October 6, 2026 · 1:59 pm

So Many Questions, So Few Answers

Generally speaking, I think people prefer to know why things happen as opposed to being in the dark. They like certainty versus uncertainty. A black and white rendering over endless shades of grey. At least that describes my inclination.

And although a great deal of time has passed since my brother’s suicide, 20 years to be exact, it seems that shades of grey are all I have been left with, even still. There are so many questions and so few answers. He didn’t leave a note that might explain why he decided to drive off the overlook of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon one cold, January evening in 2006. There were no outward signs of being troubled that my family noticed—at least none that we recognized in the moment.

He seemed okay on the surface. He had two great jobs—one as a special education teacher and another as a part-time funeral director. He had friends. He had wonderful neighbors. A lovely home. A dog. To say that his students adored him is an understatement. They showed up at his funeral in droves, as did half the town. I remember seeing their faces, so sorrowful, so forlorn, so lost—much like my family who stood beside his casket for five hours, trying to console them or to offer some semblance of a “why” for my brother’s actions. We didn’t know why. We could only speculate.

In hindsight, there were signs. He was overly generous at Christmastime, probably spending more on us than he could afford. I pushed away thoughts that questioned how he was able to give with such abundance, chalking it up to having two jobs and no family. He seemed to genuinely enjoy that day, soaking in the joy our kids experienced while opening their gifts. Another instance involved a conversation we had not long before the event. He called me out of the blue and asked in all sincerity if I was “happy.” At the time, I thought it was an odd question, but looking back, I think he was curious to know if I was content with my life, perhaps hoping to learn that I would continue to be okay if he were no longer here. A way to check in with me before he left this world. It pains me now to see those instances for what they were—a goodbye, on his own terms.

Turns out, my brother was gay—at a time when no one admitted to it. He hid it well. Even I didn’t know for sure. There were girlfriends throughout high school and college—ones that he brought home to meet our parents. Ones that he spent a great deal of time with, seemingly invested in their relationships. But it was a ruse. Everything he did was in the name of protecting his terrible secret. I’ll never know the gravity of what he had been dealing with his whole life until he cut it short at 39. I now suspect it was in large part why he chose to end his life. I just wish he could’ve talked with me about it. I certainly would’ve accepted his gayness.

In different times, like our current ones, perhaps his life wouldn’t have been tragically cut short. I’d like to think that we, as a society, have grown since then and have become a more inclusive, accepting lot. National Coming Out Day (celebrated on Sunday, October 11th) has been around since 1988 in the US, supporting the LGBTQIA+ community as a whole. I only wish my brother had felt comfortable enough to live his life openly, as a gay man, with or without a national commemoration.

My husband and I recently got tattoos of a semicolon, signifying a pause in people’s lives, as opposed to an end. It’s a small way of remembering and honoring my brother’s sacrifice and his battle to stay here among the living. It’s also a way to stand with others who struggle with suicidal thoughts.

When all is said and done, I guess we do have some insight into my brother’s life. It’s just sad that he chose to end it, for whatever reason.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (wishing I could go back in time with the knowledge and certainty of today). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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September 29, 2026 · 12:21 pm

Food Fight

There are lots of areas in which my husband and I have a difference of opinion. I think we should be able to park our cars in our garage. He doesn’t particularly care if the cars are in there or not. He is of the opinion that every cardboard box we own should be squirreled away for another day. I think keeping just a few is plenty. I say “let,” while he says “leave.”

But when it comes to food, the differences are off the charts. Naturally, I think I represent the majority of opinion in every instance. So does he. Therein lies the rub.

For starters, I love tuna salad when it’s made with mayonnaise, regardless of the brand. He prefers mixing the tuna with Miracle Whip, which I can’t begin to tolerate. It’s far too sweet for my taste and doesn’t even smack of real food. When it comes to tuna, it’s all about a savory flavor in my mind. Throw in some celery and maybe a bit of diced hardboiled eggs or onion and you have something worth eating. I’ve even been known to add sliced Spanish olives for a nice briny tang. By contrast, he adds sweet pickle relish. I can’t even. So, to resolve this issue in our marriage, we make both kinds of tuna salad as a rule.

Speaking of tuna, my husband became ill after eating some tuna noodle casserole ONE time and has refused to eat it ever since then. Mind you, this happened over 50 YEARS AGO. You’d think after that much time had passed, you might be inclined to try the dish again, especially since you love all the ingredients. Nope. Turns out, he had a horrible bout of the flu that night and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the tuna casserole. But there’s no convincing him of that, even still.

What’s more, I like chili made with kidney or black beans (or both) while he prefers it without beans. Who does that? He loves pickled beets. I can’t stand them, although I do enjoy pickled red beet eggs. Go figure. I absolutely love ripe (black) and Spanish (green) olives while he positively abhors them. I’m sure it bothers him to no end when he sees me enjoying either the black or green variety by the fistful, so I try to get out of his sight when I do. In addition, we’ve gone round and round over the matter of apple dumplings. He thinks they’re a stand-alone meal. I think they qualify as a dessert. 

Further, I won’t eat scrapple, nor do I trust anyone who does. In fact, the horrendous smell that wafts through the entire house when it’s cooking repulses me. By the same token, he refuses to eat broccoli or cauliflower and can’t stand the smell when they’re steaming hot. Nor does he trust anyone who would eat such a thing. I don’t even want to know where scrapple comes from. It’s like some sort of mystery meat that I don’t care to sample even though my husband lovingly offers me some each time he makes it. It’s only fair that I offer him broccoli or cauliflower.

Another area of dissimilarity involves the manner in which we consume spaghetti or linguini. I, of course, twirl a few noodles with my fork against a spoon or my plate, like a normal person—just like my friend, Theresa. He, on the other hand, CUTS THE PASTA like a madman. It’s almost criminal and it literally hurts my soul to witness this in person and hear his knife scraping against the plate.

In addition, the man eats Lebanon bologna slathered with peanut butter. In all honesty, I just don’t see those two flavors pairing in the same mouthful. I love them both, but would never put them together under any circumstance. That’s just insane.

When all is said and done, in our household at least, what I’ve described brings new meaning to the phrase, “food fight.”

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

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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September 22, 2026 · 1:56 pm

I’ll Fix Your Wagon

Just when you think you’re cruising along in life and nearly everything seems to be going swimmingly, the universe begs to differ. In its infinite wisdom it whispers, “I’ll fix your wagon,” because we all know that things can’t go as planned forever. The universe always has the final say. And it doesn’t seem to matter how optimistic or spiritual or hopeful one is. Eventually, the tide turns—for the worse. At least for me that’s how it usually goes.

Case in point: The dehumidifier in our basement needed to be emptied. So, I emptied it. Like a normal person. On a Sunday afternoon. But my lower back never got the message that this was part of my regular routine. Something I considered to be ridiculously simple. Something that I have accomplished without incident seemingly forever. But this time was different. Somehow, I was asking too much of my back to complete the task without any drama.

Reader, there was plenty of drama.

At first, I felt a slight twinge. Then the reality set in that I had done something horrible to my back. Correction: Something horribly stupid. Apparently, I was lifting the brunt of the weight with my back—and not with my legs. I then replaced the reservoir in the dehumidifier and scooped the litter box, all the while trying (and failing) to bend over like someone who wasn’t in excruciating pain. I then hobbled to the stairs—the ones that looked impossible to scale in my current condition. God bless railings.

For the next five days (and counting), I planted myself on the couch in agony with a heating pad and/or ice wedged behind me while I watched entirely too much tennis and baseball, envious of the way the athletes on the screen could move. By contrast, I shuffled around the house like an old man—much like Tim Conway did in his hilarious skits—every step a new adventure, the epitome of the term “slow.”

It’s easy to take a body that works the way it’s supposed to for granted. You don’t really think about doing something as basic as bending over to pick a piece of lint off the floor—until you can’t. By then, it qualifies as pure, unadulterated frustration. Honestly, this past week I’ve been staring at the pieces of lint on the floor as if they were mocking me, obsessed with their existence and completely disgusted with myself because I can’t pick the cussed things up. And I keep dropping stuff while the mere thought of retrieving said stuff makes me wince. Never mind the notion of sneezing. That pain is off the charts.  

As a result, I have had to rely on my husband to do practically EVERYTHING for me. He picks up the remote when I drop it. He brings me celery lovingly stuffed with tuna. He stands behind me as I attempt to navigate the stairs. For the love of God, HE PUTS MY SOCKS ON. Of course, he does it wrong because the words on the socks aren’t perfectly aligned with my toes, so I make him fix them by suggesting that he pretends for a moment to suffer from OCD (related to symmetry) like me. So far, I have been successful.

In a nutshell, I have been virtually incapacitated, and popping Tylenol around the clock. If nothing else, this experience has given me a new appreciation for what people who are debilitated for whatever reason go through on a daily basis. My husband, for instance, has been dealing with pain and discomfort for more than a decade—mostly associated with neuropathy and arthritis, not to mention his hip and back surgeries and all that that has entailed. I try not to lose my patience as quickly with his slower pace and attempt to understand that perhaps the universe fixed his wagon, too.

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

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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September 15, 2026 · 12:50 pm

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

Sometimes a walk in the woods is something you didn’t even know you needed—until you take that walk. For me, at least, it’s a good way to reconnect with nature and with myself, more specifically, by hugging trees, admiring moss and touching a lot of bark. There’s something incredibly cleansing, almost healing, about spending time in the woods—both for physical and mental well-being. Forest bathing, or shinrin yoku, is a term coined by the Japanese to describe the practice of wandering through nature, trees in particular, in order to reap a host of benefits. And apparently, there is some promising science behind that statement. As reported by the Cleveland Clinic, trees release tiny particles called phytoncides and when people inhale them, immunity is boosted. Cortisol, a stress hormone, is also reduced along with depression. So aside from the possibility of tick bites or a sprained ankle, a walk in the woods is thought to be good for you.

In my mind, it’s also a surefire way to fill one’s tank, so to speak—a way to escape the noise and chaos of civilization in order to drink in the calm and stillness of nature. A week or so ago, my husband surprised me with a trip to accomplish just that. Cook Forest State Park is an 8,500-acre expanse of old-growth trees and recreational facilities for hiking, canoeing, camping and cross-country skiing located in remote northwestern Pennsylvania along the Clarion River. As a many-decade resident of the state, I can’t believe I’ve never visited this extraordinary wonder of nature, until now.

To say that we enjoyed our excursion through the innumerable stands of white pine and hemlock is an understatement. The scent alone was intoxicating, not to mention gazing up at the canopy of leaves and needles far above—the sky barely visible, completely enveloped by the forest. A carpet of ferns stretched out before us in a blaze of green while countless trees that had fallen lay throughout the woods in varying states of decay. Like a great shroud above us, foliage blocked a good bit of sunlight as soon as we stepped foot on the trail, our skin noticeably cooler as we hiked deeper and deeper into the forest. Everywhere we placed our feet, rocks and roots greeted us, but thankfully, no snakes or poison ivy.

Well into our journey along the path (that was not especially well-marked), it was as if we had been swallowed by the very essence of density, surrounded by trees hundreds of years old—wonderfully disoriented, soaking in the eerie stillness, alone together with our thoughts. The quiet was what I found most striking of all, aside from birds calling to one another and chipmunks scurrying about in the thick underbrush, it was dead silent. No traffic. No lawnmowers. Not even a plane overhead could be perceived. But I swear I could hear my heartbeat. 

Naturally, I turned around a number of times realizing just how easy it would be to become lost since I had long ago forgotten from which direction we had originated. We chuckled about that, and the notion that we had yet to see a bear. So, we kept moving forward, but in the back of our minds thought it best not to stray from the trail and pray that we get out long before dark, as the lingering shafts of afternoon sunlight served as a reminder of how long we had been there. And because the gods were smiling upon us, we did get out, but not before we heard the distant rumble of thunder along with soft taps of rain, which I found strangely comforting, cloaked by the forest all around.

Robert Frost was right. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.”

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (recalling my respite, deep in the woods of Cook Forest). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel 

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September 1, 2026 · 12:36 pm

Let Them Eat Cake–Sometimes

Once in a great while, I stumble across a book that’s so good, I reread it. Glucose Revolution by Jessie Inchauspé (Glucose Goddess on Instagram) is just such a book. It might not be of interest to everyone per se, but since I have type 2 diabetes, I am wholly invested in its subject matter. Plus, I thought my doctor might be impressed to learn that I read it—twice. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to convince my husband to read it yet. He argues, “When they cure death, I’ll read it.”

At any rate, it’s written in a conversational tone, it’s incredibly easy to understand and there are cute little graphics throughout that appear to be hand drawn. And since I can relate to the topics the author discusses, I got a lot out of her book and actually applied her findings to my own life.

In a nutshell, she shares her research on what she calls “hacks” that help readers more efficiently manage their glucose spikes—or “flatten their glucose curves,” as Inchauspé refers to it. Now I’m not a medical professional, so please don’t take any of this information as if I were. You should always consult your doctor before implementing any medical advice. But so far, the hacks depicted in said book appear to be helping me control my blood sugar.

The irony here is that so many of her so-called hacks (there are 10 in all) seem almost counterintuitive—at least to me. For starters, apparently the order in which food is consumed matters. Who knew? I’ve lived on this planet since the Kennedy administration and never knew this mindboggling fact. According to Inchauspé, fiber in the form of veggies should start every meal, followed by protein and healthy fats, then carbohydrates and finally sweets, if at all. To put this into practice I ate an Italian sausage sandwich at a Crosscutters game recently by deconstructing it—plucking the delicious sautéed peppers and onions off first, then devouring the sausage and finally the roll—like a complete nutjob. Hopefully, no one was watching.

Another habit the author swears by is to walk after meals, so that the corresponding glucose feeds muscles instead of staying in the bloodstream. So much for morphing into a couch potato after I eat. Instead, I try to go for a short walk, but I get to pet dogs so it’s all good.

Yet another hack is to consume a bit of vinegar before meals—like olive oil and vinegar dressing on a green salad. I personally add vinegar by having a dill pickle—or three. And like Ray Romano once famously remarked, “Man, I love a pickle.” “It’s like a food and a drink.” I agree wholeheartedly.

Likewise, another practice mentioned in the book is to eat dessert immediately after a meal instead of snacking all day. I remember life as an exhausted parent of toddlers—becoming just as dependent upon the little baggies of Cheerios as my kids were. Apparently, though, having dessert spikes glucose less than snacking incessantly. So, if I’m going to eat something sweet, I eat it right after the meal and then go for a walk, ideally. As the ill-famed line goes: Let them eat cake—sometimes.

What’s more, I’ve added quite a bit of protein to my diet—like Greek yogurt. And I don’t even like Greek yogurt. But if you add enough blueberries, it’s at least palatable. Then again, I’m playing Russian roulette with fresh produce (i.e. Cyclospora). But I digress.

One of the most bizarre hacks the author touts in her book is to ditch cereal and juice for breakfast and instead eat something savory. My husband, of course, thinks it’s beyond peculiar when I choose baked haddock, green beans and rice (a prepackaged meal from Tony’s Deli) FOR BREAKFAST. Or leftover chili. Or cheese ravioli. Or any kind of eggs. Or avocado and cottage cheese. Strange, I know. 

I guess it’s all in the name of trying to be healthier, as weird as some of the Glucose Goddess’s suggestions might sound. Time will tell if her hacks have a big impact.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably having a pickle). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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