Embedded Files
When the First Plane Hit
How many times have you heard, or perhaps said, the phrase, “When the first plane hit…”? Before 2001, this could have been referring to any number of ominous incidents fiction or non-fiction. But ever since September 11, 2001, it has held one meaning.
On September 11, 2001, when the first plane hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City, I think many of us were hoping that, while it was monumentally dreadful, it was an accident. But in the back of my mind, I remember wondering if it was more than that. I didn’t need to wonder very long because, only minutes later, the second plane hit the other Twin Tower. Then, in that bone-chilling scene of smoke, debris and lives ending right before my eyes on live television, I knew for a fact it was really happening. America was under a terrorist attack.
I was still living in Columbus that day and I remember how quiet everything was for several days after. No planes in the sky. No real words to describe what we all were feeling. Whether we were at any of the disastrous events that day, lost loved ones, or were miles and miles away from danger, we were all scarred and would never be the same.
And now, flash forward to 2026 and the 25th anniversary of that fateful day. Twenty-five years have passed and yet I still feel raw, still find it difficult to hold back the tears. Threads of pride and awe are woven in that blanket of sorrow as I think about all the heroes back then and all since. Citizens who never expected to jump into action joined firemen, paramedics, police officers and more. And so many soldiers chose to bravely fight the evils of terrorism since then. Some of whom, in fact nearly 300, are currently memorialized at the Ohio Fallen Heroes Memorial in Sunbury, Ohio.
And that is the place where Gary and I plan to remember, pray and honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice following 9/11. With flags on our motorcycles we will embark on a ride, hosted by Knox County Veterans’ Association, to the memorial site where we will join together to celebrate brave Ohio heroes.
“One of the worst days in America’s history saw some of the bravest acts in Americans’ history. We’ll always honor the heroes of 9/11,” former president George W. Bush said. And so, whenever I say, or hea,r the words “When the first plane hit,” my heart is not only filled with grievous memories, but also with gratitude and awe for our heroes.
Summer
Published in the Circleville Herald August, 2026
When I was fifteen, I began earning an official paycheck. The days of cash slipped into my hand after an evening of giggling with little kids, drying eyes when a Teddy Bear sprung a leak, and wearing little ones out so they would peacefully sleep, were over. When I was fifteen, instead of cash for babysitting, there was a check for clocking in at an establishment, and therefore a matching checking account. And when I moved out from home at the age of sixteen, while still in high school, there were bills. Rent, utilities and a small amount of groceries quickly gobbled up that paycheck.
As I think about those days and anticipate the September fields filled with corn grown “yea high,” goldenrod accompanied by black-eyed Susans and school buses once again traversing back and forth on our road, I also think about the time before the paycheck – the time when summer seemed to have no end.
Remember the days when summer stretched out before you in a never-ending horizon of staying up late watching scary movies, basking in the sun by the pool, riding your bicycle, and racing your tongue over popsicles bought with your hard-earned quarters? Before air-conditioning, I would sleep with the windows open listening to the sounds of crickets and tree-frogs – those sounds which are still my favorite part of summer.
It feels like this summer began only yesterday and yet here it is late August. Just like that. Back to School ads flood our televisions, schools are ready for the new year, and we will soon and swiftly move into fall. Summers that once seemed perpetual are now but fleeting moments.
I try to fool my mind into not recognizing the signs of fall. I’m considering not flipping the page of my wall calendar from August to September when that day that is just around the corner comes.
And then I’m reminded of God’s lesson “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven” and I set myself to enjoy what is left of this season and accept that when these warm and sunny days give way to chillier ones, I will be ready and will embrace the change, just like I did this one when spring gave way to summer.
Gifts
Published in the Circleville Herald August, 2026
On my jewelry box sits a little porcelain doll in a lacy blue dress, hat, and shoes. What makes it extra special is that it was a gift bestowed upon me by a dear friend who I have known since back in high school. I rarely get to see her, but I think of her often and am so very touched knowing that she chose to give me that doll upon her mother’s passing. She gave me a couple of her mother’s crystal dishes too. And while they are beautiful, I love them even more because my friend wanted me to have something of her mother’s.
Throughout our house there are paintings and photographs from artists I’ve known. They are special not just because they are stunning, inspiring, and thought-provoking but also because, for reasons I may never know, those artists chose those particular pieces to give to me.
Our house is rich with random items. Small stuffed lambs, earrings from Yellow Springs and from the Columbus Museum of Art; miniature, wooden sailboats; porcelain frogs; teacups; small, porcelain shoes; a cookie jar; a replica of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Mud Maiden; and so much more. They are scattered throughout the house on bookshelves, on dressers, and in various other nooks and crannies. They would make no sense to a stranger, but to me, each and every one is a memory and a channel, if you will, to the hearts of those who gave me these gifts.
I think in today’s world we sometimes get hypnotized by glittery, fancy things, when the unassuming items can carry the richest weight.
The love and memories from the gifts in our home span decades – some from when I was just a little girl, not having even achieved my first full decade yet.
In his poem, “The Gift,” Persian poet, Hafiz, wrote “You ache with loneliness one night. So much you weep. And I say, here is a rope, tie it around me, Hafiz will be your companion for life.”
And I think to myself, how very blessed I am to have so many companions for life. My wonderful husband, Gary, and so many others who have touched my being and left these gifts as gentle reminders of them – a rope, if you will, to perpetually tie our lives together.
And I think of you, Dear Reader, and I invite you to take a trip down memory lane as you visit what treasures you may have collected over the years that occupy more than a space on your shelf but also a place in your heart.
The Rejuvenating Ride
Published in the Circleville Herald August, 2026
It was Saturday, but I arose earlier than usual for even a weekday. I opened the back door as the morning light was just starting to peek through the night to awaken the cardinals, robins, finches, brown-headed cow birds and other array of inspiring songs and chatter from the birds who frequent our property for sustenance and social gatherings. I quickly ate breakfast, hugged Gary and the dogs, and headed out on my motorcycle.
For the end of July, the weather felt autumnal. For the spirit of a poet, the morning evoked many words and phrases that would be forever lost with hands occupied with shifter and throttle instead of pen and paper. It mattered not, for some moments become etched in our soul regardless of the absence of written words or photographs.
Escorted by patches of fog simulating life’s constant drift through confusion and clarity, my imagination took flight. Tiers of treetops, hills and mist convinced me I was back in the Rocky Mountains. The sound of my motor fooled me to thinking I was on a road trip – one so long that it would be impossible to be back to work the day after next.
Somewhere on Amanda Northern Road, north of 22, the hazed layers revealed a field of round hay bales – the subject matter for quite a few stunning photographs my husband, Gary, has taken. Ever so elegantly and silently a hawk sat at attention atop one of the mounds. And I wished Gary was there to see it. At the same time I missed him, though, I felt him ever present. Isn’t it something how our person and our canine companions are omnipresent even if their physical bodies might not be within sight?
I feel my dogs who are in heaven soar alongside me enjoying the early morning solitude and spiritual fulfillment. The décor of wings and halos on my bike are evidence and tribute to all of them.
I arrived at my first destination, a home of friends, where a few of us would gather to embark on a ride for an hour or so to meet with more friends and spend the day riding together. We are so fortunate to live in the State of Ohio where the beautiful landscapes are bountiful and there is a plethora of winding roads lined by woods, fields, hills, rivers, lakes and streams. To share that with friends is the creme de la crème.
The riding was a juxtaposition of companionship and isolation. I felt all the noise from the week before brush off my shoulders and become scattered in the wind. I took deep breaths, excelled a sigh of relief, shed tears of gratitude and became renewed. The same sun that had brought the birds to sing that morning, in turn, now brought my heart to do the same.
The Club
Published in the Circleville Herald July, 2026
I have a club membership I would like to rescind, but it’s like those pesky calls we get from “Scam Likely,” no matter how much I try to block, run, or hide, I still end up paying the membership dues. The fee isn’t in dollars, it comes in the form of sleepless nights, migraines, cardiac spasms, and a dependence on a heating pad for my belly.
And the club doesn’t have an official name, or a fancy building with fountains and a mandatory dress code. The club is comprised of bully targets. Unfortunately, according to the American Osteopathic Association, 31% of adults are members of this horrible club, so that means you might also be paying the painful dues.
I seek discounts on the fees through mindfulness practices, spending time outdoors, riding my motorcycle and sharing my experiences with my husband, Gary; my friends; and others who might be able to help me. I also focus on other memberships. Those include the Breakfast Club; a small group of friends who ride motorcycles together and sometimes meet in Kingston at Steve’s Village Inn. If you’ve not been to this friendly establishment, I suggest you try it. Our club is motivated by breakfast there, as is obvious by our club’s name. When there, I get lost in conversations, warm friendship, and a truly amazing western omelet.
There is another club that generously gives instead of takes. That club is my belief in God. I oftentimes forget to pray for myself, but I know that He knows what is going on. And I believe the bully target club is part of His plan.
There’s a song by my long-time friend Bobby MaGee that says it all. “By the Grace of God” on Bobby’s album “Southern Summer Days” has a line that goes, “He’s been down. He’s been broken, but the Light keeps shining true. Sometimes the pain just proves what a little faith can do.”
On a wing and a prayer, sometimes on the motorcycle, I find solace, strength, and hope. I rise each day with gratitude for the good things and a determination to survive the bad.
Bobby’s song continues “Every scar tells a story… still standing by the grace of God.” And I wonder if that is why I am an unwilling member of the bully target club. Maybe it is so that the scars will give me a story I can share with you so that, if you too are a target, you will know you are not alone.
If you are a target of bullying, there are many resources for help – someone in your family, at school, at church, a friend, someone in leadership at work, websites like StopBullying.gov. and more.
Still Standing Tall
Published By the Circleville Herald July, 2026
In his song, “Still Standing Tall,” Bobby MaGee sings “The bills are stacked, like a mountain climb, the radio’s playing overtime. Got dust on my boots, a scar on my pride, but I’m still breathing - I’m still alive.”
I’ve been listening to this song repeatedly the last few days. It’s not just because Bobby is a long-time friend of mine, or because his voice and the instrumentation are remarkable; it’s also because the lyrics cut through me and have taken permanent residence in my heart and mind.
Timing is everything.
I’m writing this to you with one toe inching over the finish line that has evaded me for over five years. One day I was running long distance, the next I was not able to really walk. Stress from being bullied combined with the COVID vaccine boosters struck me down with a heart attack followed by years of battling recurrent pericarditis with myocarditis, myopericarditis and microvascular angina. You may have had a similar experience – maybe not the heart, but somewhere and somehow life hit you hard.
Bobby sings “Life hits hard, but I hit back too. Ain’t letting it break what’s true. I’ve been knocked down, spun around… but I keep rolling, heart still going. Even when the world says I’m done tonight, I’ll rise again through the fall. I’m still standing tall.”
My husband, Gary, calls me Scrapper Girl. And these last 5+ years I have proven myself worthy.
At last, the finish line is here. This week, I take my final injection for my heart. The painful treatment that played a key role in saving my life and turning it upside down with its side effects. I have cursed it every night as the long, sharp needle forced a burning thick syrup into my body. And I have said a prayer of gratitude at the same time.
This week, the prayer will be toasted with a very special Pear martini I have been craving for a long time.
“Whiskey don’t heal what the soul can’t mend, but I’ve made peace with where Ive been. Stare down the miles that never end. I see a start where others see an end,” Bobby’s song continues.
Do you know that feeling? I am having it now. I’m beyond excited about getting my life back. It starts now. It will be a lot of work, but I’m strong.
Bobby sings “Theres a creak in my bones, fire in my veins. I’ve learned to dance in the pouring rain. Can’t kill the will that calls my name. Strength ain’t bought, it’s made in the pain… I’lll rise again through the fall. I’m still standing tall.”
Whatever journey you are on, no matter how high that mountain, how intense the rain, how hard you fall, I am wishing this for you, that you rise victorious from the battle – that you remain standing tall. And if you need inspiration to help you through, I recommend Bobby Magee’s album “Southern Summer Days.” You can find Bobby and his music on Spotify and Facebook.
To Those Who Wave Their Rainbow Flags
Published in the Circleville Herald June, 2026
This one goes out to those who proudly wave their rainbow flags for all to see and to those who quietly do so in the back of their thoughts.
During the month of June, Pride Month, we officially praise the vast contributions of the LGBTQ+ community to all facets of life: history, the arts, society, so much more. The rainbow flag is a beautiful illustration and recognition of how monochrome life would be if it were not for our LGBTQ+ community.
I oftentimes think of my dear cousin who was so very kind and sweet to me when we were kids – a time when a few years difference in age made other older boys throw rocks at me or completely ignore me. But this boy would have real conversations with me, go on walks with me and play hide and seek. Little did I know how the game would transfer to his later, and far too few years. We lost touch as we grew older and it was too late when I was told that he had spent his life shunned by family until he melted away through the horrible diminishing disease AIDS. I wish we had stayed in touch. I will always regret that.
I believe that Steve, and my early introduction to the Congregationalist way of thinking, are the reasons why I have viewed all my friends of the LGBTQ+ world as just like me – our differences just like with any other straight people in my life. We will always have different preferences, perspectives, and mannerisms. The big difference, though, is that I do not have to fight my way through societal blindness to be accepted because of who I believe myself to be and who I choose to love and to marry.
I know there are those who read my words today who are of the same mindset, just as I know there are others who are not. If you are of the second group, I hope that you will open your mind and your heart to the understanding, respect and recognition that we all deserve to be served the same meal from the plate of life. A plate colorful and delightful like a rainbow flag.
Sounds
Published in the Circleville Herald June, 2026
There are certain sounds that stir my soul – my husband Gary’s voice, tree frogs and crickets on a warm summer evening, the reverberation of our front porch wind chimes, and the sound of my bike’s motor. These are the songs of love, of the peaceful closing of day, of serenity and of freedom.
Sounds can be thunderous like a summer storm and they can be subtle, like the way a voice changes when accompanied with a smile or the way my name sounds when Gary speaks it. As a writer, I also love the sound of some words like my favorite, abendonnenschein, which is German for evening sun.
This past weekend I heard words of welcome and friendship from people new to me when a couple of my friends and I spent Saturday on an Indian Lake excursion with the U.S. Spyder Ryders Greater Cincinnati Chapter. The words were genuine as was evident in the way they made us feel like we were not strangers, but rather members of the family. I heard those warm words on Sunday as well when I joined a small group of friends for a peaceful Hocking Hills ride. They are friends who I’ve only come to know in the last year, but who are now like family too.
The words of my friends, the sound of the wind as we rode through it and the purr of my bike’s engine all brought me delight. The extra serving of sweetness was when we would stop for a break or for lunch and we would engage in friendly banter. The sounds of laughter were bold, and bright and beautiful.
There was a space in time both days when winding our way back home, that I chose to not listen to my music, but rather to the wind I collided with. Wind therapy is not only the feeling of flying, but also the peace of being in the moment. It’s a strange mix of being on high alert while feeling calm, and being aware of the world around you while, at the same time, in your own space carved out of the air just for you. The wind is loud and also silent at the same time and it carries a message that conveys that one way or another all will be well. It might not work out the way you are expecting or hoping for, or maybe it will be exactly what you dreamed of – but no matter what, it will be the plan of our Higher Power. And whether we understand that through a message in our gut or our heart, whether a faint whisper or a load roar, there is no greater sound than that.
Courage, Longevity and Survival
Published in the Circleville Herald - May, 2026
This past weekend was a mix of celebrations. Courage, longevity, and survival were among the themes.
It was a milestone birthday for my husband, Gary. Although one could argue every birthday – in fact, every day is one to celebrate. This one, though, really touched me to the core. It reminded me that while we are 13 years old in our relationship, he had a whole lifetime before me. One filled with kids of his own and children of others that he swooped in to help because of their tumultuous situations. And there were the years he served in the Coast Guard.
Gary’s milestone was not the only one celebrated over the weekend. Many were honored and remembered at the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Columbus. My friend Sherry, a cancer survivor, her daughter, Olivia, and I rode our motorcycles appropriately lit up in bright pink to the event so that we could celebrate courage and survival and the real belief in longevity. Somewhere in the crowd was my dear friend Lydia, another amazing woman who is also a survivor.
We waded through a sea of pink wigs, t-shirts, and tutus as we bobbed up and down to happy beats. I still need to mask up, but I was among those who understood. The joy I saw on Sherry’s face as she took in the event was priceless and I am so touched that I got to be there to witness it with her beautiful daughter. My dear friend from back in high school, Lydia, and I messaged each other, and though we never found each other that day, I knew she was somewhere nearby and most definitely dancing joyfully.
There was a quiet moment at the Race for the Cure. It was when I came upon the pink tent with white notes cascading down, one after the other, row after row, all fluttering like silent wind chimes. Each note carried the name of a loved one handwritten in ink, tears, and laughter to remember and honor those we have lost to breast cancer. It was bittersweet. In the sadness there was a feeling of warm love wrapped in angel wings soaring to heaven to say we have not forgotten and then coming back to earth to comfort those left behind.
American author, Stephanie Garber wrote “Heroes don't get happy endings. They give them to other people.” While I would argue that the former is not always true, I completely agree with the latter. I’m grateful for the courage, survival, and longevity of the heroes in my life who have earned their happiness and who so generously share it with others.
Celebrating Women Riders
Published in the Circleville Herald May, 2026
Saturday May 2, 2026, was International Female Ride Day. This is not to imply that women are more important than other groups of riders, but rather that it is a time to celebrate a population who was not at the starting line when the race began.
The first self-propelled (steam) two-wheeled machine in the United States was invented by Sylvester Roper in 1869. The requirement for operating licenses began in the early 1900s, but it wasn’t until nearly 40 years later, in 1937, that women were permitted to get a license to ride. It started with one woman, Sally Robinson, who bravely fought her way through many barriers to earn that achievement in Washington, D.C.
It’s hard for me to imagine what life would be like if I wasn’t “permitted” to earn my full endorsement to ride my motorcycle. And yet, I was aware of the honor and privilege that day when I passed the motor skills test and received that stamp of approval on my driver's license. Being able to ride my own bike, navigate through my own path of winding roads of wind therapy, has carried me through these recent difficult years dealing with heart conditions caused by stress and the COVID booster. I have no regrets about the vaccination but would have had plenty if I had not chased my dream of having a motorcycle and the accompanying license to ride it - a dream that rests on the shoulders of so many other women riders in history, riders like Sally Robinson and Bessie Stringfield.
Bessie Stringfield was the first Black women to ride solo across the United States and did so eight times in the 1930s. It’s hard to fathom the plethora of dangers she faced. It’s not just that motorcycles were primitive then, but so were the people. Bessie had to fight through racism and gender discrimination while she also navigated roads unfriendly to motorcycles and motorcycles unfriendly to riders.
In 2023, there were 8.8 million registered motorcycles in the United States (Consumer Affairs, March 2024) and about 20% of those bikes were owned by women. Robinson and Stringfield, I’m sure, would be happy to see that growth and I hope that the numbers will continue to bloom.
In the meantime, I will continue to feel blessed and grateful for my right to ride my own motorcycle. And I will continue to greet other riders I pass and do so with amplified enthusiasm when they are women riders as we share a history of those before us fighting so that we can ride today.
A Message from Our Rescued Dog, Shelby – Partners for Paws Event
Published in the Circleville Herald April, 2026
I work from home, which means I get visits throughout the day from our rescued dogs, Rusty and Shelby. Rusty is about four years old, 30 pounds, and a Jack Russel mix. He ambles in and lays down by my chair to keep me company. Shelby is about two years old, 90 pounds and a Bloodhound, Labrador, Boxer, Moose mix. She clomps into my office and sits near my chair and stares at me quite judgmentally. She seems to be asking me what the point is for what I am doing on my computer all day and how anything could be important if it doesn’t involve a blue rubber ball.
She has a point.
If you also share your life with dogs, this all sounds familiar to you, I’m sure. And if your dogs are rescues, you know their layers can be many. If you do not have a rescued dog, I’d like to peel that onion for you just a little bit – might be enough to make you cry as is the case with onions and rescued dogs, but I also hope it will help you to decide to rescue, or at least help those who need rescued.
Both Rusty and Shelby came to us from a dog shelter. They both came with known and unknown histories and, while not necessarily the case for all shelter dogs, these two also have many issues. They will both probably be scarred forever. Both have made a lot of progress, but Shelby has much further to go. All we can really figure out is that dreadful things happened at night and they involved a man and a flashlight. Something evil also happened at mealtime. I know eating is potentially always an issue, but this is different.
It’s taken a lot of work to show Shelby she is safe, but when we have those beautiful moments, oftentimes involving that coveted blue ball, she shines. And when Shelby shines, we all shine. “Religion is a smile on a dog,” Edie Brickell sang in “What I am.” Those words could not be truer.
Dogs really are like people. Innately, they are social, loving, and thinking beings. It is humans who taint those wonderful characteristics. And it is up to the rest of us to bring the loving light back into dogs’ lives when someone has snuffed it out.
One way that happens is through the magnificent work of dog shelters and another way that happens is through the work of organizations like Partners for Paws who are committed to supporting those shelters. Whether you have, or will adopt a shelter dog, or not, you can still support our shelters and the beautiful creatures they take in until forever homes are found.
One way to support Partners for Paws (740-420-6277) and, in turn, our Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter is through donating and participating in their annual fundraiser which will take place Saturday April 25, 2026, at 6pm at AMVETS, 818 Tarlton Road, Circleville, Ohio 43113. Door tickets are $30.00 which is a small price for what you receive in a return – a delightful evening with appetizers, desserts, Manchester Hill wine, raffles, auctions, laughter, story sharing and knowing that you are helping dogs who really need us.
I understand there might also be an appearance by Elvis at the event. I’m imagining him singing “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog… and you ain’t no friend of mine,” but Shelby would disagree with the lyrics. She might have hound in her mixture, but she, along with all the other shelter dogs, need us to be their friends. In turn, they will bring us that religion and smile that Edie Brickell sang of.
An Escort to Their Final Destination
Published in the Circleville Herald April, 2026
There’s a song that’s been floating around in my head lately, “A Summer Song,” sung by Chad and Jeremy.
“Trees swaying in the summer breeze, showing off their silver leaves as we walked by. Soft kisses on a summer's day, laughing all our cares away, just you and I,” the song begins.
The song has been stuck in my mind since March 29, the day my husband, Gary, and I, as members of the Patriot Guard, rode our motorcycles with hundreds of other riders. For a while we were all staged together, unified. A unity that would continue though we would be traveling in three separate directions: one group to Wilmington, one to Columbus, and the one we were in, which would go to Ashville. Three different paths, but each escorting a soldier closer to his final destination.
Perhaps the song remained strong in my heart because I couldn’t help but think of the summer days once enjoyed by Curtis, Tyler and Seth.
Curtis Angst, age 30, from Wilmington, Ohio was an aviator in the US Air Force - GWOT. Tyler Simmons, age 28, from Columbus, Ohio, was a boom operator in the Air National Guard – GWOT. And Seth Koval, age 38, from Stoutsville, Ohio was an aircraft commander in the Air National Guard – GWOT.
These three Ohioans were among the six airmen who were killed in action when a KC135 Stratotanker crashed in Western Iraq on March 12, 2026, during Operation Epic Fury. They would never again feel the summer breeze or see the trees swaying. They would never laugh again. But while the gravity of the situation weighed heavy on March 29 when all of our bikes were lined up and waiting for the procession, there was laughter.
Old friends, new ones – it mattered not, we all shared a space when we bided our time talking about each other’s’ bikes, military matters, and more. Gary is a veteran, as were so many of the other riders, that day. I’ve never served and so I have no real personal experience to rest my perspective on, but I couldn’t help but to think that with all that these soldiers and veterans have seen and done, that at some point in their service they may have pined for a day like Chad and Jeremy sang of, one they could spend “laughing all (their) cares away.”
But “A Summer Song” has a sad side too. The lyrics continue, “They say that all good things must end someday, autumn leaves must fall. But don't you know that it hurts me so to say goodbye to you? Wish you didn't have to go. No, no, no, no.” And here we were on a sunny early spring day doing just that - playing a role in some very difficult good-byes as we fully emotionally and respectfully honored those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
“A Summer Song” concludes with, “And when the rain beats against my windowpane, I'll think of summer days again, and dream of you.” And I hope that our presence that day brought some comfort to the families and friends of these fine soldiers – something to soften the edge knowing that they are not alone and that while these three have reached their final destination, they will remain in memories and dreams of swaying trees and laughter in the breeze.
Throttle Out Bullies
Published in the Circleville Herald March, 2026
An unfortunate but recurring theme I’ve written about in the Commuter Column through the years that, in parallel form, arises sometimes when you least expect it, is bullying. This challenging monster is omnipresent. No place is safe from its clenching claws – home, school, work, or even just out and about anywhere. I’ve dealt with bullies all my life and in all the aforementioned places, but I did not experience it in school until I was working on my doctorate degree.
Home was not safe for me when I was a kid, so school was my safe place. I’m sure it plays a key role for why I remain friends with my high school classmates to this day.
When you are a kid, school – the place where your peers, other kids like you – spend so much time, should be safe. Kids should not be bullied in school and bullies should not be kids who are in school.
I know that something must have happened to wire these young bullies to be so, and that is a serious problem that needs addressed. They are victims too. But for targets of bullies, it’s just like the speech you hear before a plane takes flight: you must apply oxygen to yourself before you do so for others. Otherwise, there is no you to help them. It’s also akin to triage in an emergency room. Those who are bleeding out need care before we can move onto those with bruises.
And the heroes who save those who are beaten come in many forms. They are not just doctors and nurses, teachers, and preachers. Heroes also come in leather with grease under their fingernails.
And so, my friends, my ramblings arrive at this destination – this juncture at the intersection of bullies and targets where we must first turn toward the targets in whatever way that God divinely puts before us. For me, this road sign recently magically appeared on Facebook where I read about a kid who was unmercifully being bullied at school. The writer was reaching out to other motorcyclists with an idea, a spark if you will, of how we could make a difference for this kid. The spark quickly became flames and now the riding community is on fire with volunteers who ride and even those who do not. The effort has elevated to a full scale ride called “Throttle Out Bullies” where, on April 13, 2026 at 2pm, riders will meet up in Bremen, Ohio to ride together 45 minutes later to the school to escort a few kids who are being bullied to a park where we will picnic together and celebrate how love and support is stronger than bullying ever will be.
The rider and creator of the spark that has become an inferno is someone I never even met before, Matthew Brown. And the thing is, I’m sure I’m not the only one who didn’t really know the man behind the words and still said “I’m in.” It’s really something how one person singing out can bring a large group to band together all for the sake of kids who are being bullied. The event may take place on a spring afternoon in April, but there is no doubt the reverberations will echo across many lives and for many years in many ways. The fire on April 13 will generate a quantum immortality – it will never really burn out.
If you would like to know more about this event, I invite you to look up “Throttle Out Bullies” on Facebook and click on the discussion link to learn more. You can also copy this link and paste it to your browser search bar: https://www.facebook.com/share/18VBd3Yhp4/
If you are a target or if you are a bully, please talk to someone safe – a family member, a teacher, a friend – say something. There are plenty of resources for help including StopBullying.gov.
We are all on this planet together for what feels like a fleeting time when we get older and we need to do all we can to make each moment and each other safe.
The Extra in Ordinary Things
Published in the Circleville Herald March, 2026
The last several weeks have been a little rough. The challenges flew at me fast and furiously. But isn’t it something how challenges afire can loom so heavily and yet the smallest of things can douse the flames?
I am writing this to you on Saturday. It comes every seven days and yet this typical thing, this small block on the calendar of life, brings me to take a deep breath of relief. The air promised to lift itself into the spring-like 60’s and the radar agreed to hold off the heavy winds and rain until early afternoon. Even though it would only be a short ride, I grabbed my helmet and headed out.
I rode through the winding roads and felt the magic of the woods. The trees in their state of barrenness let me glimpse deeper into the woods than I would see on a summer day. And the sycamores brilliantly white boasted their identity, unabashedly proud of their stark nakedness. Deciduous trees common, no grandiose thing, and yet today they were magic.
I watched the sky and the clock on my dashboard as I wound around and finally began heading back home before the ominous clouds would release their bounty upon the earth. I pulled in the driveway just as the first flash of lightning arrived and the power went out. My husband, Gary, and our dogs were on the porch to greet me. A common moment, one could argue, but I would never say one that I take for granted. Their love is given to me every day and yet its power always feels extraordinary.
We visited for a little while on the front porch. The dogs grew wild as though the storm fueled extra energy into their playfulness.
Finally, we found our way into our cozy little house, and I paused at the kitchen table. There sat a simple birthday card and its envelope that I will cherish forever. The sender, a 90-year-old man who lives in a retirement village in Colorado is someone who has shared a past with me sometimes balmy like that morning, sometimes stormy like that afternoon and sometimes barren like the trees who kept me company on my ride today.
A few days ago, on a rare phone call, he told me he had sent the card. He said addressing the envelope wore him out and he didn’t have the energy to write anything inside. I held back the tears when I told him that he didn’t need to apologize and that sending me the card was plenty – that I could not wait to get it. Days later, it arrived. I held it in my hands. And I read the two words scrawled inside the card and I fully embraced the idea that I share with you today: that the smallest of things can have the biggest impact. The words inscribed in my card? “Love, Dad.”
Listen to Your Heart
Published in the Circleville Herald February, 2026
We say to, and hear from, each other that we should listen to our heart. Those moments when I really listen to my heart are God moments. And I’m not only speaking of this figuratively, but literally as well.
I’m reminded of a day years ago when I was on a boat on the Atlantic Ocean. A whale swam up and paused for a short while alongside our boat. The passengers all grew quiet as we stared at the beautiful creature. Its movements were small and silent as it treaded water on the surface. We could see every detail, every barnacle that clung to its side. Out there, in the middle of the vast ocean, God had granted us with this life-altering moment. Of course, I could not hear the whale’s heart, but my soul was stirred by the memory of the whale’s siren that I had listened to on recordings before.
When we lay our head upon the chest of a loved one, we can clearly hear the beating of their heart. Sometimes our own hearts beat so loudly we can hear the pounding. But there is another way we can hear the song of our heart – a way parallel to the siren of the whale.
The first time I heard my heart in that way was when, with no earlier indications, I had a heart attack at work. I remember after my surgery, the cardiologist showed me the screen where I could see where the microvascular failure had happened. My heart looked like a topographic map of blue and red rivers and streams except for this horrific deep, and black area – a void, a desolate desert. Even though the impacted blood vessels were too small for stents, they consumed enough space that it was easy to understand why the experience had been so painful and terrifying.
The next day, I was wheeled down to diagnostic radiology for an echocardiogram. The process can take a little while. The first half of the procedure is silent except for the brief exchanges with the technologist – “Doing okay?” “Yep.”
And then there was the moment when she turned on the sound. Make no mistake, I do not have some sort of separation disorder with my heart, but at that time I gasped, “There she is” and I cried. It was the complete recognition of survival. It was the whale alongside the boat. It was a God moment.
In the five years since that day, I have had quite a few echocardiograms. And the experience has never lost its joy and divineness. My days continue to be filled with chest pain, cardiac spasms and some shortness of breath due to microvascular angina while the recurrent pericarditis with myopericarditis/myocarditis seem to have calmed down. I oftentimes pat my chest and talk to my heart, “we will be okay.” My cardiologist has assured me that is true – in fact, she has said that I will run again one day.
As I am writing this, I am preparing for another few days up at the Cleveland Clinic. Perhaps not a reason for taking vacation from work that most would be thrilled about, but I am. This is the long-awaited visit where I will undergo test after test with the goal of determining we are ready to start tapering into the next phase of medications – the ones that will hopefully send me back to me – back to my bicycle, my hiking boots and running shoes. While at the Cleveland Clinic, I will have that moment again. Once more I will lay on that table with the electrodes connected to my chest, look at the screen with blue and red rivers and hear that song, the one that reminds me of the waves of the ocean and the siren of the whale – the one that always brings me to tears, “There she is.”
My story is not all that unusual – someone who had no indications of heart issues, and yet there they were. I encourage you to have regular check-ups with your medical care team to ensure your heart is healthy. Among the ways you can learn more about heart health and CPR are to visit the American Heart Association at https:heart.org/en/
Black History Month - American Dreams
Published in the Circleville Herald February, 2026
“Sun and softness / Sun and the beaten hardness of the earth / Sun and the song of all the sun-stars / Gathered together / Dark ones of Africa / I bring you my songs / To sing on the Georgia roads.” The words from Langston Hughes’s poem “Sun Song” leapt from the page to embed in my heart when I recently revisited his poem. In such a short space of words, he said so much. For me, the poem conveys deep sorrow interwoven with hope and unity.
I have the same emotional response to Hughes’s poem “Let America Be America Again,” a poem where he boldly shared a message of what America never had been for him, but, again, interwoven with inspiration and hope. “O, let my land be a land where Liberty / Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath / But opportunity is real, and life is free / Equality is in the air we breathe.”
American writer and social activist Langston Hughes lived from 1901 to 1967. His mixed heritage included slaves and slave owners. It’s hard to fathom the stories his parents and grandparents shared with him and to also consider all that he saw and experienced himself. Decades have come and gone since Hughes’s passing, but in some ways, what should have been a linear passage of time appears to be circular and moving toward an ending once thought to be a starting line left in the dust.
It can be difficult to hold onto hope during trying times, so I absorb inspiration from Hughes’s poetry to help. In his poem “Dreams,” he wrote: Hold fast to dreams / For if dreams die / Life is a broken-winged bird / That cannot fly / Hold fast to dreams / For when dreams go / Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow.”
As I am writing this, I am taking moments to gaze out my window at the clear blue sky and the brilliance of the sun’s rays reflecting off the deep and frozen snow. I see birds of a vast variety of feather fluttering back and forth dancing around the feeders my kind husband, Gary, keeps filled always, but especially during these dangerously frigid times. And I am filled with hope and am grateful for the poetry of Langston Hughes and the encouragement to hold fast to my American dream as I remember it when it first became a part of me.
To the Unknown Artist
Published in the Circleville Herald January, 2026
I bought it several years ago when Gary and I were wandering through a local garage sale. It was setting in a space that appeared to be reserved for those things that were not to be considered for purchase. It mattered not to me, for I was smitten. One of the sale hosts asked me if I liked it. I nodded I did. She responded with something like “I never really liked it.” And so it came to live with me.
It appears as though the artist heavily painted the entire canvas in midnight blue and then hurriedly splashed on the rest of the scenery in white with brushes large and small. The former created a sense of a winding river or perhaps a road covered in snow. One pine stands in the front with a small forest of same behind on the other side of the river road.
My mother was a painter, and I spent years watching her create worlds on canvas. This painting is not like that. It seems as though the artist rushed through the scene either because they didn’t care or because it was of a memory they wanted to put on canvas so they could move past it as quickly as possible. Perhaps it was their tears that caused the white drizzles floating down morphing the pines into melting “treesicles.”
The piece looks rushed and so uncared for that the creator did not find it worthy of their initials customarily found in a lower corner skirting the frame. I wish they had signed it. I would like to tell them what the painting means to me.
This winter scene sets on one of my bookshelves in my office. The walking pad I visit for short breaks throughout the day faces it. While I shuffle along my faux forest path I see the trees before me. I’m warm despite the snowy scene – not just my body, but my thoughts as well. I’m consumed by the pines weeping snow in the midnight hour. I’m reminded of a moment years ago when I was in a place just like that. I was on a ski trip and it was the first night driving to the cabin. The moon was full. The snow was deep and pristine. And in that silence that only snow can bring, I knew in my heart that God is always near and that the sadness I felt then would not last – that one day I would be content. It was a moment. Only one. And it was long ago. But it lives with me still. One brief moment that has lasted through the decades. And this artist who seemed to think nothing of their painting brings me to visit that beautiful moment every day. Whoever and wherever you are, thank you. And to all artists out there, know that your creations may not always be worth the criteria you set for them, but to any of one of us out here, they can be priceless.
If you love art and books like I do, I suggest you visit the ArtsaRound gallery at 135 West Main Street, Circleville and at www.artsaround.org
What it Looks like
Published in the Circleville Herald January, 2026
It’s not what it looks like. It’s how it feels.
As I am writing this, we are in that place betwixt Christmas and New Years. The Christmas tree and decorations give the perpetual look of the holidays, but you can feel the new year on the front steps. A favorite addition to our seasonal cheer is a bright red, green and white snowman adorned bedspread. White not being a particularly good color for dogs, we are constantly wiping off little mud balls. It’s not the look of the dirt as we clean it off, it is the feeling of happiness knowing that Gary and I have been privileged and blessed to be chosen to rescue our dogs, Rusty and Shelby, from a local shelter. The mud-spattered joy they paint the quilt with is evidence that they no longer have worries.
And it wasn’t what it looked like the other day as Gary and I bundled into multiple layers to meet our friends for a motorcycle ride. Sure, we looked like Randy, the little brother in “A Christmas Story” who whined “I can’t put my arms down” when his mother dressed him to go out in the cold snow. But we were uttering no whining at all. We were feeling a sense of euphoria, thrilled for the gift of wind therapy, albeit a chilly treatment.
On our kitchen counter sits an apple pie. It’s imperfection gives it the look of a dessert made from scratch, but what it feels like is a warm kitchen where a husband and wife laughed and danced while listening to Christmas Carols as he prepared the apples and she rolled out the dough, carefully created per the instructions on the old, stained recipe card and baked in the vintage dish, both relics of her mother’s time here on Earth.
This week we will step into a new year, and the front lawn will no longer don the modern, yet traditional, Holiday fiberoptic deer and snowman and the inflatable Santa Claus, Grinch, Polar Bar, and slightly less traditional cocoa drinking dragon with flapping wings. There will be no blinking lights of blue, red, green, and gold flashing time to the whimsical sounds of Christmas songs. In their place will be grass and trees bleak in their brown dormant state. Intermittently there will be snowflakes drifting in the chilly air. It will look sad. It will look like all the reasons for cheer have left the world, but it will feel new and hopeful. Each week the sun will visit a little longer and we will inch a little closer to warmer weather. And until then, we have permission to feel comfort in hibernation. The pajamas can be donned earlier in the evening than we would ever imagine doing in the summer. We will give ourselves permission to watch movies and read books. Perhaps we will meet some indoor goals like finally cleaning out that closet and organizing the bookshelves. And the feeling of hope and the satisfaction of resting as well as placing checkmarks on the To Do list will carry us into the spring - the time of year when the sun will shine through the windows and the kitchen table will host a vase of wildflowers. The yard will be adorned with a lush green blanket of grass shaded by trees heavy with leaves and blossoms. It will look like life anew and it will feel the same.
Earthbound Flight
Published in the Circleville Herald December, 2025
It’s been decades since my first dreams of flying. It matters not how many years have flown by subsequently, I still dream of taking wing. While earthly bound, my imagination gives me a sense of life without gravity. I feel it on my motorcycle as my head collides with the very air I breathe, as Neil Young sings in “Unknown Legend.”
It is also a feeling I get when I run. Somewhere in my stashes of photos from my early days of long-distance runs, a friend captured that moment near the finish line where both of my feet were in the air – an indication of flight to a certain degree.
I fell in love with running, or my earthbound version of flying, when I was 15. It was stolen from me over four years ago when I had a sudden and unexpected heart attack followed by these last several years of flare-ups of related heart conditions. It’s been a lot of work, and I’m not done yet, but sometime next year I expect to become asymptomatic and move into the medication maintenance mode. As I have been moving toward that finish line, my motorcycle has kept my mental health in line, but my legs became weak. That is until now.
A couple months ago, I began running again. I have threshold heart rate and heart pain levels I am not supposed to exceed. So I’m at a very, very slow pace, a glide perhaps, but I count it as flying again. Back to my childhood dreams. Those dreams that are as old as some of the decorations on our Christmas tree, although some decorations are even older.
I was thinking about running, flying and other dreams I’ve had since a young girl while Gary and I were decorating our Christmas tree. So many memories hung by little hooks on the branches covered in tiny, colorful lights. There are the ornaments I made when I was young, but even better there are the ones that my mother made when I was a little girl – and the best yet are the ones she made when she was a young girl. Then there are the ones from her mother and her mother’s mother. Yes, I have ornaments that my great grandmother once hung on her tree. They are hung high so that no doggie curiosity might threaten them.
As I gently hang my great grandmother’s little fabric drummer Santa elf way up high on the tree, I wonder what my great grandmother’s, my grandmother’s and my mother’s dreams were. Maybe they didn’t dream of flying or running like I do, but I’m sure, like me, they had dreams that made their hearts soar. And as I wrap the short string of faded, fragile glass beads on the tree that all three generations hung before me, I quietly whisper “fly high my angels in heaven, and I will too down here on earth.”
Walls are Just Walls
Published in the Circleville Herald December, 2025
I’m sitting at my desk in my office at home. I gaze out the window at the trees now barren and yet grand and beautiful in their nakedness. The leaves have gathered at the base of the grand maple once split in the middle by one of the small tornadoes that spun through here a few years back. Like the tree, I’m broken as I look at the spot favored by our Mosey for resting and contemplating our stretch of woods. He has been gone for several years, and other rescue dogs have moved into my heart, but Mosey, and all the others before him still own a part of me.
Amanda Shires singing “You are My Home” is playing and I think “Yes, it’s like that.”
“My address is your name. High ceilings, grand halls, walls are just walls. You are my home,” Amanda sings.
The people and animals who have shared time and space with me in the past are with me still. They join those who have moved in since their departure. And they are all my home.
‘Tis the Holiday season when we all sing “Home for the Holidays,” but we all know that it is more than traveling to a place. Whether our feet never left the home where we were raised or we journeyed across the globe, home is more than a house. Home is where the heart resides. It’s where our memories are preserved and time is a conundrum. The once was, the now, and the will be are all wrapped up in one and I’ve bought a ticket on that sentimental journey.
Like so many others, Gary and I come into this Holiday season missing loved ones. But their vacancy does not leave the room empty. Memories swirl and dance in the colorful lights of the Christmas tree. Our house is filled with love.
Amanda sings. “You are my home wherever you go. Anywhere you stand is my piece of land. You are my home.” And I think while I take up space here on earth, part of me is already in Heaven with those I miss. And while they are in Heaven, they float around me here on earth.
Just as Amanda Shires sang, “Walls are just walls,” a home is significantly more than walls. It is the intangible frame, walls and rooms that embrace our hearts and minds and fill us with everlasting, bittersweet love.
Time
Published in the Circleville Herald November, 2025
It seems like only a few weeks ago we were dipping our toes in summery pools, streams, or lakes and now we are wearing heavy sweaters and coats. Yesterday’s barbecues and fireworks have given way to plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas; some plans already launched. We are planning and making memories while basking in the warmth of Holiday seasons past. In a mysterious rhythmic rhyme, time moves slowly, quickly, backward, and forward all at once.
Gary was witness to this chronological choreographic conundrum over this past weekend when he volunteered as the Grinch for the Pickaway County Community Action (PICCA) Season of Giving Bazaar. In true Gary style, he went above and beyond. Not only did he arrive in full furry green Grinch attire, he also brought a Whoville backdrop, lights, music, holiday chocolates and, of course, an animated Max who stood about four feet tall. He made a statement. He was there to support PICCA and all who needed a little cheer.
One of Gary the Grinch’s early visitors was a very small boy. This little one was so young he had barely mastered the art of walking and was not yet showing the skills of talking. He clearly communicated his fear of the very tall and very green Grinch. So, Gary did as Gary does and began making friends with the little guy. Through the course of time, at each of the multiple visits the boy made to the Grinch’s “booth,” Gary was able to slowly encourage the little boy to evolve from showing real fear to stepping up to give the Grinch a little kiss on the cheek.
While this little boy, and others like him were moving forward in time, others were moving back. Many adults sat down next to the Grinch to tell him stories of their youth and how much they have always loved the green creature. The memory sharing would have made the real Grinch’s heart grow three sizes. Gary’s heart is already that large as evidenced by the joy he had in participating in the charity event.
I keep thinking about Gary’s stories and the people he met. Whether facing a true fear of a holiday green giant or of being vulnerable to share childhood sentiments, the guests at Gary the Grinch’s booth showed us that while time does in fact move at different paces and directions, there is always that one special moment where the world stands still while one memory is made and another one is revisited.
Judging Others is How You Define Yourself
Published in the Circleville Herald November, 2025
In his poem “Why Not Be Polite,” Sufi Master, Hafiz wrote “Everyone is God speaking. Why not be polite and listen to him.”
What beautiful music might we hear if we choose to listen and know and believe that every voice is not only worthy, but vital to the song of all our lives. Afterall, we are all sharing this planet if only for a while.
And yet there are those who choose to miss out on the concert, foolishly brandishing their dull and rusty swords at others, shunning them because of the clothes they wear, the company they keep, or some other nonsense.
I was a part of the “condemned” section of the choir recently because the company I was keeping was a group of bikers. We showed up on our motorcycles to show love and support for one who needed us. Some of us rode bikes that reverberated steady guttural beats and others were on bikes that purred. The cacophony was accompanied by attire that ranged from chaps to jeans, leather jackets to sweatshirts, and bandanas to helmets.
We were judged unworthy of the occasion to support our friend. In other words, we were condemned because of our modes of transportation and the clothes that we wore.
Ironically, we were kinder to the one in need of support than those who passed judgment.
But that is neither here nor there. What is important is that we should never assume we know certain things about someone because of the way they look. It’s kind of like judging a book by its cover. The jacket sleeve might look mundane, but the words inside might tell an incredibly enlightening and inspiring journey.
In my opinion, I think our “covers” looked mighty interesting. And what was inside was equally compelling.
While we were judged as being a bunch of ne’er do wells, the truth is that among us there was a variety of college degrees and professions. Our group includes nurses, EMS, law enforcement, veterans, those who serve veterans, fathers, mothers, educators, business owners, artists and a writer.
If you knew the person we were there for, you would understand why we were there. She knows no strangers, treats each of us like family and is what my husband calls an Earth Angel. We didn’t like how some others were treating her or us, but we took the higher road and did our part to help all of them during a difficult day. Our angel and others thanked us for the role we played.
As to those who judged us, perhaps Wayne Dyer said it best when he said, “When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.”
Good Grinches Finish Last
Published in the Circleville Herald October, 2025
They say good guys always finish last. While I know that isn’t to be taken literally, that was the case during the 2025 Circleville Pumpkin Show. And the good guy was disguised as a bad guy, the Grinch.
I had the pleasure again this year to be included among CanAm Spyder and Ryker riders to participate in the Pumpkin Show Parade – costumes not required but highly encouraged. That was all Gary had to hear before he tapped into his skillful internet searching for just the right costume. He knew he wouldn’t be riding his Goldwing, so the coveted disguise he sought would be just fine even though he wouldn’t be able to see out of the mask very well - that green, furry, scary mask. He scored his treasure and, in his excitement, asked me what I would be wearing, to which I responded, “my helmet.”
“Well, that will not do, it will not do at all,” Gary answered (imagine those words spoken by the original story narrator, Boris Karloff).
And so that is how I was surprised with a costume of my own, a fairy tale queen’s robe-type dress and my very first ever tiara. We cleaned the bugs and road grime off our chariot, the dark green CanAm Spyder Sea to Sky with the white wings on the frunk and angel wings with paw prints on the sides and embarked on our journey as Pumpkin Show parade participants.
Admittedly, I nearly questioned Gary’s choice in costume. Gary is the furthest one can be from qualifying to be a Grinch. I should clarify that I mean the version before his heart grew three times larger. But I have learned that wondering about any of Gary’s decisions is just a silly waste of time. They, and he, never surprise me, but always impress me.
So, the magical nights came. I may have been the one with the tiara and royal dress, but Gary, as Grinch, was the star on our ride. Kids of all ages loved him, called to him, fist-bumped him, and gathered around the bike before the parade started so they could have their picture taken with him. Along the parade route, laughter and cheers continued. On our last night, Saturday night, I believe we were toward the very back of the parade. I couldn’t help but to think about that phrase, “nice guys finish last” and how true that was, even for a tall, lime green, furry one.
What If?
(Published in the Circleville Herald October, 2025
“What if?” is oftentimes a rhetorical question with a broader horizon than the mind can fathom. But what if “What if?” was not rhetorical? What if “What if?” was the first step on a glorious path to anywhere your heart desires? It would not be a question anymore but rather a dream that metamorphosized into a goal to one day break free from its cocoon and take flight as a reality.
Rumi said “This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real.”
What if the sleeper is right?
If your “What if?” could become your “what is,” what would that be? It’s a beautiful thought to ponder, yes? And one best considered when sitting in a quiet and peaceful place sipping on a glass of Pinot Grigio while serenaded by soft strumming of guitar strings and gazing at the sun and moon as they exchange greetings in passing when the day comes to an end.
As the world quiets down to rest and be ready for the coming day, our “What ifs?” are stirring, anxious to come out to play. To become real.
Admittedly, when the gate opens and the “What if’s?” come flying out, there are some that elude us, like Bob Lind’s’ “Elusive Butterfly,” which I remember best sung by Glen Campbell. “Don't be concerned. It will not harm you. It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of.”
My elusive winged “What ifs,” include “What if dogs could live longer?” and “What if there were no bullies?” But there are other “What ifs” less armored – they are designed with loopholes, or windows to fruition.
One “What if?” with a wide-open window lit on my pillow as I was waking up one morning over this past weekend. It seemed to whisper “What if I could do anything I wanted to today?”
That was the first step. Another question quickly followed. “What does anything mean?”
My mind was flooded with ideas and so I settled on the first one that came to mind. “What if I didn’t have to limit my weekend to one day? What if I could take both days to play instead of just one, paying for it with the other spent doing chores, paying bills and doing other boring adult things? What if I could get on my motorcycle and ride again that day like I did the day before? It was a small “What if” in the realm of what all “what if” can be, but it was a big deal to me. And so I spent the day on a group ride with new friends and toured beautiful winding roads I’d not traveled before. And I felt my heart rate slow, my breaths deepen and my fatigue lesson while my worries were swept away in the wind. And though sated at the end of the day, I pulled into the garage and thought “What if…?”
One More
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2025
“Give me one more minute, one more mile, one more curve on the winding road, one more song over the bike’s speakers,” I say to no one but the wind should it be listening and have the power to give me just one more.
I was talking to one of my fellow rider friends the other day about how a trip in the car that is two hours is too long, but if made on the motorcycle it’s not nearly long enough. In fact, we confessed to each other, trips or errands made on the motorcycle are intentionally made longer. Rather than travel the shortest distance, we add detours. Who wants to ride a straight line and get back to it, whatever “it” is.
But this is Ohio, and fall is knocking at the door while winter is tapping its cold fingertips, drumming up a forecast sure to bar us from the joy of the open road. Until winter wins, I keep reaching for just one more ride, one more day in the wind. Already the days are beginning with chilly mornings hinting winter is near, but they bleed into afternoons when layers are shed and my thoughts embrace a pretense of perpetual summer.
With all the grown-up things that need to be done, I’d rather be riding. Dust on the shelves, books waiting to be read; all things indoors can wait while I enjoy just one more ride.
In his poem, “Why Abstain,” Hafiz wrote “Why abstain from love when, like the beautiful snow goose, someday your soul will leave this summer camp?” And I’m reminded how fragile life is, how any moment can be the last. And so yes, I will water my plants, dust when I must, and give my job all I can. But I will also grant myself all the desired “one mores” that I can squeeze in.
Life is richer because of “one mores.” Mine are hours spent with my husband, Gary, with my friends and with our dogs, going on more walks and rides, and spending more time quietly watching dusk take over our little piece of land and listening to the songs of birds decrescendo into the chirping of tree frogs and crickets.
What are your “one mores?” I encourage you to recognize and let yourself have them. For we all know that we will miss them when they are out of reach and when our soul leaves this “summer camp.”
Never Alone: Suicide Awareness and Prevention Month
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2025
On September 6, 2025, I had the honor of supporting my new, and already dear, friend, Belinda, as many of us gathered to participate in the 4th Annual Veteran Suicide Awareness Poker Run she organized. The event included live, silent, and Chinese auctions and live music at Alibis in Adelphi after the motorcycle ride and ended up raising over $5,500 for Mission 22.
Mission 22 (https://mission22.org/) whose mission is to fill the “…gap where traditional systems fall short and fight every day to reduce Veteran suicide” also had a representative there to share information about the resources the organization provides.
Still immunocompromised while in treatment for heart conditions, I avoided going into the establishments at the stop points on the ride and did not partake of the activities after. Although I stayed out at my bike during the ride stops, I was not alone. Among those who spent time outside was another new, and already dear friend, Sherry. Both Belinda and Sherry have known too well what it is like to lose someone you love. And despite enduring these overwhelmingly tragic life events, they have chosen to share love, kindness, friendship, and support for others. They made sure I did not feel alone.
On the ride, I felt a camaraderie with the other riders and passengers as well. And I always feel my angel dogs flying alongside me. On this day, there was also someone else. I could almost hear him.
Even though decades have passed since I heard that beautiful sound, I will never forget my stepfather’s laughter. He was generous with his kindness and smiles. He stepped in and became a father to me. More than a father, only ten years older than me, he was also like a big brother.
Ron was a kidder. He picked on me unmercifully. That might be why I like that so much still today. He was a barber and always teased that he could help me with my ponytail. I had a hard time convincing myself on the ride that it was the wind tossing my braid around and not Ron. Every time I heard a little clicking sound I would expect to see the sunflower seed shells that Ron was always spitting out. How he loved those sunflower seeds.
From Australia, but as an American citizen, Ron fought in the Vietnam War. Like so many, he did not come home alone. Among the demons that haunted him were Agent Orange, which ultimately led to Ron’s actions that ended his life. Although he has been gone for some time, I think of him quite often and feel him around me, especially so on this particular ride.
I’m sure I will feel Ron’s presence at the next Mission 22 event Sunday September 14 at the Circleville AMVETS. Belinda will also be there to present a check from the 9/6/25 event. For more information about Circleville AMVETS event, please look up the beautiful article written by Lindzay Mason that was published in the Circleville Herald on August 19.
In addition to Lindzay’s article and the Mission 22 site I provided above, and given that September is suicide prevention awareness month, I encourage you to also visit https://www.samhsa.gov/about/digital-toolkits/suicide-prevention-month to learn more.
Whether you have lost someone or are struggling yourself and you need to talk to someone, do not wait, call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988. Even when it feels like we are alone, we never really are.
The Mysteries of a Rescued Dog
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
I asked our Echo device to play the song “Galveston” by Glen Campbell Saturday morning while I made omelets for Gary and me. She fired up “Til it Shines,” by Bob Seeger instead. It made me laugh and then sent my mind on an unexpected trip. It was a journey of questions about our rescue dog, Shelby. She’s been with us for about 6 months now and there are still so many mysteries with her.
“Take away my inhibitions. Take away my solitude. Fire me up with your resistance. Put me in the mood,” the song begins.
Shelby is a little over one year old and about 75 pounds of untethered enthusiasm. The bruises on my arms and legs are evidence thereof. Despite the endless energy, she has her inhibitions. And they break our hearts. We don’t know what happened, but through her cowering, growling and other defensive behaviors we highly suspect that a man with a flashlight was a serious threat.
The second stanza of “Til it Shines” ends with the lines “Deal me up another future from some brand-new deck of cards” and makes me wonder what it was like for Shelby when she was less than one year old and was surrendered to the dog shelter. Surely, she was confused. What happened? What would the future hold for her? And here we are in that future, but she is still tormented by a past that we will never know.
“Take the chip off of my shoulder. Smooth out all the lines. Take me out among the rustling pines, 'til it shines,” the song continues.
Shelby is trying so hard to be good. She’s recovering from her past, learning her present, and preparing for her future with us while she is still only a baby. Different triggers paint clues about a past that must have been terrifying for her. But every week we make some progress. And we know eventually she will realize that we are not quitting her and that she is safe. We will do whatever it takes to help her shine.
As Bob Seger sang, “Still, if we can make the effort, if we take the time, maybe we can leave this much behind, 'til it shines. Mm, 'til it shines.”
Just like people, rescued dogs can have wounds that need healing. The scars are physical and mental. We can help them heal, and in turn, they give us unconditional love, comfort and laughter. If you have room in your home, I highly recommend you adopt a shelter dog. She, or he, may need some extra help to adjust to their new life, but in time both of your lives will shine.
The Place My Heart Swallows
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
Do you ever listen to an instrumental song and hear lyrics even though you are not aware that there really are any? I do. The other day, when I was riding my motorcycle, the song “Losing Trails” by Year of the Buffalo came on. It’s one of those songs with strata of strummed notes that circle and swim in my heart and mind, hypnotizing me and bringing me to hear words from my imagination.
“Flying with the wind and the sun past the hills and fields I’m in the place that my heart swallows,” I imagine the words describing how I take in and become one with nature.
There’s something about riding that is an odd mix of senses on high alert while at the same time my spirit is in a state of Zen.
Conflicts, issues and other carriers of stress are left in the wind my bike and I collide with. I breathe deep. I decompress. And the worries that once occupied my mind are replaced with the serenity of the beauty that surrounds me. I become one with the earth, the sun, the fields, hills and trees. And the notes that I hear and the lyrics that I imagine twist and turn like the roads I travel.
I imagine the lyrics continue, “Gliding past the woods of pine and the flittering sun’s shadows, they embed in my being and fill my soul. It’s the place my heart swallows.”
I hit repeat and listen to the song over and over as the miles move past like the sweeping second hand on an analog clock. I feel the beat of drums. I feel the history of what the song could mean. I am one with my bike. One with the wind. One with the sun.
I continue to imagine lyrics to the song. “Deep in the woods, among the rocky streams, in the shadows dark and hallowed are the places that my heart swallows.”
I find companionship where there is solitude. I find rhyme and reason where there is no pen to prove their existence. With no one nearby, I shift down a gear or two. A slow choreography of wheels and curves ensues. My confidants are the song streaming from my bike’s speakers, the purr of the motor, and the imaginary words that stir in my mind.
My writer spirit concludes with the imagined words to the song, “These are the things that God has made. These are the woods to feed my core. This is the wind to breathe life into my soul. This is the place my heart swallows.”
For Those Who Leave Too Soon
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2025
On our headboard, just above my pillow, sits a porcelain angel. She is embracing a lamb and her wings appear as though she is about to take flight. She was a present from my niece, Jessica, many Christmases ago. Truthfully, the angel is a Holiday decoration, however I’ve never packed her away, but rather have kept her nearby every day of the year because she reminds me of my niece. While I still have the angel to help me remember, there are so many things I do not have. And I have been thinking about those missing things ever since that recent day when Jessica earned her own wings.
I think about the last time Jessica ruffled the fur on her two elderly dogs and I’m saddened knowing these sweeties will never feel her touch again. I step outside into the summer heat and wonder about the last time Jessica felt the sun on her face and the wind’s fingers tousling her hair. What was the last thing she ate? Was she sated by something sweet or something salty? What was the last song she listened to? Did she sing along or did she cry? Did she have a To Do list with some items now perpetually undone? When was the last time she told her husband and her sons that she loved them? What were her last thoughts as she laid her head to rest that last time? I don’t, nor will I ever, know. These are not things I’ll ever get to hold in my memory.
Because she lived out west, I did not get to see Jessica very often. But we used to share long phone calls and I did get to see her last year. I will always remember what she looked like that day. She looked healthy in her grey t-shirt and faded blue jeans. It was a tough day in a hospital waiting area down the hall from my father’s room. Her grandfather. Things were unpleasant then, but I remember before we parted ways, I stared intently into those beautiful brown eyes and I told her that no matter what, I have always, and will always, love her. Always. I spoke the words over and over wanting to ensure they would be etched in her core as something she would remember. And I’m grateful I have that to hold onto when the pain is so deep it shreds my heart.
I pray that those who are thinking of leaving this world too soon find a different direction. And when that is not the case, I pray for peace for them and those they leave behind. I pray for more time to make memories.
If you or a loved one might be contemplating suicide, please talk to someone. There is help and you are not alone. One resource for information about suicide prevention is the NIMH at https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/suicide-prevention. Per the NIMH, “If you or someone you know is struggling or having thoughts of suicide, call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org . In life-threatening situations, call 911.”
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