Category Archives: Gratitude

April 14, 2026 · 1:25 pm

I’m with the Band

Since our kids abandoned us and went off to college, my husband and I really miss the noise in our household. Sounds almost inconceivable, but it’s true. They had friends over frequently and we miss their noise, too. Really, we do—because they were delightful. There were countless Halloween parties, marching band sectional get-togethers, musical cast gatherings and just ordinary meetups for snacks and shenanigans around our kitchen island and sprawled across our back deck. I remember a veritable din of music and laughter emanating from what can only be described as a small herd of high schoolers, and I remember wishing it would never end.

I pine for the kids, of course, but mostly it’s the music they created that I long to hear once more. To say that our home was filled with music is an understatement, largely because of the encouragement and tutelage of Aegina and Bobby Leidhecker, Amanda Haney, Lee Saville-Iksic, Donna Elkin, Miki Rebeck, Ryan Bulgarelli, Jared Whitford, Meg McQue and Dr. William Ciabattari. Our twins ended up being music education majors so someone was always singing or playing an instrument at all hours throughout their middle and high school years. I’ll never forget witnessing them playing a riff from “Smoke on the Water” as fifth graders in the middle of our kitchen floor. Seriously. That happened.

My favorites of all time, though, were listening to the French horn as well as vocals accompanied by the strums of a ukelele. I’m sad to say that part of me took this beautiful soundtrack of our lives for granted. Somehow, I thought it would always be there, a constant in the background. Now the house is quiet, and they’re off on their own in the world, adulting, mostly.

Since the “free concerts” we’ve enjoyed inside our house have been egregiously discontinued, my husband and I have had to settle for the next best thing—attending concerts outside the house. Of course, this isn’t exactly a new thing for us, but it’s something we’ve certainly done more of lately. We’ve seen everything from Brahms Requiem at Carnegie Hall, the Philadelphia Orchestra, the Williamsport Symphony Orchestra and Uptown Music Collective to Tom Petty, B.B. King, Smokey Robinson, Fleetwood Mac, the Stones and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Needless to say, we’re music appreciators and we have eclectic taste.

And although we continue to enjoy a variety of music, our priorities have changed somewhat over the years. Earplugs are more important than ever and if we forget them, we wad up tissues and jam them into our ears. Decades ago, we never would have dreamed of doing that. The louder, the better was our motto. Never mind that we couldn’t hear for three days. And now that we’re suffering the consequences of our own actions, we regret not taking better care of our precious ears. I remember distinctly watching an overhead light shatter and fall to the floor during an Alice Cooper concert because it was DEAFENING. And almost without fail, I can feel the music resonating deep within my chest even if it’s not rock ‘n’ roll.

Another change we’ve observed is that we’re not necessarily the youngsters attending anymore. Sometimes we’re smack in the middle of the pack, while other times we’re surrounded by throngs of people who likely color their grays and carry AARP cards. Nevertheless, and no matter the age, it proves once again that music is the great uniter.

That said, we met some lovely people who sat near us at a Collective Soul concert recently and remarked how similar our taste in music was. What’s amusing is how I ended up there in the F. M. Kirby Center on a Tuesday night in the first place. It’s because I held a grudge. For 30 years. I know it’s juvenile, but I couldn’t help myself. You see, my husband invited some friends’ teenage son (who was a musician himself and slightly obsessed with the band) to see them perform in their heyday over 30 years ago. I, of course, was also slightly obsessed with the band, but did not score tickets. Hence, the grudge.

Lo and behold, my husband redeemed himself by gifting me tickets to see the very same band, albeit three whole decades later. Better late than never, I guess.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably listening to music of some kind). Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

All That Jazz

I have a confession to make: I love caffeine. Just like a lot of people, I depend on it to get stuff done. Stuff I don’t necessarily want to do. Like taxes, cleaning up cat puke and spending a ridiculous amount of time in the kitchen or laundry room. Truth be told, I need my caffeine fix to overcome a default setting of abject lethargy. It’s embarrassing, I know.

What’s ironic is that I don’t especially like coffee. I tried acquiring a taste for it in college while I pulled all-nighters, to no avail. I resolved that issue eventually by mixing it in my dark chocolate hot cocoa so that I can barely taste its bitterness. Problem solved.

Oddly enough, it only takes about a teaspoonful to get me revved, or as my husband likes to say, “jazzed.” As in, “Oh no, you’re all jazzed now and I’ll have to deal with THIS version of you!” But this version of me feels invincible—like vacuuming the entire house, cleaning the gutters or going on a 10-mile hike (not that I actually will). Needless to say, “caffeinated me” irritates him to no end because, of course, I talk incessantly and remind him of things he needs to do. I also interrupt his precious scrolling time. I figure I’m just helping him help himself to not be so addicted to his phone.

I think what aggravates him most about this situation is that he prefers being energized early in the day while I prefer later in the afternoon and into the evening. What’s more, he could consume five cups of java and not feel a thing, whereas the mere thought of ingesting a few sips of the brewed wonder makes my leg bounce in anticipation. It’s par for the course, though—take two people who are opposite in almost every way imaginable, and invariably they marry each other. That’s us.

In the end, I guess we’ve learned to tolerate each other’s differences—even the ones that involve caffeine, which delights me because I can’t imagine having to sacrifice either my dear husband or my dear coffee/cocoa fix. That said, caffeine makes me happy. It’s like sprinkling joy all over my day—especially on the days I have to will myself to do anything remotely cognitive, like balancing a checkbook, paying bills or (you guessed it) writing this column.

That said, my brain just works better on caffeine. It bounces from one task to the next with remarkable hyper-focus which helps me accomplish a host of gotta-dos in record time, all thanks to a liquid form of motivation. It inspires greatness within me regarding physical tasks, too, causing me to achieve the impossible—like making our mattress pad fit on the bed without committing hari kari.

Out of sheer curiosity, I Googled images of caffeine and apparently the crystals look wild under a microscope—like clusters of jagged little particles, poised to wreak havoc wherever they might land. It’s no wonder it does what it does to the body and brain. I encourage you to Google it, too. You won’t be disappointed.

Not surprisingly, frappés are my decadent treat, especially if they contain pumps of Frappuccino roast and dark chocolate java chips. My doctor will be pleased to know that I don’t make a habit of ordering them that often because it’s basically diabetes in a cup. That said, I look forward to meeting up with my dear friend, Barb, at Starbucks in the very near future. I’m sure we’ll catch up on all the latest happenings in our lives and enjoy something delicious (and caffeinated) in the process.

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

Dog Years

If we’re lucky, some of the best years of our lives are considered the best because they are spent in the company of a dog. It’s what I think of when I hear the term “dog years” anyway. It’s not how old a dog may be in terms of human aging, but instead, it’s the expanse of time we humans get to bond with, love and be loved by a dog. Important distinction.

Our family has been fortunate to have had three amazing dogs over the years. Four if you count the one we adopted for my dad who was struggling with Alzheimer’s and needed companionship. That godsend-of-a-dog, Bear, is now living out his golden years with extended family since my dad passed away over ten years ago.

Sadly, we lost all three of our dogs; two to cancer and one to kidney disease. But not before we relished their tail-wagging days with us. I even found it ironically heartwarming that Jasper, our black lab mix, made it a habit to follow me into the shower or anywhere else I happened to be going. But like anyone else, we had not-so-fun times, too. Like the occasions that resulted in irreparable damage to our windowsills, being dragged in the street by our 95-pound yellow lab/greyhound mix and the 17-year stint I spent on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors after our Bichon Frisé, Jack, indiscriminately whizzed on them. He never quite grasped the idea of asking to go outside to do his business despite a boatload of encouragement. But I’ll never forget the night we chose him from the litter, an overgrown guinea pig lying on my chest, nuzzling my neck.

We decided not to adopt another rescue dog for a myriad of reasons, chiefly because we didn’t want to say goodbye after a life that would never be long enough. But it’s not as if we’ve sworn off dogs entirely. We still interact on a daily basis with the ones that live in our neighborhood and with those we encounter in our travels if the occasion presents itself. Not surprisingly, we get our “dog fix” if we’re permitted to pet said dogs and talk to them as if they were children. They really are children—just furrier. Most of them love the extra attention, and the tasty treats my husband always carries in his pocket. If, for whatever reason, we can’t pet them, I always smile. Dogs know your smile was meant for them.

What I find funny is the fact that I’ll often remember the dogs’ names before I recall the owners’ names. And I most definitely know which dog belongs with which owner—just like my kids’ friends; I always knew which parents were connected to which kids, but I didn’t necessarily remember the adults’ names. Sorry, parents of my kids’ friends. It’s a character flaw I’m not especially proud of.

Likewise, I’m hoping the people I happen upon in the neighborhood aren’t offended because part of me is really more interested in their dog. I’ll take note if he or she has a new collar or leash, has just returned from the groomer’s or is absent from his/her human’s side. Of course, I’ll ask why the dog is missing, hoping it’s because of a fun field trip and not due to illness—or, Heaven forbid, their passing. What’s more, my husband and I try to remember to send a card expressing our condolences to the people who have recently lost a dog. I know the cards we’ve received have meant so much. Our good friend, Denny, even went so far as to gift us money so that we might buy something to memorialize our dear Luna, the aforementioned 95-pound lab/greyhound mix. Thankfully, our vet made sure we had paw prints cast in plaster of all our dogs and a nose print and tuft of fur from at least one of them—something tangible that helps us remember the ticking of their nails on the floor and the cool, wet smooshiness of their noses. I often find myself picking up the prints and rubbing my fingers in the indentations of their toe beans, memorizing every curve, recalling their warmth in my hand.

In lieu of that, I still have the trove of neighborhood dogs I pass on my walks, their fuzzy heads destined to be patted, not to mention the ones I see hanging their heads out of car windows, their pink tongues flapping in the wind, smiling broadly in the sun because they know, like I know, dog years are the very best years.

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

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Filed under Doggie Diamonds, Love and Loss, Family Affair, Gratitude

Tagged as family, love, dogs, pets, rescue dogs, Love and Loss, dog years

March 10, 2026 · 4:13 pm

Still Here in Spirit

I’m sure a lot of people do it—hold on to things that their loved ones used and perhaps cherished during their lifetimes. That’s why they call them keepsakes—something tangible that helps us keep our loved ones close to our hearts even if they’re gone from this earth. In theory, they’re items that hold special significance or meaning because they were once important to the deceased or to the person who ultimately winds up with them. Sad to say, I’ve collected a fair number of mementos over the years. And they all serve the same purpose—connection. Furniture, china, artwork, clothing, jewelry, knickknacks and boxes upon boxes of snapshots that flood our minds with memories the instant we open them. Some of it’s useful, some of it’s not especially.

I realize it makes no sense to hang on to my dad’s wedding band. It’s currently stuffed in a tiny box in a dresser drawer. I sometimes get it out and slide it on my thumb, trying to remember how it looked on his hand. I suppose I could have it made into another piece of jewelry, but I don’t want to change its integrity. It just doesn’t feel right.

My mom’s and my grandmothers’ rings, by contrast, I decided to resize so I could wear them. Not every day, but more often than I thought I would. It sounds weird but I’d like to think that when I put them on, they’re still with me, at least in spirit. They’ve come along to our granddaughter’s birthday parties, to special dinners, to holiday celebrations, to my aunt’s and uncle’s funerals, to our oldest daughter’s wedding, to one of our twin’s musicals as a choral director, to our other twin’s engagement and to their college graduations and recitals (they were both music majors). Again and again, as I glanced down at my mom’s diamond ring, it’s as if she were sitting right there in the seat next to me, experiencing the music, the performance, the ceremony or whatever was happening at the time.

By the same token, my brother, who I lost to suicide 20 years ago, has been “attending” numerous events that I thought he might appreciate. I wear some of his shirts like a warm hug and if the occasion presents itself, I tell people that I do it because I’m proud of the man he was and that he needs to “get out and about with me.” Occasionally, I’ll open the bottle of cologne I saved just to remember, and it’s as if he’s right there. Likewise, my husband occasionally visits some of his mother’s clothing we’ve stored in the attic and swears he can still smell her perfume even though it’s been almost two decades since we lost her. It’s a way of connecting to his past and I surely understand.

I suppose the weirdest keepsake to date is a plant that my mother-in-law loved and cared for as it sat on a windowsill over her kitchen sink for the longest time. It was an African violet and we kept it alive close to 15 years—no small feat given our less than impressive track record of houseplant survival.

My dear friend, Pam, makes it a habit to say “Good morning” and “Goodnight” to her husband’s urn so that she might better function throughout each day. She also sleeps in Bill’s favorite T-shirts as a rule, helping her to remember him and the occasions when they were purchased. She kept his wedding band and has a gold heart imprinted with his unique thumbprint. Not surprisingly, she has a wealth of pictures and mementos of their times together and she still has a few of his voicemails, so that she won’t ever forget his voice.

Another dear friend, Ann, shared with me that she still has the duty assignment cards that were her aunt’s, who was a volunteer Red Cross Driver during WWI and WWII. That same aunt personally witnessed the Hindenburg explosion in 1937 in New Jersey and Ann wound up with the newspaper clipping from that day. She also kept some dishes and handmade furniture from her great grandparents and poems written by her uncle. Generations of family history were also preserved and passed down to her—something she values beyond measure. Ann also suffered a heartbreaking loss of her teenage son and has kept the model ship he built among a host of special mementos.

I truly understand why people like me keep the keepsakes. It’s so the connection remains and the grief is temporarily replaced by feelings of comfort and remembrance.

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

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Filed under Family Affair, Gratitude, Love and Loss

Tagged as coping, family, grief, keepsakes, loss, love, Love and Loss, mementos, remembrance

February 24, 2026 · 3:39 pm

Sunspots

My indoor cats know where it’s at—basking in the sunspots throughout the house. Those warm and welcoming havens where the sun streams in through the windows and pools on the floor and furniture below are especially inviting on these cold, wintry days. They’re no fools. They know it makes perfect sense to curl up in a place where heat is literally raining down from the sky, warming their bodies through to the bone.

I can tell just by looking at their furry faces how euphoric this makes them. The way they turn their heads toward the source and slow blink as if to say, “Don’t bother me; I’m in a zone.” What I find hilarious is watching said cats squabble over what is apparently prime real estate—a two-foot square expanse of hardwood flooring in a corner of our living room that is bathed in sunlight nearly every morning. If I could fit there (and if I got up earlier), I’d be hijacking it myself.

I’m like a house plant, only less photosynthesis is involved.

It’s not as if we set the thermostat below a reasonable temperature and we’re all freezing to death. It usually hovers right around 70 degrees. It’s just that the sun streaming in feels so ridiculously good—especially on bare feet. And if it’s a blue sky type of day, the sunspots appear on the northwestern side of the house in the afternoon too, providing even more opportunities for lounging in the warmth.

So I guess it’s not the least bit surprising that I, much like our cats, follow the sun in winter. Housebound, I find myself seeking out the shafts of light pouring in and soaking it all up before the clouds close in or night falls. If I didn’t look like a complete idiot, I’d be tempted to sprawl out on the floor just like the cats and devour every sliver of sunlight to be had—charging my batteries so to speak. It’s no wonder almost every vehicle I ever owned came equipped with a sunroof, lest I be deprived of a solitary photon.

For what it’s worth, there’s an amusing YouTube and Instagram video about northerners enjoying February sunshine on a family vlog and blog called Story of This Life. It’s created by Thad and Esther Anderson and I highly recommend you check it out (with the volume on) for a good laugh. The woman in question practically transforms into a cat as she slinks over furniture, stairs, walls and flooring to absorb every available ray of sunshine in her home. These past few months she has become my spirit animal.

What’s more, I sort of identify with the solar panels we had installed on our roof last summer. They love the sunshine, but have been more than a little frustrated by the snow and ice still covering a good portion of their surface. Let the melting begin.

I suppose I should take my husband’s advice and use my Miroco Light Therapy Lamp more often, particularly on gray days when it’s not very sunny. It’s a nifty device for people who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (that I, of course, diagnosed myself) that simulates natural sunlight without UV rays. It has multiple brightness settings, a timer and it swivels for convenience. For whatever reason, though, I just don’t seem to be inclined to fetch it from the bowels of our cabinet where it’s housed. Maybe because I know in my heart of hearts it’s not the same as actual sunlight. Obviously, my cats think it’s a marvelous idea to use it in lieu of competing for their precious sunspots.

Little jerks.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably lying in a sunspot, squinting like the cats). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.