tiny mountain community that provides a convenient getaway. How many other cities offer something so completely different, so close?

5. Because Las Vegas is a tourist destination, friends and family tend to visit more often.

6. Las Vegas is an open-minded city but also has a conservative side. Any type of person – any extreme – can find a community here.

7. Las Vegas is a major airline hub, so it’s easy to fly to any city. And the ocean is a four-hour drive away. A good weekend trip.

(I just noticed that two of my good points about Vegas are about getting out of town. Probably not the best things for this list.)

8. There is a huge amateur theatre community in Las Vegas, so anyone who wants to perform has an opportunity.

That’s honestly all I can think of. And I sincerely, honestly, am trying. Really. I may end up living here forever, so believe me, I really want to learn to love this place. I would love to have a list of reasons I like Las Vegas, without any "buts".
So, I beg of you, would you help me add to my list? I am a glass-half-full kind of a girl, and I truly want to love where I live. Please point out any of the good things that I may be missing! Thank you.

p.s. I thought of number nine on the way to work today. The view of the city in the morning is gorgeous, when the silhouette of the Strip’s buildings are hazy against the mountains in the distance, and the sky is huge and blue above it all. There is no “but” to this one.

Christmas Trees

On Sunday we decorated for Christmas, and now the house has that festive vibe and a faint smell of pine. George spent the day following us from room to room as we unpacked boxes and climbed up and down ladders, and he finally fell asleep under the table during dinner because he didn’t get his usual afternoon nap.

I hadn’t planned on buying a real tree this year. Tired of the same decorations going in the same spot every year, I thought I would just make do with the small fake tree we usually put in the dining room. But at Home Depot on Sunday morning I had to walk past the area where all the trees were displayed and employees were cutting and wrapping trees, where families were picking out the perfect one to tie onto their car and take home.

It was the smell that got me - that sharp pine smell that suddenly made it feel like Christmas and put a warm, cozy feeling in my belly.

So I bought a tree in Home Depot. A small one that we put upstairs on a table in our TV room to be different this year. It’s short and fat and fun, and we covered it only with the ornaments we’ve bought when we’ve traveled, to make it personal and different.

Picking out a tree has to be at the top of my list of favorite holiday activities. It was always fun to go with Mom to the tree lot in the freezing cold and pick out just the right one. When I was little, my Grandma used to cut down a tree from the woods behind their house – usually a cedar whose branches were so flimsy that they would fall over like Charlie Brown’s tree when we hung anything on it. And before I was born, my Mom once used a tumbleweed as a Christmas tree, when she lived in New Mexico.

When our schedules cooperate, my husband and I go to Utah with our friends to get a tree from the forest there. And it is so much fun – her whole family piles into several trucks and we drive forever on bumpy unpaved roads to the location that her dad has scoped out already. And we walk, freezing, spreading out through the trees, searching for the perfect one. The great thing is that no one is rushed. No one gets impatient when I need to walk 100 yards back to the tree I saw before, just to see if it is better. They understand the fun of the hunt. And when everyone has their perfect tree, we throw them into the back of their pickups and head back to her parents’ house for hot soup and to warm up by the fire.

Tonight my husband and I will have our annual tradition of sitting by the Christmas tree after it’s decorated, with only the tree lit, and we’ll listen to Bing Crosby, sip eggnog, and sit and enjoy the calm of cold December night. I hope you all can find some quiet time by the tree, too.

The Search for Home

When I was a teenager I gave my mom a Mother’s Day card that said, “Wherever I travel, Wherever I roam…Wherever my Mom is will always be home.” And because of the special connection she and I had, she knew I meant it, and she framed the card in a black frame and hung it above the piano in her collection of family photos and artwork.

That framed card is in my house in Las Vegas now, and whenever I look at it I wonder exactly where home is for me now. Mom passed away over ten years ago, so if that card’s sentiment is still true, I am a little lost.

I’m writing this from Indiana during Thanksgiving Week, in the town I grew up in, where memories (good and bad) lurk around every corner. And the whole time I wonder, where is home? When I’m in Las Vegas, I refer to my hometown of Paoli, Indiana as “home.” But when I’m in Paoli, Las Vegas gets that title of honor. So, what is home to me? I’ve lived in Las Vegas for over 15 years, yet I don’t feel that it will ever feel like home. And it has been twenty years since I’ve lived in Paoli…I appreciate and miss the family history I have there, but it doesn’t feel like Me anymore.

So, if Paoli isn’t home but neither is Vegas, where would be the ideal place for me? My husband says no to anywhere he would have to shovel snow, so that limits my choices. Lately I think we would really like it in the Northwest, maybe Portland, Oregon, but the funny thing is that I’ve never been there! I’m looking for a place with open-minded people, people who appreciate nature & culture, a university, and access to city life and natural beauty.

But would that finally feel like home? The location would be great but still there would be no family connection or history, none of the friends from Vegas we’ve known for years, and my mom still wouldn’t be there.

I don’t think there is an answer. Instead, I will go on making memories, enjoying life, and making our current place a home. And then finally, someday, I’m sure I will suddenly realize that Home has a definite location for me. Someday.

Or maybe I should just be thankful that I have several places to call home. I’m lucky to have fond memories of the hometown where I grew up and the city home where I’ve led my adult life, and maybe many more places will earn that title of honor, even temporarily. If home is where the heart is, I can just spread the love around, right?

I write this from the only place in Paoli where I can get an internet wireless connection, with a view toward the southeast side of town. Let's see what memories I can stir up from my view out this window - memories that happened while Paoli was my home:

I can see the back of the library building, where I used to go in the side entrance to the children's section in the basement, where Mrs. Ott used to read us stories.

The market I sit in right now used to be the Variety Store, where as a child I loved to go because you could buy lots of cheap things - candy, toys, sewing projects, kitchen trinkets. Mom received many Christmas gifts that I purchased here, and when she was a child she used to come here with her mom.

My Grandma's church would be in view if it weren't for a large semi trailor that is blocking my view. During my childhood I spent summers in their basement for Vacation Bible School. It's also where we gathered for a free dinner with family and friends on the day of my Mom's funeral.

Farther on is the liquor store, where we never went, since my Mom was a teacher and this is a small town in the Bible Belt. I went in there once a few years ago and couldn't shake the feeling that I was being bad!

I can see the roof of Crockett's Flowers & Gifts, the florist from whom we ordered flowers for Mother's Day or birthdays or funerals, and where I would run inside to pick up my friend Pam for a playdate in elementary school. Just up the hill was where Jennifer C lived in a large yellow brick house...I think I may have spent the night there once or twice.

The highway that heads out of town to the southeast logged thousands of miles during my life in Paoli, when Mom and I went to Louisville to see musicals and ballets, to Kentucky to visit relatives, or to Florida or South Carolina for summer vacations.

And through the trees I can see the roof of the old brick Stalcup building - now converted into a business, where my Grandma, and my Mom and her sister, went to high school. Tall and stately above the trees, it was on its grounds that we rehearsed for the musical Oklahoma! when I was a kid, and I still refer to that time as "the good old days", when I began to love the theatre.

All of the above memories, just off the top of my head, from this one tiny window view.

I feel lucky to have called this place home, even if it was only for a while. And I think it will always stay on my list of places to call home. I'm thankful for that, no matter where I end up.