Planet Mom

July 21, 2026 · 12:38 pm

Grave Matters

It’s inevitable—we’ll all die. Sometime. We just hope that it’s not too soon, or at least I hope that. As Jim Morrison of the Doors once famously remarked, “No one here gets out alive,” and I don’t think any truer words could’ve ever been spoken.

Regardless of how logical this statement appears to be and how it would seemingly inspire preparedness, few of us actually act upon it by choosing to prearrange our own funerals/memorials. It makes perfect sense to do so, though, because it lessens the toll that a death takes on our families—both financial and emotional. The burden placed upon loved ones is undeniable in that deep in the midst of grief, dozens upon dozens of snap decisions must be made following such an unfortunate event. I didn’t even know if my parents wanted to be cremated and had to rely on guessing—because we never talked about it face to face. It wasn’t spelled out in their wills so I had little to go on. My mother-in-law, by contrast, had every minute detail planned down to which specific hymns were included in her service. She wore a pink dress as I recall—one that our twins, who were only six at the time, placed tissues inside its sleeves, because Grandma would never be without tissues. At any rate, I give her a lot of credit for taking so much off our plates by planning ahead.

So, after a great deal of discussion, debate and pure angst, I finally convinced my husband to take the necessary steps to prearrange our ceremonies. To say that it was a tall order is an understatement. I practically had to drag him to the funeral home. Truth be told, it was hard for both of us. No one likes to think about dying and what will happen in the aftermath. It’s certainly not a popular topic, at least not in the conversations I’ve been known to hold. It forced us to think about and answer questions neither one of us had ever before considered. Like what type of box did we want our ashes to be displayed in? I had no idea. Neither did he. Also, which particular flower would we prefer to adorn said box? Again, I was clueless. My husband loves snapdragons because he has a habit of making them “sing” at funerals. Macabre, I know. I love tiger lilies, but would it remind me of the sad fact that the deer in our neighborhood habitually devour the tiger lilies in my lawn, thereby making everyone even sadder? In the end, I decided that it really didn’t matter. Because I’d be dead.

Then there was the whole obituary undertaking—an insufferable writing task that made us both beyond uncomfortable. I mean who wants to do that? It’s nearly impossible to jot down what was notable and decidedly significant in the span of a life—an accounting of one’s entire existence in just a handful of words. It’s a humbling experience to say the least. I discovered that it’s difficult to choose what to include and what not to include. I tried to think of what might be meaningful for people to read—what might those I knew like to learn about me.

What’s more, since the obituaries have been written for the most part, our kids won’t have to deal with that or decisions about gravesites or tombstones since my husband and I have decided to have our ashes placed in our church columbarium—alongside some people we truly adored. So, there won’t be any trudging to the cemetery in all sorts of weather, or feeling obliged to place flowers there on holidays or any other time. Nor will our kids struggle with choosing our burial clothing. We came into this world naked—and we’ll go out naked.

Thankfully, this whole process was made simpler by our Preneed Counselor, Stephanie, at Maneval Allen Redmond Funeral Home. She walked us through some really difficult topics and advised us how to proceed in the preplanning of our ceremonies with both competence and compassion. Fortunately, there are a host of wonderful funeral homes in the Williamsport area that specialize in preplanning. Maneval is one of many.

Now that that is handled, we can get on with life and place our grave matters behind us.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (facing the inevitable). Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under Love and Loss, The Chicken Man

Tagged as death, family, funeral, grief, life, marriage, marriage humor, memorial, passing away, preplanning, writing

July 14, 2026 · 11:30 am

Jet Lag

Confession: My husband and I haven’t flown in over 16 years—and it shows. I don’t know how that happened, it just did. Life got in the way of our travel plans, I guess. At any rate, we looked like fools at the airport, not realizing that people check in with an electronic kiosk now instead of interacting with an actual human. Thankfully, we were traveling with our daughter and her partner so together they were able to walk us through the process of tagging our enormous suitcase and printing our boarding passes—which would’ve been a nightmare for tech-challenged people like us.

Of course, packing that enormous suitcase (that came unreasonably close to exceeding the 50-pound weight limit) was an exercise in futility. We scrutinized the ridiculous list of approved substances for our carry-on bags, the recommended baggie sizes and permitted volumes of liquids along with all the restricted items until we were ready to scream. And because the gods hate me, my 3-oz. bottle of shampoo leaked anyway. On both flights.

As one might expect, our TSA experience was tolerable in both airports, but still inconvenient and time-consuming because of the incredibly long lines—and because I had to remove my belt and almost lost my pants shuffling to the scanner. Everyone else was in the same boat which made it entertaining. Sort of. Thankfully, only one of us had to be subjected to a pat-down and the thorough inspection of a backpack—all because of sweat and the fact that the stupid machine couldn’t “see” through a hardcover book. As a result, we almost missed our return flight. But on a positive note, we encountered some adorable cats that were also waiting in those long lines and at least one of us got to pet them. On a side note, I’m fairly certain the cats were more personable than the TSA could ever aspire to be.

I know I’ve used a travelator/moving sidewalk in the past, but I don’t remember it being such a challenge to keep pace with while hauling an embarrassment of bags and constantly looking over my shoulder to see how my husband was managing with his embarrassment of bags. As an added bonus, he had to maneuver around an oblivious toddler who was planted near the exit path like a tree. The good news was that neither of them wiped out and we made it to our gate in time for preboarding.

I also don’t remember navigating an airport so large it should be criminal via a people mover, which is a glorified subway where it’s common practice to hang on for dear life. But it got us to where we were going—in a hurry.

The actual flights were good in that we took off without incident, stayed in the air and landed safely, all the while tracking our path across the country on a nifty little screen situated on the back of the seat in front of us. Being the nerd that I am, I truly enjoyed such a device and felt compelled to inform my husband every time we flew over a city, lake or other noteworthy landmark. I figured he’d thank me later. The only downside was that our kids were seated next to an oddball who never spoke—not even to the flight attendant or to them when they needed to scoot past him to use the restroom. It takes all kinds, I guess.

Interestingly enough, I later learned that Newark and Denver made the list of 11 most stressful airports in the United States. Naturally, we hit both of them in one day. But because of the expertise of our wonderful AAA travel agent, Felicia, all went according to plan. She made arrangements for both hotels, two-way flights for the four of us and a spacious rental van for the amazing week we spent in Colorado with another daughter and her fiancé.

Needless to say, we all had a terrific time bonding for the first time as a family since January—unless you count FaceTime. We visited with some friends who live nearby, shopped ad nauseam and had a blast at Topgolf together. Never mind the delicious meals. And the trip to the summit of Pikes Peak was especially exhilarating via the Cog Railway. Only three of us needed canned oxygen and/or an inhaler, so I’d call that a win.

And because every adventure is educational, I learned that it’s not a vacation until someone gets a tattoo. For the record, four of us did. I also learned that jet lag is, indeed, real.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (poring over gorgeous photos of snow-capped mountains). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Thunderstruck

Apparently, I am a ceraunophile—a lover of thunderstorms. The term is derived from the Greek word keraunos, or “thunderbolt” and the word -phile, which means fondness. It’s a good thing my husband discovered the term lest I go through life not knowing this interesting tidbit of information.

It’s not a new development for me. I’ve always loved thunderstorms, even as a kid. I remember many a summer sitting with my dad, a fellow ceraunophile, for the duration of an untold number of storms, safe beneath our carport in scratchy lawn chairs. There was something special about the time we spent there, together sharing our fascination with one of nature’s most extraordinary events, talking about everything or instead becoming still and allowing the rumbles of thunder to shake us to our core and to swallow our conversations whole. Most of the time the thunder was our cue to get out of the pool and head for shelter, wrapping ourselves from head to toe in beach towels, the air heavy and humid. Those moments live in my memory even still.

Things haven’t changed much; I continue to be infatuated with summer storms, especially just before the rain hits—when the winds shift and swell, the trees sway with indescribable ferocity and the air fills with an electric energy that seems almost tangible. There’s something exhilarating about watching the skies grow dark and hearing a low rumble in the distance. Even the birds know something’s about to happen as they retreat to their nests and suddenly go silent.

I look to the clouds as they gather en masse, now steely gray or blue-black, in anticipation of the coming crescendo—when bolts light up the sky, thunderheads crash and torrents of rain pelt the parched earth. It’s such a moving experience and, to me, the smell and sound of the rain beating against the hot pavement is positively intoxicating. Never mind how comforting hard rain on the roof and rolling thunder sound in the wee hours of the night.

I’m pretty sure my kids have inherited my penchant for thunderstorms too, although when they were small, they were frightened by the deafening cracks and low rumbles that shook the house. We huddled together, as I remember, reading books on the couch in lieu of watching TV since we usually lost power if the storm was especially damaging. The dogs cowered, desperately searching for a place to hunker down in order to escape the rolling thunder that seemed to envelop us all. I’ll never forget one of the cats hiding behind our washing machine for the duration of one storm—a place I never once considered a refuge before.

At any rate, I am intrigued by an approaching storm, as the leaves of nearby trees show their undersides—especially the silver maples. Apparently, it has something to do with increasing humidity. And the more the wind intensifies, the more noticeable the silvery backsides of the leaves become, almost as if the trees are signaling a warning. And somehow the green colors deepen to an even greener hue during downpours (or maybe that’s just my imagination) as I watch the leaves drip onto the thirsty ground below.

What follows the storm is almost as satisfying to witness, as the clouds break and the sun finally reappears. The air has a newness about it, as the steam rises from asphalt, concrete and grassy spaces, warm puddles all around—so inviting to bare feet. The heat returns with a vengeance as the searing sun beats down upon the land.

Even still, a distant rumble of thunder can be heard, which makes my heart happy.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (anxiously awaiting the next thunderstorm). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

The title of this column, which is a renowned line from J.R.R. Tolkien’s novel, The Fellowship of the Ring, certainly rings true for me—although I have been known to become somewhat disoriented while wandering, especially in the woods.

At any rate, one of my favorite activities is to try to get my steps in—usually walking around my neighborhood, but I’ll walk practically anywhere if it’s not too hilly. Typically, the weather dictates specifically where I’ll go and since I acknowledge that I can no longer stand the heat, I refrain from walking outdoors when the temperature is akin to the surface of the sun. That goes for the dead of winter, too, when it’s windy or icy or unbearably cold. Instead, my husband and I opt for doing laps around the indoor track at Lycoming College—a wonderful facility that we are so fortunate to be able to use. As an added bonus, we get to interact with delightful college students and faculty as we cruise around the oval together, overlooking an enormous gymnasium below. They even pipe in music that permeates the entire space, although we usually bring our own tunes.

Naturally, the college kids lap me (usually running like the wind) which I take in stride because I have them by several decades, never mind their superior flexibility and lung capacity. But they never lord it over me, which I appreciate greatly. They smile and sometimes even offer words of encouragement or a friendly “hello.”

But sometimes it’s even too hot to walk there, as the outdoor heat tends to seep inside, especially on sunny days. And let us not forget my wretched hot flashes. I know I haven’t. I suppose I could join a gym, where it’s likely air-conditioned, and use a treadmill to my heart’s content. But I know myself. I signed up for a gym membership years ago, fully intending to frequent said facility and never once did so. I don’t know why exactly; I only know that. So, for me, that would be a total waste of money.

Instead, I do what I never once imagined I would do—I hike the vast acreage (i.e. the innumerable aisles) contained within in our local grocery stores. Needless to say, the temperatures are cool and comfortable, and the terrain is flat. There’s music, too. Not surprisingly, I’ll occasionally encounter a bottleneck of people and carts on my path, but that’s easy enough to navigate. What’s more, sometimes I’ll stumble upon someone I know and enjoy catching up with them, or I’ll notice a ridiculous sale on Milano cookies and feel compelled to gather an armload, which I’ll reluctantly haul around the rest of the store. Aside from that, it’s a perfect place to trek on pretty much any day of the week.

That said, I’ve become a glorified “mall walker,” the very group of people I used to silently judge because I couldn’t understand why they weren’t in a park or a neighborhood or slogging away on a treadmill somewhere. Now I get it. Only it’s grocery stores—not the mall.

Truth be told, I mostly prefer taking my daily jaunts through our neighborhood, in the fresh air and sunshine. As an added benefit, I run across friends, their kids and sometimes I even get to pet their dogs. If it’s after dusk, I enjoy seeing people’s windows aglow with warm, yellow light as I pass—especially in the winter. And because I’m a complete weirdo, I like to kick stones and step on dry leaves along my path, hearing a satisfying crunch beneath my feet. We always seem to have an abundance of leaves in our street so that’s a win for me. Thankfully, thick groves of old-growth trees envelop our neighborhood almost entirely, lush shrubbery and thickets lapping at the edges of the pavement. And there’s nothing that I love more than to be surrounded by woods in any season.

It’s true; not all those who wander are lost. Some are just trying to get their steps in, and along the way discover that the path they’ve chosen feels much like home.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably walking). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Good Grief

My parents’ estates have long since been settled, but over the years I’ve found that I’m still tethered to my past—not only because of the memories I hold dear, but because the tangible possessions I inherited help me connect to those memories in a very positive and concrete way. Perhaps a good type of grief, triggered by remembrance.

I can still envision just where the antique prints, mostly of children and their pets, were situated in our ranch-style house. I never thought much about the paintings growing up, but I now see why my mom was so drawn to children as subjects. She was a third-grade teacher for most of her career and, of course, loved kids. She had so many paintings that they were almost too numerous to count, let alone hang on available wall space. I sold the majority to an antique dealer in town, but kept a handful—my favorites—to place in my own home. I don’t think there’s a day that I refrain from noticing a new, small detail in the artwork, one that I somehow hadn’t before and I now understand what attracted her to each individual print.

Likewise, the furniture I received is special in so many ways. As I run my hands over the primitive oak, mahogany and yellow pine pieces I instantly return to my life growing up in my parents’ household. I remember which dishes were housed in which cabinets and kick myself for not keeping those, too. They were so pretty. At least I salvaged some of the earthy, old crocks and decorative trinkets, my parents’ dressers that were handmade by my great-grandfather and the tiny wooden cabinet I played with when I was a child—one that is inundated with a cache of vintage, metal dishes that my cousins (as well as my mother) played with, too. Moreover, I kept a pair of Adirondack chairs that we had gifted to my parents years ago—chairs that they lounged in as they watched the deer gather in their front yard on many a summer’s evening. Never mind that the paint is fading and the wood has seen better days.

And I can’t forget the massive hutch my mom picked up for me at an antique sale—the one that boasts four doors, five shelves and its original metal latches. Together we painted it on a sweltering summer day in the shade of our carport. She chose the color—a glorious shade of forest green that now complements my rustic kitchen décor. Who knew it would one day be wedged perfectly between our windows that overlook the front lawn?

What’s more, I can’t forget the cozy, faux leather chair my brother and I somehow crammed ourselves into—together with our dog—while watching entirely too much Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry. My husband and I had to have the chair reupholstered once it wore out because I just couldn’t part with such a tangible reminder of my past—especially since my brother is no longer here to reminisce with. A generous sampling of his décor now adorns my kitchen countertops and the aforementioned hutch, too, and I can’t help but recall how they once looked in his house. The wicker basket he used for incoming mail. The beautiful canisters of colorful pasta. The crock full of old wooden spoons he collected.

I think he’d be happy that I’ve placed them prominently.

And then there’s the car—my mom’s black BMW coupe. I loved that car and surmise that she loved it, too. I truly hated to part with it, but had to trade it in eventually because the Blue Book value kept inching downward with each passing year. I drove it for close to nine years, never once becoming involved in a fender bender, thankfully. Frankly, I don’t think I ever felt so comfortable behind the wheel (before or since). It just fit me as if it knew me—like it was cradling my body. It fit my mom apparently, too, which is probably why she kept it so long. I sometimes scroll through my photos to find her car—pictures I took just before I traded it in—in an effort to say goodbye, or hello, to Mom. I zoom in to the photos to remember the details, its sleek design, its undeniable beauty—and I smile.

Sometimes the grief we experience is the good kind of grief—remembering what was, (and as they say) smiling because it happened.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably smiling). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.