Tag Archives: love

November 3, 2026 · 12:18 pm

There is a Season…For Every Quirk

When it comes to nature and the great outdoors, I have some idiosyncrasies. Quirks, you might call them—multitudes of peculiarities for every season under the sun. I have no way of knowing how many of these I share with all of mankind, but I’d bet some of them are not unique to me.

For starters, I can’t go for an autumn walk without stepping on the crisp leaves that have fallen in the street. I can’t begin to express how satisfying I find the corresponding crunch beneath my feet. It’s a rule—I have to crush them, sometimes great bunches of them all at once. Of course, it’s equally satisfying to kick piles of leaves as I walk or to watch children do the same. Likewise, I can’t resist a falling leaf without trying to catch it midair, taking me back to my youth and many a sundrenched afternoon spent chasing them with my brother. What’s more, I feel compelled to rescue woolly bear caterpillars from the middle of the street, transporting them to a grassy or woodsy area where they can continue their wanderings.

Similarly, I like to catch fireflies at dusk for as much of summer as humanly possible, and listen to the chorus of crickets and peepers as night falls, awaiting the magic when stars begin to emerge in the east. I’m fascinated by dragonflies, too, as they skim the surface of a pool or a pond with expert precision, their iridescent wings gleaming in the sun. And as trips to the beach go, I can’t possibly refrain from walking barefoot in the sand and surf. Nor can I pass by an opportunity to build a sandcastle or gather seashells by the bushel. To me, collecting seashells is one way to bring a bit of the gritty sand and briny scent of the ocean home—not to mention countless memories.

Winter is no different with respect to my oddities. I have to catch snowflakes on my tongue, and taste the earthy, almost dirt-like flavor of a handful of snow as a general rule. Naturally, I have to build snowmen, too—even if they’re miniature and somewhat misshapen. I try to situate them somewhere near a window, so I can watch them melt in the spring. I say, you’re never too old to build a snowman. It’s a project worthy of anyone’s time. On that note, I’m also especially fond of feeling the warmth of the sun in mid-January, and I only recently learned there’s a term for it—apricity. It gives one hope in the dead of winter that spring will eventually arrive, along with its warmth. Never mind the biting cold air during those endless months. Besides, there’s something truly exhilarating about filling one’s lungs with it—especially on a crisp, blue-sky day, surrounded by snow and its blinding white light. Those are some of the best days to soak in what winter has to offer, in my opinion.

No matter the season, I am always captivated by the moon, in all its various phases; but I am especially transfixed by a full moon on the rise—massive and gloriously yellow. Even in the wee hours if I happen to awaken and notice the room bathed in moonlight, I feel compelled to go to a window and gaze at its striking beauty. In fact, I’ve been known to text people GO LOOK AT THE MOON, even if they don’t share my unbridled enthusiasm for it. Just ask my kids.

Furthermore, I find it virtually impossible to pass a white pine tree without reaching out to feel the incredibly soft needles or breathe in the sweet, citrusy scent. Likewise, I can’t resist touching my favorite tiny pine cone on the hemlock in our backyard every time I pass near it. Yes, I have a favorite pine cone. And it has become a ritual to find it hiding within the branches and gently boop it as if it were a dog’s nose.

Likewise, if a red-tailed hawk circles above me or a flock of Canada geese happens to pass overhead, honking emphatically, I have to stop whatever I’m doing, crane my neck and watch. Naturally, I must point out such things to anyone nearby as well. It’s a rule.

The older I get, the less embarrassed I am about my quirks, especially the ones related to nature. Instead, I try to embrace them, throughout every season under the sun.

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

Refrigerator Art

Our refrigerator used to be the hub of our home, mainly because it was covered with photos that depicted almost every milestone or significant event in our lives as a family—to include preschool graduation, Halloween costumes, photo booth fun, birthday parties, family vacations as well as a snapshot or two of an ordinary Tuesday here at home. Of course, in those days there was also a giant calendar wedged between the photos upon which we had scrawled important upcoming dates and phone numbers. By contrast, I keep practically everything in my smartphone calendar and contact list now. No need to hang a ridiculously large master schedule smack in the middle of the fridge anymore.

At any rate, we remodeled our kitchen and replaced our old fridge with a stainless steel one a number of years ago. So I boxed up the wealth of photos and kids’ artwork and put them somewhere safe, although I can’t recall where just now. For longer than I’d care to admit, I pined for the antiquated fridge with its canvas of snapshots and magnets inscribed with favorite quotes, often finding myself standing in front of it, reminiscing over times when my children were small.

In all honesty, it took more restraint than I had imagined to refrain from plastering the entire surface of that new fridge with an embarrassment of photos once again. Self-imposed restraint, I might add. I don’t think my husband, or the kids for that matter, really had an opinion about how pristine (or not) the new fridge looked. They probably would’ve been fine had I festooned it from top to bottom and on three sides once more. But I didn’t. However, I couldn’t completely kick the “refrigerator art” habit. I settled, instead, for designating just one side of the new fridge for photos and the like. As a result, the part of me that appreciates an unblemished, smudge-free surface that gleams in the morning sunlight is happy. Similarly, the part of me that reveres seeing the cherished photos and reading the inspirational messages on a handful of magnets is thrilled. It’s a win-win situation, I guess.

Not surprisingly, I chose photos of my favorite people and pets this time, too, although most of them are updated, more recent versions of the originals. There are favorite images of our twins caught in mid-performance in the marching band they so loved, some of them during their college years, some printouts of old holiday greeting cards we had made, some of my parents and mother-in-law who have since passed away, a dear church friend we also lost and even a picture of our old fridge—the one that was inundated with the trappings of life. I also added a smattering of pics (and even an ultrasound image) of our granddaughter, who is now eight.

I think the pics of the pets we’ve lost get to me the most. They pull at my heartstrings. Even though our curly-haired, pint-sized Bichon whizzed indiscriminately on the floor almost every day and our 95-lb. yellow lab “puppy” occasionally dragged us across the street because she wanted to eat other dogs, I still miss them. And our black lab mix, with the caramel-colored eyes that made me melt—he is missed, too, along with our black cat, Mr. Binx, once feral and eventually tamed. And I can’t forget our long-haired orange tabby, who was known for fetching things like a dog and for sleeping on whoever happened to be ill, to perhaps make them well again. Since the space on the new fridge is limited, I framed and hung pictures of nearly all of our pets in an adjacent room. The Pet Wall of Fame, if you will. Now I rekindle the abundance of memories I possess standing somewhere besides the kitchen when I want to revisit a time when they were all here. Of course, I’ve included images of our current cats who are alive and well in that room, too.

It’s a far cry from the coveted fridge space, I suppose, but it’ll have to do.

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

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Family Affair, Gratitude, Growing Pains, Home Improvement, In the Trenches of Parentville, Love and Other Drugs, motherhood, Mushy Stuff, Normal is Relative, Refrigerator Art, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as family, family photos, growing pains, kids' art, life, love, memories, parenting, refrigerator, refrigerator magnets

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 11^th) 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.

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Filed under Family Affair, Love and Loss

Tagged as brothers, death, family, LGBTQ, love, Love and Loss, National Coming Out Day, suicide

August 11, 2026 · 1:48 pm

Green Thumb–Not So Much

I absolutely love my houseplants. I do. But sometimes love isn’t enough. You need actual talent to care for plants and help them thrive. My friend, Glenn has a green thumb. Me, not so much. At a bare minimum, you need a certain level of competence just to keep them alive. Apparently, I don’t possess the necessary skills to do even that at times, as evidenced by the numerous plants in my household that didn’t make it—to include a cactus.

Amazingly enough, I do own quite a few plants of varying types that have survived, perhaps in spite of me. Or perhaps because I somehow refrained from drowning them or ignoring them so long that they would shrivel up and die. I don’t know what comes over me, but sometimes when it’s time to water, I think more is better. One of my poor plants is recovering from soil so saturated it could qualify as a wetland. My daughter keeps reminding me NOT to water it anymore, and I’ve listened, for the most part. Each week, I poke my finger into the dirt to learn how moist it is and contemplate how just a little water might help it, which, admittedly, is how I got into this swampy mess in the first place. Who are we kidding—that plant currently lives in a bog.

At the other end of the spectrum, occasionally I’ll forget to water my plants for weeks at a time. I know; I am a terrible plant mother. By the time I notice, many of the leaves in question are withering away right before my eyes. I really wish they could whine or set off a siren to get my attention. That’s the kind of plant I need—one that acts like a toddler, demanding to be fed.

That is not to say I totally neglect the plants in my care. I’ve been known to pluck their yellowing leaves and turn the pots to get balanced sunlight. I even talk to them on occasion and I’ve given some of them names. Pedestrian names, but names nonetheless. Steve is a snake plant and lives upstairs with a fair amount of bright morning light on sunny days. Dave, a jade plant, is situated right next to him and is doing quite well (again, in spite of me).

I also have a bunch of succulents, and a little fern, that all sit on my kitchen windowsill, thanks to one of my daughters who couldn’t find room in her car when she moved to Colorado. She, of course, remarked that “Everything will be fine, Mom. You probably won’t kill them.” That is not to say that our cat hasn’t tried. He knocked one of the pots into the sink not long ago, tearing one of its leaves off and dumping most of its dirt in the process. So, I carefully replaced the roots, stem and dirt in the pot, all the while assuring my little plant that he would be okay, as one does.

It’s true—I talk to my plants as if they were children or pets. I tell them how wonderful they look (when they do) or how miserable they look (when, in fact, they don’t look so great). Naturally, I offer my profuse and heartfelt apologies, expressing how incredibly sorry I am because I screwed up, yet again. I think they understand me, to an extent anyway, and hopefully find it in their hearts to forgive me. Much of the time, I smile at them and use a high-pitched, squeaky voice to address them, because, of course, I do. Doesn’t everyone? I think they enjoy the music I play in the house, too, which is a relief because not everyone likes my playlist.

Interestingly, one of my daughters conducted a science experiment in grade school, hypothesizing that houseplants are positively affected by certain sounds. She read aloud to one of them, played her French horn for another, and exposed yet another to music on the radio. There was also a control subject that had no special sounds played near it. Amazingly enough, the plant that “listened” to the radio grew the most. At any rate, it was a fun experiment and one that might have inspired our whole household to recognize plants as sentient beings.

In light of that, maybe there’s hope that one day I’ll sprout a green thumb. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (with scores of houseplants that have miraculously survived, in spite of me). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, A Tree is Nice, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Me Myself and I, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as Green Thumb, hobbies, home, home life, houseplants, humor, love, plants

July 7, 2026 · 12:22 pm

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.