Tag Archives: love

June 16, 2026 · 12:00 pm

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.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

Fred Rogers was right. Having good neighbors is a very important thing, and it’s equally important for people to reciprocate that act by being a good neighbor. Rogers’ famous song, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor,” was situated at the start of each episode of his beloved PBS television show, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. He kept the lyrics simple, but despite their simplicity, they clearly resonated on a deeper level the message of caring about others.

Unfortunately, according to a Pew Research Center study, a lot of people these days don’t even know their neighbors, let alone consider them friends—which is a sad commentary on our modern society. Worse yet, the trends are heading in the wrong direction. Perhaps for a variety of reasons, people are no longer investing the time to hold real conversations and form lasting relationships with those who live near them. Lots of people have busy schedules, or they rent and may move often—which might explain some of the effect.

Regardless of why it’s happening, it surely is happening and I for one think it’s tragic. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without my wonderful neighbors. Aside from socializing around a firepit or catching up with them on our daily walks and interacting with their kids or pets when we encounter them, I’ve depended on them on more occasions than I can reliably number.

I’ll never forget the time Beth S. raced across the backyard to our house one night, wielding a golf club (an iron, I think), while our kids were home alone and afraid because they heard a strange noise outside. After talking with her, I remember feeling extremely relieved that all was well and thankful she had come to the rescue, once again.

I also remember Tony D. giving us invaluable peace of mind when he checked the entire perimeter of our home because we called to tell him we had received a notification from our security service while we were sitting in Carnegie Hall in New York City. Once again, it was a false alarm, but we felt immeasurably better because of his kind act.

Nor will I forget the time our neighbor, Ron C., bailed us out by picking up our family after our Jeep broke down and needed to be towed. He took time out of his day to drive to the outskirts of town and haul us all home, our kids likely jabbering the whole time. And as I mentioned a few weeks ago, our neighbor, Jay R., not only started our leaf blower on more than one occasion, he also helped us relearn how to vacuum our pool the old-fashioned way (by hand) without once chuckling at our ineptitude.

And there was the summer that our neighbor, Craig C., helped my husband dig through an ungodly amount of shale to install our new mailbox—one that was attached to a wooden post he painstakingly measured and built in his shop, just to be neighborly.

What’s more, our friend and neighbor, Jeremy J., plows our driveway every winter with his nifty four-wheeler (sometimes with his daughter aboard), never once asking to be compensated for his efforts. Likewise (and before Jeremy moved in), Nick Y. shoveled the mound of snow and ice embedded at the base of our driveway—because the township snowplow, of course, had undone all the work we had accomplished with our snowblower.

Another irreplaceable neighbor, John I., offered to go with me to visit my husband who had just arrived at the ER via ambulance. I recall we had barely settled into our house, now almost 30 years ago, and already he was willing to be there for us.

And there was Tera B. who literally saved our marriage by assembling a Pack ‘n Play for us while we held our newborn twins and looked on in amazement at both her patience and mechanical skill.

Yet another treasured set of neighbors, Christine and Phil J., will forever hold a special place in our hearts because they kept our new puppy overnight on Christmas Eve—so that our daughters could experience one of the biggest and most memorable joys on Christmas morning when they were six. They still talk about that Christmas surprise to this day. I can only hope my husband and I have returned the many favors I’ve described here. It’s likely I’ve forgotten to mention some.

Fred Rogers was, indeed, right. Neighbors are some of the most important people in our lives. Be like Fred—make an effort to get to know your neighbors.

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

Into the Woods

It’s no wonder the novel The Secret Garden resonated so deeply with me when I was around ten. I found myself identifying with the characters who became immersed within the natural world, inside a special, hidden-from-civilization plot of greenery that ended up healing them in some way. And since I grew up surrounded by woods and thickets, I became enveloped by endless groves of tall trees, season after season, never wanting to leave what seemed like home.

The scent of pine mingled deliciously with the tang of autumn, only to be overshadowed by the sweet aroma of blossoms each spring. And I can’t begin to describe what it felt like to be enshrouded by the lush vegetation come summer. I still remember how cool and smooth the maple leaves felt against my skin. Even winter, with fresh snow sitting atop tree branches, offered a special brand of awe in my secret garden.

Although much of the time I was alone in the woods, sometimes my brother or the neighborhood kids would join me. For hours on end, we’d wander through the trees and brush, turning over flat rocks to see what hid beneath them, transforming errant sticks into spears and knives and building all manner of forts over what seemed like limitless acreage of forest. Footpaths snaked through the woods, connecting each of those beloved forts.

The ravine where most of our time was spent was a challenge to climb as I recall, but we managed to make it to the top despite masses of leaves slipping underfoot. Of course, it was worth it because the view from the other side was spectacular. Besides, after reaching the summit, we’d discover multitudes of huge, moss-covered oaks that beckoned for us to sit and read a good book, if we remembered one, that is. I’m not sure there’s a reading nook quite so perfect, nestled on a spongy blanket of moss while leaning against an unyielding tree trunk, breathing in the intoxicating scent of the earth.

To say that I’m grateful to have had such a nature-immersed childhood is an understatement—chapters of my life that I won’t soon forget. I think all three of our kids had one, too. But I fear the majority of kids today aren’t being afforded a similar experience. Whether it’s due to trepidation regarding the safety of our charges while they’re unsupervised or because said charges are inextricably glued to screens.

Regardless of why, I still think scores of impressionable youths are missing out on connecting with their environment in a way that could positively impact their lives. That said, kids need to play in the woods. They need to breathe fresh air. They need to build forts. They need to work together with their friends toward a common goal (constructing something that won’t collapse right away) and get their hands dirty in the process. And they need to spend time in those forts—forts that are in a constant state of development and redesign, utilizing their creativity and making their brains work harder. Tree forts, I dare say, require even more critical thinking skills. I’ll never forget the one my friends and I attempted to erect using an enormous cardboard box and ladder, perilously fastened to a tree. It didn’t end well, but we all learned something valuable.

Thankfully, by the time our daughters were traipsing around in the woods with hammers in hand, we had enough sense to provide them with wood scraps and pallets, not cardboard. And the forts that were built out of them held up to the weather for years, although now there’s little trace that said forts ever existed.

But they know they existed, and that has made all the difference.

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

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Filed under A Tree is Nice, Bookish Stuff, Endless Summer, Gratitude, Love and Other Drugs, Lovers of All Things Rockish, Me Time, Unplugged

Tagged as childhood, childhood memories, love, nature, nature lover, outdoors, parenting, trees, Unplugged, woods

May 5, 2026 · 12:11 pm

Adulting, Mostly

My husband and I are empty nesters and have been for the past seven years or so. Our twin daughters are on their own now and navigating through life quite well for the most part. They’ve managed to graduate from college, secure jobs and find decent apartments after a lengthy search process. Never mind that one lives two hours away while the other one is SIX STATES away.

And although they’re undeniably independent, they still need us to some degree, which makes my heart happy. On more than one occasion, they’ve needed financial advice or assistance, which isn’t all that surprising given where they are in life. I’ve certainly been in their shoes and needed a bailout from one crisis or another—like the time my car broke down when I lived in metro DC and it cost more to tow and repair it than it was worth. Living paycheck to paycheck didn’t allow for many contingency plans as I soon discovered. It’s true; everyone wants to be grown up until the responsibilities of being grown up are decidedly overwhelming.

Among other things, our kids have experienced a fair amount of car trouble since they moved away—everything from leaky tires and engine lights coming on to securing a clamshell on the roof and locking keys inside the car (not once but twice). We couldn’t physically solve the problems, of course, but we could offer boatloads of guidance and moral support over the phone. Sometimes just knowing someone is there listening to one’s unhinged tirade is worth more than the effort it takes to overcome the difficulty.

Likewise, we’ve been there to bear witness to gripes and grumbles over career politics and policies, becoming a sounding board for perceived injustices and bouts of self-doubt. As for the latter, I think everyone on the planet has been crippled by self-doubt at one time or another. As parents, we’re here to quell those fears. I think that’s our job anyway—that and teaching them how to tie their shoes and operate power tools without losing a finger.

What’s more, our kids have requested our assistance when it comes to cooking on occasion. Sometimes it’s as simple as reciting or sending a photo of a recipe. Other times, we FaceTime and walk them through to completion, because we learned to make it from memory and not a recipe. Nothing feels quite as good as the sense of accomplishment (we both experience) when the food turns out perfectly, even though I am 1,463 miles away and I can only imagine how good the kitchen smells.

And who knew we’d become furniture assembly and delivery experts? Not I. But we show up—with hammers, drills and Gorilla Tape, ready to build and haul whatever they ask us to. I’ll never forget the time we improvised using the aforementioned duct tape to secure the slats on a certain someone’s bed. Knock on wood, it’s still holding.

We’re also there (in spirit) to comfort our kids when they get sick. We can’t bring them hot soup while they’re burrowed beneath a mountain of blankets on our couch, but we can offer advice on how to be well again. I think this might be one of the hardest parts of parenting—or long-distance parenting, more correctly. I never thought that convincing them to see a doctor or go to the ER would be that difficult, but it truly is.

I’ll admit that I sometimes find myself wandering into what used to be their nursery and sitting in the rocking chair that’s still there. Apparently, my husband does this, too. As I look around the room I can envision just where their cribs were situated and remember the countless hours I spent there trying like crazy to get them to sleep, lying on the floor, one arm threaded through the wooden crib spindles, patting this one or that one’s bottom. I remember reading aloud books at bedtime, too. SO many books. There was a time that I could recite Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are entirely from memory, using voices that pleased a crowd of two.

Once again, it felt good to be needed when they were small—although it was an exhausting affair by all accounts. Here’s hoping that I continue to be needed—even if it’s from afar.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (celebrating our daughters who are adulting, mostly). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under Gratitude, Growing Pains, Leaving the Nest, Love and Loss, motherhood, Mushy Stuff

Tagged as adulting, growing pains, independence, Leaving the Nest, life, life lessons, love, parenting

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.