I hit a wall this week. Yup. Full on Wile E. Coyote riled up by the Road Runner full on face plant. Snout concertina-ed, stars encircling the head, and entire body schlumped down into a heap on the floor. I’m sure for Megan, Skyler and Nick, who are stuck in lockdown with me, it hasn’t been a pretty sight to behold. I felt like physically striking out and verbally doing so. At the same time, I felt vented up with frustration at being unable to find the right words to express myself. I fantasised about going into a deep, dark wood and screaming my lungs out or head off—whichever would put me out of my misery first. Lucky those idiots who stormed the Capitol didn’t cross my path. I came up with a place or two, in my minds eye, where I would have liked to lodge the horns of the QAnon groupie. And all I’m saying is it would not have been a far cry from what Piggy and the boys on the Lord of the Flies island were witness to. 

I can’t put my finger on it. The specific incident or moment that set me on the downward spiral. It could’ve been the pining for an actual in-person visit with my Dad or my brother and sisters or my friends on my birthday. Maybe it was the feeling of uselessness at having to hunker down in my Volvo while the vet took my kitten from our car for her appointment. Humans aren’t allowed to accompany their pets into the surgery and I already felt bad enough about shoving Coco in the cat carrier, driving her in the unfamiliar car and worrying she’d have to have an abscess lanced on her little sweet face. Then again the trip to Sainsbury’s and listening to them repeat on a loop over the tannoy a cheery thank you for wearing my mask and maintaining a two metre distance from others shoppers started to grate (and, indeed, feel very 1984ish to boot). The tapping on Skyler’s bedroom door to make sure he could log on to school also bugged me. Especially when he responded that it was “all good” because he could register without a video connection and stay in bed a little longer because he had two frees that morning. Even more so, it was that our conversation seemed actually normal. Gone, for the moment, was the nudging him into the shower to be up for breakfast, on to the bus and into school with his friends and teachers. No wearing of his suit and tie, not that they probably should be worn at this point as they haven’t, nor have we, been to the dry cleaners in months. Nor to the hair dressers or any shops besides the grocery store. 

Or maybe it was my inability to thank my lucky stars that we also haven’t been to A&E (knock on my thick wooden head) with any life-threatening illness. I haven’t had to endure twelve hour shifts with PPE strapped on my body to hopefully protect me as it chafes my skin into sores. I haven’t had to deliver package after package of internet shopping to keep the world holed up in their homes safe from the virus while I risk exposure with each padded envelope and cardboard box. I haven’t even had to stack and stock shelves to keep the nations’ larders and fridges full. 

I’ve had it incredibly easy. 

I’ve got great WIFI and have even squeezed in COVID-silver-lining-participation in classes with my favourite writing mentor in North Carolina and book club discussions with my friends in Kent and Surrey. I’ve been warm and dry in the cold of winter. I have never experienced hunger. I’ve got clothes on my back. A generous hardworking husband in a steady job. Children whose company I adore. I get to read and write and do crosswords and jigsaws to my hearts delight. I have a beautiful garden to walk out in and a National Trust property, just a mile up from my house, where I can stroll with my dog off the leash to reunite with my beloved woods. 

Who am I to cop an attitude? Who am I to be the Eeyore? Who am I to be deflated and stuck in the unfairness and stress of the pandemic running rampant around the world? Of Brexit? Of political uncertainty? Even with the likes of the delectable guilty pleasure that is Netflix’s Bridgerton to indulge in -who am I to be so hard done by? And yet, it finally caught up with me this week, and I’m ashamed of myself for struggling to shake my bad mood. 

As I said, I was speechless and wordless. All I could think about was how lonesome—not lonely—I am for the world as we knew it. Lonesome for my far away family and social distanced friends. Lonesome for lighter worries to bear. Feeling hiraeth* – a homesickness for a home you can’t return to, or that never was. 

So yesterday, I got up grumpy again. Ill rested and ill tempered. Trying to carve out a space in my head to find my positive nature again. Praying for guidance as I flicked on the kitchen radio and started preparing pets’ food while the kettle boiled. Utterly begrudging the rain. When Radio Four’s Thought for the Day came on and, I kid you not, the speaker, Martin Rowe, began his piece by launching into commentary about a therapist he heard of who was encouraging tree hugging for the alleviation of “lockdown loneliness”. How could I not stop and listen? Start at 46.58 to listen for yourself.

He noted “while nothing can compensate for the absence of human contact” tree hugging seemed to be helping the therapist’s clients. He even described giving it a whirl himself in which although it felt “surreal to hold one of the great silent living beings, and yet, in these days when nothing seems strange anymore, also surprisingly reassuring”.

I laughed listening to Martin Rowe. It was like listening to myself wax on about trees and their merits. It could have been my own words coming back to me via the BBC commentator. It felt like the universe had to decided it’d send me a little reminder through the radio programme, to remember I’m not alone, to reset and to keep my faith a little longer. I can honestly say I breathed a bit deeper hearing that show. Less muddled in mind and spirit.

I even felt energised to iron nine shirts (Kelly’s laundry at your service), pulled out my birthday jigsaw puzzle and started laying out edge pieces, tried on a new jumper I’d bought online in a January sale, chatted with my big sister, luxuriated through two episodes of Gilmore Girls with Megan, and, finally, felt like myself again. 

I felt grateful that when I needed that extra hand to help me stand back up, shrug off the cruelty of the world and return whole heartedly to embrace my incredibly, good life, the words came. When I took the time to listen, the words came and I was able to once again remember this isn’t forever and there is much to be amazed by. 

This morning I woke up under a blue sky – what a bonus—as I came down to begin the daily routines.  I let Winston out for a stretch, filled the cats’ bowls, loaded the dishwasher from last night’s dinner and decided to write it all down. Particularly when even the Pringles can from last night’s snacking “spoke” to me when I nestled it back into the pantry. It nudged me in the right direction and furnished me with just the word I needed to bring back to the forefront of my vocabulary. Around the belt of the illustrated Santa holiday packaging, in all caps I saw spelled out the word I needed to be reminded of most : HOPE. 

Now that’s my kinda word, I thought. 

Especially with the American inauguration to look forward to on Wednesday and vaccinations being administered worldwide. Especially with the daffodils emerging at the base of my favourite tree growing tall outside my kitchen window. In these days when “nothing seems strange anymore,” I’ll even gladly take some advice from my potato chip packaging and rise like the best of the Looney Tune cartoon characters. HOPE this post helps you to do so as well. 

Ttttthaaattt’s All Folks! 

*Thank you, Christy, for teaching me this word.


Lights glowing at our house

Poor Skyler. Over the journeys back and forth from school these past couple of weeks he’s had to indulge me. He’s had a few early morning deliveries and late afternoon pick ups from Caterham when over the course of the drive, when it it just dark enough, I find I can’t help myself. I can’t help interrupting his air podded social networking sessions on his phone or even his much deserved snoozes to say, “Hey! Hey! Look at those. Now those are some good ones.” As I nearly swerve onto the curb to point out the latest displays of holiday lit up houses and shops.  

The UK may be in multiple levels of lockdown, but it sure is shining. Shining in the darkness to celebrate the season of light. I am here to assure you that, no matter what your faith, gawking at holiday lights is definitely a COVID safe activity, kids. I’m happy to report the brightness comes not just from Griswold family-worthy displays, oh no, there are Hanukkah hanukkiahs(nine-branched candelabra) gracing windows with their lit candles and memories of Diwali diyas lit by Hindus, Jainists, Sikhs and Buddhists less than a month ago. 

At our house it’s Christmas lights which my kids are convinced we should take stock in as they comment on my near obsession with festooning light strings around windows, dangled from gutters, wrapped around kitschy table ornaments and laid across the mantlepiece. While I like the warm white shade of the bulbs for their soft, ambient glow, the multi-coloured strings act as a nod to the trees of my childhood. Back when I was convinced that our tree, so laden with lights, was the perfect beacon for enticing Santa to our home. I was certain he’d be impressed enough to fill our stockings and generously lay out enough presents underneath its boughs for all five of us. Much to our Christmas morning delight, we found the trust well placed and further complimented with the candy canes left hanging amongst our tree’s lights and branches.  

I love the trees of my Christmases past and present, just as I love the memories they evoke. Particularly recalling the drives home from Christmas Eve mass when my parents would take us on extended detours around local neighbourhoods to look at the spectacular lit up homes awaiting the arrival of not just Santa, but Jesus’ birthday. Talk about a rush. Good Catholic attendance to services followed by the light displays then stocking hanging and my dad’s annual reading of Twas The Night Before Christmas. I tried to emulate these precious moments for my own three children —striving to find the perfect balance between fuelling their sense of magic without leading them down a state of self combusting excitement. It’s a delicate process, I’ll tell you.

I’m thinking now how even though my family is no longer racing to end of term Nativity plays or writing letters to the North Pole, I still feel as giddy as a young child when I see the lights. I feel hopeful, too. Longing, not just to share my delight, but to consider how I can be the light. Be the light with a sparkle in my eyes above my mask. Be the light sharing a laugh with silly moments found in videos on social media or over zoom or even WhatsApp chats. Be the light with a card posted to connect directly with another. Be the light sharing festive food recipes. Be the light acknowledging someone’s post when they’ve shared something hard or happy.

Be the light to reach out across the darkness encompassing some of the bleaker aspects of what has unfolded over the course of 2020 or just life, in general. I’m not fool enough to ignore the gravity of worries enfolding people facing health issues, losses of family, friends and jobs, pressures of political change and climate challenges or the knock on mental strains making all these concerns even heavier to bear. There’s a lot of dark to deal with right now. But I’m hoping that the light displays I marvel at will be a reminder to all. Especially as I link the human made light very much with the stars I cast my eyes on in the night sky. I pray, just as I appreciate with awe what those tiny, distant lights can bring to vast darkness, so can I be a light to others.

Finally, in case you hadn’t already heard, I wanted to share that for the first time in 397 years, Saturn and Jupiter will align to provide the world with a brilliant display for us all to enjoy.* Perhaps it is a lucky coincidence or maybe, as my writing teacher and friend, Maureen, always reminds me, a wonderful synchronicity to be recognised and appreciated. A synchronicity to be celebrated and, maybe even discerned with special meaning. It’s been a hard year to say the least but, maybe I think that bright light we will find in the sky on the 21st of December is meant as a gift to us all. To remind us of the power of light, its ability to reflect brightness in the dark and to inspire us that when our lights come together, the result can be spectacular.

May you shine on now and always.

*Thank you, Janet, for sharing the link on FB!


Me and Mom, Arlington Heights, IL, circa 1967

I miss my mom. I miss her easy going, unassuming nature that had such strength it propped up our family of seven. I miss that goodness emanating out of her through us to those we encountered in the world.  My mom was quiet. She blared no brash voice to coach us or judge us or form us in a way she saw fit. She was gentle in her instruction and aimed only for us to “be happy.” She was the warm, soft, smooth skin of a hand that knows how to hold another’s. Knows how to give a squeeze of excitement, a pull along in encouragement, a nestle between the fingers, joints and pads that enfold perfectly to comfortably and confidently assure love.  My mom was someone who was a beautiful person to witness.  She was comfortable in her own skin and genuinely happy in her lot and happy to share and support others in anyway they needed it with: a smile, a laugh, a listening ear, a ride at any time anywhere, a note always accompanied with a 😊.

I miss my mom as I turn to Thanksgiving and think about the empty chairs around people’s tables —empty from loss or empty from COVID restrictions. I consider what my mom would have thought of it all and I can’t help but laugh knowing she’d make Thanksgiving memorable despite the emptiness. One year when we were all new parents, we gathered at my mom and dad’s house.  All fourteen of us (7 Parichys, 3 husbands and 4 grandchildren) at the time. Mom had graciously offered to do the cooking so we could manage diapers and bottles etc. She put her famous turkey soup on the stove which we could eat for lunch before the big roast at dinnertime. Some time around three when the giant bird should have been well on its way to cooking to perfection, Mom woke up from her nap (my parents always religiously napped each day) and realised the power had gone off on the oven. There must have been a surge in the neighbourhood or something, but although we still had power everywhere else, the oven had turned itself off. Many hostesses would have panicked or begrudged the rest of us (there were 10 other adults in the house after all!) or soured the moment with the stress of the meal falling on her shoulders and guilted us for the emotional, mental, and physical load she’d taken on on our behalf.  But not my mom.  She looked at the oven, turned it back up to the correct temperature and without missing a beat said, “Well, I guess we’ll be eating little later than I thought.” 

Classic Mom. She always took life so gracefully in her stride. I asked my dad after she died almost eighteen years ago if she was always that way or if mothering five children born within ten years of each other had taken its toll on her; simply beaten her down to be easy and balanced. Dad said, “Nope, she was always like that. Even natured and happy.”

I think now how my mom also couldn’t resist fixing things for us.  She was the consummate listener. She’d hear a need, even if you didn’t realise you were voicing it, and suddenly the very thing you required would appear at the end of your bed when you came home from school (a poem, a special set of markers or a new top).  Something simple that let you know you were beloved and it would all be alright.  

The first year I moved to England, my mom was aghast that I couldn’t find pumpkin pies anywhere or even the proper ingredients to make one myself. So after we ‘suffered’ through an apple pie on our first English Thanksgiving, my mom took note and on Christmas Eve a FEDEX package arrived to our flat in Fulham. Inside, was a bubble wrapped Sara Lee pumpkin pie that my mom had bought frozen from the Acme Supermarket in Wayne, PA and whisked to the courier company to ensure it would land on my Christmas table—perfectly defrosted for our first Christmas in England. Who does that, right? How lucky am I?

So I think about the lessons and the character of my mom and I consider what she would think of the world today. All the noise and dissension.  All the meanness and inconsiderate behaviour.  All the pressure cooking of being judged if you say the “wrong” thing. And even though she’s been gone all these years, I find in her way and her words an instruction that worked for her and could work for us now.  She was NEVER a preacher or one to force her way upon you, but to keep our family dynamic, which was(is) full of personalities that can sometimes clash, Mom would say one thing:

“If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.”

It was simple. She wasn’t leading us to think her way or judging us for having our own point of view, instead, in order to help us to conduct ourselves with some civility and to keep the interaction amongst us positive she would ask us to follow her rule. And it worked.  That’s not to say we weren’t allowed to argue, but in approaching a disagreement by expressing our point as “nicely” as we could it encouraged us to think before we possibly struck and hurt each other. It helped us to not just thrash out at each other to score a point with a barb that could be difficult to retract and, worse yet, heal from.  It helped us to take the time to calmly interact with each other, listen, and if we really were in the mood, consider the world from another’s point of view. It allowed us to differentiate our opinions and put the caring for each other first and foremost. I would suggest it even lead to a deeper understanding of the other person and, even when we didn’t agree, we could always use one of Mom’s other favourite sayings, “Agree to disagree.” 

My mom never wanted us to divide with our differences, she encouraged us to look for the common ground in keeping this practice.

I miss my mom. I wish I could talk to her and hear her voice and feel her steady strength, ever loving and always ready for a laugh. I know for sure, today, she would appreciate two things I now share with you. First this reflection my daughter, Megan, sent me which I’m happy to say popped up on her Instagram.  I think it speaks well of the algorithm calculating the feed on her account.  Mine, on the other hand, for example sends me whacky cat toy suggestions and acid reflux remedies!  

I particularly love the thought small kindnesses can be “the true dwelling of the holy”.

And then, of course, YouTube delivered this week, as the Americans in the crowd head towards turkey day.  My close friends know I’ve shared this widely, but I can’t resist ending on a funny video involving a mom, her child and a turkey.  

However you choose to conduct yourself these days, maybe consider the value of a small kindness or good natured laugh. Either way, please take care and know, “I like your hat.” 😊


Middlesex Swim Club Darien, Connecticut Summer 1975 Home movie frame

Is there room, amongst your rightful worries, contemplations of what you’re living through, and what you’re wondering for the future, for me to take your hand and guide you back to the hot summer of 1975? You might not remember it.  Indeed you might not even have been alive then, but trust me, Middlesex Swim Club, Darien, Connecticut 1975 is a good place to be. 

I’ll walk you up the wooden steps to the entrance gate. Pretty steep for a kid’s legs, even my long skinny eight year old’s, but we’ll manage.  There’s a black cast-iron swing gate to push through, at the top of the stairs with vertical bars set a kid’s foot width apart, perfect for catching a ride on in the quieter hours at the club when the lifeguards don’t mind if you stand on its base while your friends push you back and forth on the hinge.  Careful not to put your fingers too close to that hinge, they could get a pinch as I can attest by the scar on my right pinkie where it once got caught (OUCH!) and later had to be sewn up by, I kid you not, Dr Raah!

Anyway, step up onto the green astro carpet and glance to your left where the club’s record holders names and times are recorded on a big board.  All the boys’ and girls’ age groups and relay teams swimming from 8 to18 and under are included.  Diving is there too and if you’ve got a sec you can find my brother, Jeb, listed for diving, my big sister, Kathleen, for backstroke and a spot I’m gunning for in the 8 and under 25m breaststroke.

It’s mid-July and we’re making our way through the swim team season – practices at 8am for an hour before the pool opens and again in the late afternoon for another hour just before dinnertime at 5pm. It’s been hot. “Adult Swims” have had to be called when the pool has been so busy the lifeguards whistle to clear it of kids to let the moms and dads have a peaceful lap or two or just a dip to cool off free of “cannonballs” and splash fights.

We sign in at the desk on the right.  You have to put your family name on the form and the number of guests coming in. I guess to keep tabs on how many of us are streaming in to use the facilities, although I don’t ever recall a maximum capacity being hit or the pool gate being closed to hopeful swimmers. Aaah, remember now it’s the seventies when it was permanently (for better or worse) truly, like they say nowadays, “chill”.

As you walk on to the main stretch of cement, overlooking the pool, you’ll see on either side burnt-out grass covered in towels and the chairs arranged for the spectators along the length of the edge of the pool. Loungers have been put away to make more space for the team and their supporters.  We aren’t coming for a leisurely excercise.  No, we’re here for a big meet to determine if Coach Sangster’s team can win another Division Championship for Middlesex and head off to the State Champs with some serious summer swimming kudos.

There are nerves in the air as we walk down to our corner of the grass where the team has hung groovy surfer “Hang Ten” towels over the fake red cedar wooden fences with signs saying “Go Middlesex!” and the likes.  If you want you can wave at my mom by the timers’ table as she and her fellow timers collect their watches and then pull them over their heads to dangle from their necks until it’s time to time a race. My dad is somewhere in the crowd talking to neighbours and no doubt keeping an eye on my little sisters: three-year-old Patty and six-year-old Mary Kate who hasn’t quite decided to join the rigours of the swim team practices and meets.  Mary Kate’s probably playing with Missy Millar to be honest or riding her new light blue banana seat bike out in the parking lot.  

Check out the flags hanging across both ends of the width of the pool to mark the last meters to the wall so backstrokers can count their strokes into a flip turn or a strong finish. There are nerves, as I said, but even more an excitement amongst the crowd, the coaches, and the teams. An energy building in the wonder of what will happen come race and result time.  Will all the training have paid off? Will swimmers remember the kicking and breathing rules so no DQs (disqualification) are called, remember their stroke techniques and how to make the most of their starts from the blocks?  Everyone is wondering, in the back of their minds – WHO WILL WIN? As they greet each other. Hope they’ve done enough to prepare for this moment. Oh, and pass out red Jell-o packs to dip your finger in and lick the sugar off “For energy”(remember we’re pre-FDA regulations curtailing food dye consumption). 

Over the swim club PA, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Claire” will be turned down so the announcer can alert us it’s time for team cheers.  Our cue to gather in a huge circle of psychedelic patterned speedos.  We’re the blue and green team in case you forgot.  You’ll have to excuse the speedos which all pretty much have saggy bottoms at this point in the summer. They’ve been snagged and bobbled by directly sitting in them on the warm cement eating a popsicle during a round of Crazy Eights and then standing up only to have them pulled by the velcro-like connection of the synthetic swimsuit material detaching from the sear of the pavement. You might also notice some of the swimmers have goggles wrapped around their wrists which they wore to protect their eyes from the chlorine during the warm up swim.  Only if you are one of the big kids, like Gina Leighton who was destined for the Olympics, will you be racing in them. All us mere mortals would periodically try and dive in wearing a pair of goggles for a race only to have the slack rubber straps roll the eye pieces down the length of our faces upon immersion into the water. We’re wearing our google bracelets because we want to be like Gina and some day good enough to aspire to represent our country.

So we’ll gather and the captains (an 18&under boy and girl) will stand in the middle of the circle and take turns shouting out “Give me an M!” You’ll learn, once again, how to spell ‘Middlesex’ this summer even anticipating how the last three letters will make the older kids laugh a bit without really understanding why.  We’ll go ahead and just laugh along with them— loving being part of the team.  Loving being part of something bigger than little ‘ole me who missed the swim season last year when I broke my arm playing Kick the Can with our neighbours up on Alpine Lane one block up from the swim club.

A summer at the pool of doing practices of laps and laps and laps, has been the rite of passage to call ourselves one of the team.  Already the training and swimming our hearts out in races, winning or losing, has earned us a place to be here. The team stands in that circle and cheers for the moment, for each other.  Taking time to recognise each race will count and how collectively, if we all want to win the only way we can do it, is by being a positive part of it all. Sure, Gina lapping her competitors in freestyle to win her race is fun to watch especially, because she has the most exquisite stroke gliding through the water, but her race, her first place, only counts for 5 points and there are about 70 races to be swum today.  All of us need to contribute – each 1st, 2nd and 3rd -no matter what the colour of your ribbon, each one counts.  Each individual swimmer counts.

Try and feel that surge of what you can do when you work well together towards something positive. Before you know it, you’ll realise it’s not just the power of what you are doing, but the experience of the joy and the fun, too. And how together, we can make something good happen in the ways of the world.

In 1975 we were still throwing peace signs at each other and giving thanks for the safe return of troops from Vietnam.  Living in the hope they would be honoured as much for their services as generations before and after.

In 1975 we were reaping the benefits of the ban on DDT making steps to contribute to the Keep America Beautiful campaign as encouraged by the crying Native American man ads not to pollute. We were also watching, PBS’ Big Blue Marble which was encouraging us to communicate inter-culturally and to consider world ecology.

In 1975 Gerald Ford was president having come into the role post Nixon’s Watergate scandal.  Seeds toward cynicism for our politicians and government were surely being sown then, but don’t let that stop you from appreciating how hard the job must’ve been with Ford presiding over the worst economy in four decades, growing inflation and a recession.  We did not know it yet, but in next year’s election, he would loose to Jimmy Carter, however, through the grace of both men, he would find a way to set aside their enmity and go on to develop a close friendship with his former rival.

It’s hard to believe my memories of 45 years ago bring such echos to today’s world issues.

Yet my nostalgic dip is actually helping me to remember how the world has been through some of this stuff before and how it can emerge from these experiences. No doubt there will be scarring as distinct as the white one across the pad of my pinkie finger, but I hope no permanent damage.  I’m hoping if we can share the weight of our burdens across our team we can come together without division.  Our team being our family, our country, our world.  

And at this point, can I share with you where our team might take inspiration? Richard Attenborough, at ninety- years-old, has made a film he’s calling his witness statement to the world acknowledging where we are in the natural world and what we can do to start fixing things.  If you haven’t had a chance yet, please can I encourage you to spend the time watching “David Attenborough: A Life on Our Planet”.  You’ll see how he acknowledges the serious state of our world, but offers some concrete suggestions on how things can be improved. He gives even my 1970’s optimism a place to dream in 2020.

And now, the roar of the crowd poolside is picking up.  I’ll have to leave you for a moment to watch while I take my turn in the race. My hair is pulled tight in a pony tail as I wring the tension through my hands awaiting the starter to call us onto the blocks.  I step up, put my toes on the edge of the slanted stand, and upon hearing, “On your marks” grab on and pull myself back to launch myself off and out above the water when the starter’s gun pops. I’ll try and stay airborne for as long as possible and then remember to take just one long pull and one kick underwater to see if I can make the most of my nervous, coil of energy released into the competition.  The crowd is silenced for those submerged moments underwater and it’s a wonderful balance of them cheering me on while I internally urge every muscle to push myself forward. I know we are all tired of the news, but it’s critical now to step up and do our part to contribute to the team.  Whether it’s a vote or a mask or a kind, reaching out —to share, the likes of red Jell-o, sweet energy, let’s make sure we keep our team strong by encouraging each other and appreciating what each individual race means and what each individual contributes.

Finally, if you’ve joined in, don’t forget to count your good luck, that your mom will be there on the far side of the pool after each trial, ready to hug you dripping with water, no matter what the time says on her stopwatch.  Even if it’s just a memory, it will feel good to behave in the manner we were taught way back when we were eight.  

*Listening to our hearts *Respecting others *Sharing *Including everyone *Standing up to bullies *Turning off the lights and not littering (and in my personal eight-year-old case) *Singing along to Captain and Tennille’s Love Will Keep Us Together

Postings prompted from pumpkin epiphanies