Christmas Lights

It had been a long day at work, and I still needed to run by the drugstore before I could head home. As I drove along the dark highway, my tired mind swirled with mundane thoughts. Is there enough leftover quiche in the refrigerator for dinner? I really need to get my Christmas cards out in the mail. When are those modules due at work?

At a red light, I picked up my phone to check my texts, but something caught my eye. It was a small house, set back from the road next to an empty corn field. I can’t tell you how many years I’ve passed by this residence. I’d never seen any decorations before. But this season, someone had put up Christmas lights.

A string of multi-colored bulbs, the kind I remembered from my childhood, framed the front door and were wrapped around the banister of the tiny porch. There was also a wreath on the door, and when I squinted my eyes, I could make out the silhouette of a Christmas tree behind the sheer drapes in the front window. But it was the lights I noticed the most.

For the rest of my drive, I took notice around me. There seemed to be more than the usual amount of holiday cheer being displayed. Nearly every home I passed was decorated for Christmas. Some were modest. Some were on a much larger scale, with inflatable Christmas characters waving from lawns, and large homes wrapped in hanging lights from top to bottom. Most fell somewhere in between.

This is hope, I thought.

Our country is in the middle of a global pandemic that doesn’t appear to have an end in sight. Untold thousands have lost their jobs and businesses. And we’re standing on the precipice of a political upheaval on a scale of which I’ve never seen in my lifetime.

But people are still putting up Christmas lights.

It may sound silly to some, but I find such hope in simple efforts like these. With all that’s happened this year, both here in America and indeed all around the globe, who could blame a person for shouting, “Bah, humbug!” And yet, so many have chosen to keep the spirit of Christmas in their hearts and display it for all to see.

My message for you, dear reader, is that Christmas should be a wondrous time of year as we celebrate the birth of the One who went from the manger to a cross in order to redeem us all. No matter the distractions surrounding us, no matter if governments rise or fall, no matter what has transpired in 2020, Jesus is still the true Light that offers abundance of hope for all who will receive Him.

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Ode to Autumn

A familiar feeling arises within our hearts when that first nip of cooler weather is felt in the azure September air. It twines its way into the space left between sleeping couples, prompting us to snuggle deeper beneath the blankets. Sweaters and turtlenecks are pulled out from bureau drawers. Our thoughts linger over plump pumpkins, hot apple cider, and baskets brimming with bronze and burgundy mums.

If you listen closely, you can hear it. The very air seems to chant the word — change. Yellow school buses rumble down the street again. Trees display their brilliance in one last hurrah before they shrug off their leafy coats and retreat into slumber. Children run amok through pumpkin patches and corn mazes, and smiling scarecrows sit atop hay bales, surrounded by colorful pots of pansies.

We relish this time because we know what’s coming―those bleak, dreary days of winter when warmer days and colorful landscapes are only a memory and the promise of spring seems so far away.   

But for now, I think I’ll go to the local supermarket and hoist a ripe pumpkin (or two) into my cart and while away the afternoon in a patchwork quilt of raked leaves.

What are YOUR favorite things about fall? Leave me a comment!

'Mater Sandwiches

My mom loved tomato sandwiches. A country girl at heart, she called them ‘mater sandwiches. No matter where my dad's naval career took us, Mom always found a place to grow a few vegetables, especially her beloved tomato plants.

When I was five, my dad was stationed in Maine. We lived on an old farmstead, complete with the requisite white farmhouse with black shutters, a barn, a massive oak tree with a tire swing, and a large garden plot next to an apple orchard. Mom and Dad grew vegetables year-round in the garden, but they especially loved the bounty of summertime.

Mom checked on the garden nearly every day. I walked down the rows with her as she pulled weeds and gathered fresh, ripe produce in a basket. When she got to the tomato cages, she judged their readiness by their color and firmness.

"What about this one, Mama?" I asked, pointing to a tomato that still had some green on it.

"That one's not quite ready yet," she said.

I ran down the row. "What about this one?"

Mom hefted the huge red orb in her hand. "Perfect," she said. She pulled the tomato from the vine and brought it to her nose. "Mmmmm... Smell that. Now that's a good tomato."

I sniffed it, catching the scent of dark earth, sunshine, and rain mingled in with the musky aroma of the ripe fruit. To this day, the smell of a tomato fresh from the vine always reminds me of my mom.

"Let's go make a ‘mater sandwich," she said.

Back at the house, I stood on a stool in front of the kitchen sink and carefully washed the tomato, still warm from the sun. Then Mom cut it into thick slices, two for her and one for me, and placed them on Wonder bread - the only bread for making 'mater sandwiches, according to my mom. The slices were so big, I couldn't see the piece of bread beneath it. Then she added salt and pepper and a generous layer of Kraft Miracle Whip.

We sat down at the kitchen table and dug in. The simple flavors of bread, mayo, and fresh ripe tomato left my taste buds tingling.

"This is so good!" she said. Then, as she took another generous bite, tomato juice ran down her chin. We both laughed as she wiped her mouth with a paper towel. "The messier it is, the better it tastes."

She was right.

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 Do you have a favorite summer foods memory? Ice cream from the local dairy? A cookout with friends or family? Picnic at the beach? Share your stories below or at my Contact page!

Renewal

I looked out my kitchen window at the pink dogwood tree we had planted in honor of my mom when we built our home thirteen years ago. The branches were barren. “I think it’s gone,” I told my husband. “It hasn’t bloomed for the past two springs. I don’t think it’s coming back.”

My husband knew how sentimental I was about it. Dogwoods were my mom’s favorite tree. “Come summer, I’ll cut it down and we can plant a new one, okay?”

Fast forward two months later. Spring had finally arrived in all it’s pollen-laded glory here in the South. I was outside on our back deck when I looked over at the dogwood. Was that GREEN I was seeing? I went over for a closer look. Sure enough, the branches were full of leaf buds. I was relieved it wasn’t dead, but I doubted it would bloom.

A week or so later, the dogwood not only bloomed, I had never seen that many flowers on it!

Maybe you can relate. We go through trials in our lives that may seem overwhelming. We turn inward, and others may not understand why we’ve withdrawn into our shell.

I’ve been there. Many times. I used to feel guilty when I needed space to work out my feelings when life seemed too much to deal with. But my thought process has changed. I like to think of those times as dormant seasons in our lives. We don’t realize it, but we’re actually growing, storing up energy and giving ourselves time to heal so that we can bloom again when the right time arrives.

Just like the dogwood, you know what’s best for you. Listen to that inner voice. Whether it’s a shattered dream, a broken relationship, a prolonged illness, or a crippling disappointment, allow yourself the time and space you need to get through it. If you do, you’ll come out the other side even more beautiful than you were before!

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Check out my debut novel, Sea Horses. Available through Amazon in softcover and Kindle version. www.amazon.com/author/cheryllsnow

Sign up for my blogs and updates here!

Me and My Easy-Bake Oven - A Christmas Memory

The faded photo is of five-year-old me looking over my shoulder at my mom as she snaps my picture. I'm in our farm kitchen in Maine, standing barefoot on a wooden stool because I'm too little to reach the counter. It's early morning, and I'm wearing my pink gingham nightgown I wore to bed the night before. My Easy-Bake Oven, with its fake knobs and gadgets and colored a hideous turquoise green, is to my left. The deep porcelain sink is to my right. Above the sink, bright winter sunlight streams through a window framed by white cotton curtains with little red cherries on the hem.

Today is Christmas Eve, and I'm "baking" my first cake for Daddy.

Daddy was home in October when I got my Betty Crocker Easy-Bake oven for my birthday. But he left for an eight-week deployment at sea the next day, and I didn't get the chance to bake him something. He's coming home today. And I am determined to make him the best chocolate cake he's ever tasted.

Mom helped me crack the egg and add the water to the packaged mix, and she held the bowl steady as I carefully poured the batter into the miniature cake pan. I watched through the oven's square window as the light bulb "baked" my cake. At first it bubbled. Then it started to rise and turn dark brown. When the timer dinged, I took it from the oven and put it on a rack to cool. Then Mom helped me with the chocolate frosting mix.

By the time we got that thing iced, I had chocolate all over my gown and hands and face. The cake was lopsided and a little overdone on the bottom, but I was so proud of what I had made.

That evening, after picking Daddy up from the pier, he sat back in his chair after his first home-cooked meal in two months and admired my masterpiece, which Mom had placed on a pretty plate in the middle of the kitchen table.

"That's the prettiest cake I've ever seen," he said. I sat there with the biggest grin on my face as he ate the entire thing and then rubbed his stomach and said, "Mmmmm... that sure was good!"

Many years later, after I married and had a child of my own, I asked my mom if she remembered that Easy-Bake oven and the cake I made for Dad. She started laughing and told me a secret.

"Honey, your dad was positively green after he ate that thing! He said it was awful!"

That's what fathers do for their daughters.

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Do you have a favorite Christmas memory? I’d love to hear from you! Leave a comment below or on my Contact page!

A Thankful Heart

On this Thanksgiving Eve, as my hubby and I work in the kitchen making dishes for tomorrow's holiday dinner, I'm reminded once again of all the things I'm thankful for. The Saviour who redeemed me, my wonderful family and friends who love me, and the freedom that comes with being an American are just a few that come to mind. All good things, of course. But what about the not-so-great things?

For each of us, our lives are filled with triumphs and setbacks, laughter and tears, joy and sadness. Celebrating the good times is the easy part. Recognizing the good when bad things happen is hard. But if we peel back the layers and delve a bit deeper, we often find, with time, little nuggets of thankfulness springing up from loss and sorrow.

So, as I sit here at my desk, with Christmas music playing in the background and the smell of pumpkin pie wafting from my oven, here's my list of thanksgiving for ALL things, good and otherwise: 

• God's immense and undeserved love for me that passes all understanding.

• My husband and best friend of thirty-five years, who lets me be who I need to be, but always tells me the truth, whether I want to hear it or not.

• My son, who inspires me to be fearless and take baby steps outside my comfort zone.

• My mom, who left us far too early. Your absence here on earth will only make our reunion all the more sweeter.

• My dad, who refused to live the life he was shown and chose a different path.

• Those dear friends and family who accept me as I am, warts and all, and don't care if my hair is done or if I have dust bunnies under my bed. You know who you are.

• My grandson, who never fails to bring out my inner child.

• All the furry "children" who have enriched my life and taught me unconditional love.

• Those lean times as a young married couple when we barely had enough money between us for take-out pizza. It taught us to work as a team and to appreciate the more abundant times.

• The gift of books and writing, which, at a very young age, lit a spark of imagination and creativity that remains with me to this day.

• Those bouts of depression and years of therapy, while certainly not fun, helped me emerge stronger on the other side and develop into the person I'm supposed to be.

• My career as a nurse. My patients have taught me much about living and dying with grace and dignity.

• My fellow writers and readers who have helped me immensely in my work and encourage me every day to keep doing what I'm doing. Every door I've walked through in my writing quest was opened by someone else. Thank you!

Dear reader, what are YOU thankful for? Imagine the above image is a blank page. What would you write on it?

My Thanksgiving wish for each of you is to be surrounded by good family, good friends, and best of all... good food!  God bless, and have a wonderful holiday!

Mater Sandwiches

My mom loved tomato sandwiches. A country girl at heart, she called them mater sandwiches. No matter where my dad's naval career took us, Mom always found a place to grow a few vegetables, especially her beloved tomato plants.

When I was five, my dad was stationed in Maine. We lived on an old farmstead, complete with the requisite white farmhouse with black shutters, a barn, a massive oak tree with a tire swing, and a large garden plot next to an apple orchard. Mom and Dad grew vegetables year-round in the garden, but they especially loved the bounty of summertime.

Mom checked on the garden nearly every day. I walked down the rows with her as she pulled weeds and gathered fresh, ripe produce in a basket. When she got to the tomato cages, she judged their readiness by their color and firmness.

"What about this one, Mama?" I asked, pointing to a tomato that still had some green on it.

"That one's not quite ready yet," she said.

I ran down the row. "What about this one?"

Mom hefted the huge red orb in her hand. "Perfect," she said. She pulled the tomato from the vine and brought it to her nose. "Mmmmm... Smell that. Now that's a good tomato."

I sniffed it, catching the scent of dark earth, sunshine, and rain mingled in with the musky aroma of the ripe fruit. To this day, the smell of a tomato fresh from the vine always reminds me of my mom.

"Let's go make a mater sandwich," she said.

Back at the house, I stood on a stool in front of the kitchen sink and carefully washed the tomato, still warm from the sun. Then Mom cut it into thick slices, two for her and one for me, and placed them on Wonder bread - the only bread for making 'mater sandwiches, according to my mom. The slices were so big, I couldn't see the piece of bread beneath it. Then she added salt and pepper and a generous layer of Kraft Miracle Whip.

We sat down at the kitchen table and dug in. The simple flavors of bread, mayo, and fresh ripe tomato left my taste buds tingling.

"This is so good!" she said. Then, as she took another generous bite, tomato juice ran down her chin. We both laughed as she wiped her mouth with a paper towel. "The messier it is, the better it tastes."

She was right.

---

 Do you have a favorite summer foods memory? Ice cream from the local dairy? A cookout with friends or family? Picnic at the beach? Share your stories below or at my Contact page!

Renewal

I looked out my kitchen window at the pink dogwood tree we had planted in honor of my mom when we built our home thirteen years ago. The branches were barren. “I think it’s gone,” I told my husband. “It hasn’t bloomed for the past two springs. I don’t think it’s coming back.”

My husband knew how sentimental I was about it. Dogwoods were my mom’s favorite tree. “Come summer, I’ll cut it down and we can plant a new one, okay?”

Fast forward two months later. Spring had finally arrived in all it’s pollen-laded glory here in the South. I was outside on our back deck when I looked over at the dogwood. Was that GREEN I was seeing? I went over for a closer look. Sure enough, the branches were full of leaf buds. I was relieved it wasn’t dead, but I doubted it would bloom.

A week or so later, the dogwood not only bloomed, I had never seen that many flowers on it!

Maybe you can relate. We go through trials in our lives that may seem overwhelming. We turn inward, and others may not understand why we’ve withdrawn into our shell.

I’ve been there. Many times. I used to feel guilty when I needed space to work out my feelings when life seemed too much to deal with. But my thought process has changed. I like to think of those times as dormant seasons in our lives. We don’t realize it, but we’re actually growing, storing up energy and giving ourselves time to heal so that we can bloom again when the right time arrives.

Just like the dogwood, you know what’s best for you. Listen to that inner voice. Whether it’s a shattered dream, a broken relationship, a prolonged illness, or a crippling disappointment, allow yourself the time and space you need to get through it. If you do, you’ll come out the other side even more beautiful than you were before!

---

Check out my debut novel, Sea Horses. Available through Amazon in softcover and Kindle version. www.amazon.com/author/cheryllsnow

Sign up for my blogs and updates here!

Me and My Easy-Bake Oven - A Christmas Memory

The faded photo is of five-year-old me looking over my shoulder at my mom as she snaps my picture. I'm in our farm kitchen in Maine, standing barefoot on a wooden stool because I'm too little to reach the counter. It's early morning, and I'm wearing my pink gingham nightgown I wore to bed the night before. My Easy-Bake Oven, with its fake knobs and gadgets and colored a hideous turquoise green, is to my left. The deep porcelain sink is to my right. Above the sink, bright winter sunlight streams through a window framed by white cotton curtains with little red cherries on the hem.

Today is Christmas Eve, and I'm "baking" my first cake for Daddy.

Daddy was home in October when I got my Betty Crocker Easy-Bake oven for my birthday. But he left for an eight-week deployment at sea the next day, and I didn't get the chance to bake him something. He's coming home today. And I am determined to make him the best chocolate cake he's ever tasted.

Mom helped me crack the egg and add the water to the packaged mix, and she held the bowl steady as I carefully poured the batter into the miniature cake pan. I watched through the oven's square window as the light bulb "baked" my cake. At first it bubbled. Then it started to rise and turn dark brown. When the timer dinged, I took it from the oven and put it on a rack to cool. Then Mom helped me with the chocolate frosting mix.

By the time we got that thing iced, I had chocolate all over my gown and hands and face. The cake was lopsided and a little overdone on the bottom, but I was so proud of what I had made.

That evening, after picking Daddy up from the pier, he sat back in his chair after his first home-cooked meal in two months and admired my masterpiece, which Mom had placed on a pretty plate in the middle of the kitchen table.

"That's the prettiest cake I've ever seen," he said. I sat there with the biggest grin on my face as he ate the entire thing and then rubbed his stomach and said, "Mmmmm... that sure was good!"

Many years later, after I married and had a child of my own, I asked my mom if she remembered that Easy-Bake oven and the cake I made for Dad. She started laughing and told me a secret.

"Honey, your dad was positively green after he ate that thing! He said it was awful!"

That's what fathers do for their daughters.

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Do you have a favorite Christmas memory? I’d love to hear from you! Leave a comment below or on my Contact page!

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In The Eyes of the Beholder

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In recognition of this important event, I’m sharing a story about an unforgettable patient I took care of in the hospital many years ago. Enjoy! And please share with a woman in your life who has been there.

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One of the most touching moments I’ve experienced with a patient was when I was caring for a woman who had just gone through a double mastectomy for breast cancer.

“Ruth” was a lovely woman in her sixties, with a porcelain complexion and perfectly coiffed hair. Her husband “Ted” was a constant companion at her bedside, leaving only after visiting hours were over to get a few hours of sleep. He returned every morning with a fresh-cut rose from Ruth’s garden.

I was working nightshift and Ruth was a night owl, so I got to know her quite well during her hospital stay. A true Southern belle, Ruth was a delight to talk to. A spirited conversationalist with a fiery wit, she talked about her whirlwind courtship with Ted when she was nineteen, their three children and five grandchildren, and how she and Ted had traveled all over the world.

The second day after her surgery, I chatted with her as I dispensed her evening medications. Her surgeon had left orders to remove the surgical drains from her chest and change her dressings. I asked her if she wanted to go ahead and do it now or wait for Ted to go home.

 Ruth didn’t answer at first. She looked over at her husband of fifty years and I knew what she was thinking. She was worried what his reaction would be at seeing her for the first time.

“Might as well do it now,” he said softly, and Ruth nodded.

I took off the ace wraps encircling her chest and then removed the thick pads of gauze covering her incisions. I stood back as Ted came to her side and looked down at his wife’s radically changed body. Tears filmed Ruth’s eyes as she asked, “Well... what do you think?”

Ted took her hand in both of his and said, “Darlin’, so long as you’re still here with me, I think you’re beautiful.”

Ruth burst into tears, and I left the room to shed a few of my own.

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Macaw Mayhem

It was a perfect day in Playa del Carma, Mexico. The sun was shining, the skies matched the azure blue of the ocean, and a light breeze rustled the palm trees. What could possibly go wrong?

I was returning from a glass-bottomed boat tour with my husband and mother-in-law when we decided to grab some lunch. Next to our pier was a shopping district with brightly colored stucco shops and tropical vegetation everywhere. In the middle of the square was an aviary with dozens of exotic birds. Most were perched in a huge cage overlooking the beach, but some were flying around or perched on roosts above the square. 

"Look at that one!" I told my husband.

The bird was magnificent. It was a huge Blue-throated male macaw with cobalt wings and a golden yellow chest. "Isn't he gorgeous?" 

"Get his picture," my husband said. I was already removing the lens cover from my camera. I zoomed in, but the angle wasn't right. The thick netting was blocking the shot. 

"Try over here," my husband suggested. I moved to a spot almost directly below and behind the bird. Now the frame was right. I zoomed in on his regal head. Perfect! I took the shot. Then I felt something plop on my shoulder. I looked down to find a thick stream of macaw poop flowing down my arm. 

"Ugh!" I exclaimed. I turned my attention back to the macaw. I swear that bird was looking right at me.

Disgusting as the situation was, I managed to keep my composure until my brain suddenly registered that the hot mess running down my arm was... well... hot.

I lost it. Thank goodness my stomach was empty. I dry-heaved over and over again while my husband and mother-in-law stood there laughing their heads off.

"I'm glad... blech... you guys think... blech... this is FUNNY!" I said.

A kind shopkeeper brought me some paper napkins and pointed to the restrooms in a corner of the square. I managed to thank her and hurried off, still heaving. 

I must have used half the soap in the dispenser. When I came out, I found my husband and mother-in-law sitting on a park bench. When they saw me, they burst out laughing again. 

"Shut up," I said.

My husband grinned at me and winked. "Ready for some lunch?" 

My stomach rolled. "You guys go ahead," I said. "I'm going back to the ship." 

I searched the aviary until I found the macaw, still standing on the same roost. I stuck my tongue out at him. I didn't get lunch that day, but at least I got a great photo.

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Mater Sandwiches

My mom loved tomato sandwiches. A country girl at heart, she called them mater sandwiches. No matter where my dad's naval career took us, Mom always found a place to grow a few vegetables, especially her beloved tomato plants.

When I was five, my dad was stationed in Maine. We lived on an old farmstead, complete with the requisite white farmhouse with black shutters, a barn, a massive oak tree with a tire swing, and a large garden plot next to an apple orchard. Mom and Dad grew vegetables year-round in the garden, but they especially loved the bounty of summertime.

Mom checked on the garden nearly every day. I walked down the rows with her as she pulled weeds and gathered fresh, ripe produce in a basket. When she got to the tomato cages, she judged their readiness by their color and firmness.

"What about this one, Mama?" I asked, pointing to a tomato that still had some green on it.

"That one's not quite ready yet," she said.

I ran down the row. "What about this one?"

Mom hefted the huge red orb in her hand. "Perfect," she said. She pulled the tomato from the vine and brought it to her nose. "Mmmmm... Smell that. Now that's a good tomato."

I sniffed it, catching the scent of dark earth, sunshine, and rain mingled in with the musky aroma of the ripe fruit. To this day, the smell of a tomato fresh from the vine always reminds me of my mom.

"Let's go make a mater sandwich," she said.

Back at the house, I stood on a stool in front of the kitchen sink and carefully washed the tomato, still warm from the sun. Then Mom cut it into thick slices, two for her and one for me, and placed them on Wonder bread - the only bread for making 'mater sandwiches, according to my mom. The slices were so big, I couldn't see the piece of bread beneath it. Then she added salt and pepper and a generous layer of Kraft Miracle Whip.

We sat down at the kitchen table and dug in. The simple flavors of bread, mayo, and fresh ripe tomato left my taste buds tingling.

"This is so good!" she said. Then, as she took another generous bite, tomato juice ran down her chin. We both laughed as she wiped her mouth with a paper towel. "The messier it is, the better it tastes."

She was right.

---

Do you have a favorite summer foods memory? Ice cream from the local dairy? A cookout with friends or family? Picnic at the beach? Share your stories below!

Daffy Doodles

“And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils.”

                                                                                                 — William Wordsworth

Driving past an old abandoned barn, my eye caught a blur of color amongst the dead brown weeds. As flakes of snow swirled in the crisp February air, a spray of daffodil blooms stood tall and proud as they raised their butter yellow faces to the morning sun.

       Unable to resist, I pulled over and walked into the field. I brought one of the flowers to my nose and inhaled deeply. I smiled. “Hi, Mom,” I said.

      My mom loved daffodils. They were her favorite flower. She called them Daffy Doodles. She said no other bloom can boast that same shade of yellow or one-of-a-kind aroma. For me, they signal the promise of spring and hold the key to my childhood. The mere sight of them never fails to bring back a flood of memories revolving around my mom.

     I was a Navy brat growing up. We moved a lot. But Mom’s daffodils always went with her. After the moving vans pulled out of the driveway, the last thing my mom did before we piled in the car and headed out to our new home was to dig up all her beloved Daffy Doodle bulbs. Then she put them to bed in a large burlap sack filled with loose soil, where they slept soundly in the trunk of our car until she transplanted them.

     She told me one of the reasons she loved daffodils is because they're so stubborn. No matter where we were living, those bulbs came back year after year. In Maine and Connecticut, they pushed their determined heads through blankets of snow and shivered in the cold for a few short-lived weeks. In the warmer locales of Virginia and the Carolinas, they stretched their toes deep into the Southern earth and stayed a while, soaking up the sun and balmy breezes.

     One of Mom’s favorite pastimes was finding daffodils growing in the wild. Every March she looked for them in her travels and marked where new ones had sprouted up. Then she returned in the fall to dig them up and add them to her burgeoning collection.  

     One crisp October day, I was helping Mom dig up bulbs from a field next to an abandoned farmhouse. I held an old metal bucket and stood over her as she used a spade and her bare hands to coax the bulbs from the rich, dark earth. It seemed like a lot of dirty work and patience. “Why don’t you just pick the flowers and dig up the roots when you first find them?” I asked.

     She dropped the last bulb into the bucket and said, "You have to let the flower die so that all the food goes back into the bulb. If you don't, they won't come back."

     At the time, I didn't understand what she meant, but I've never forgotten her words. To this day, I never cut back plants or dig up tubers and bulbs until after the flowers and leaves have died. It was one of the many things I learned from Mom while helping her in the garden, and not just about plants. My mother wasn't an educated woman. In fact, she never graduated high school. But she was a wealth of wisdom when it came to family and faith. And Daffy Doodles.

     These days, it's hard to find daffodil bulbs in stores. I asked a woman at a local nursery why. She said, "Daffodils are so easy to grow, you don’t need to buy them. If you plant a few bulbs, they’ll fill up a flower bed by the next season."

     Like Mom said, they're stubborn that way. 



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What is your favorite flower? Why? Drop me a line in the comment section below!

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Waiting for the Wizard

"The Wizard of Oz" is one of my all-time favorite films. As a child in the 70's, the movie aired on television once a year, sometime between February and Easter, and was a major event in our home. Mom and I would scour through TV Guide Magazine - which she picked up every week at the supermarket - to find out when it was coming on. Then she tore out the page and taped it to the fridge as a reminder so that we wouldn't miss it. 

For those of the under-40 generation, I know it's hard to believe, but back then there were no such things as Netflix, DVR's, or even movies on videocassette tapes! If you missed the broadcast, you had to wait an entire year to see it again.

Waiting. It's almost become a dirty word these days. We live in an age of instant gratification, with hundreds of cable channels at our fingertips, endless information via the Internet, and on-line shopping.

Want to know the latest sports scores? Just pull out your phone. Want that package delivered faster? Ask for express shipping. Want to share some good news or a funny cartoon? Get on Twitter or Facebook and send it out to the world in a matter of seconds. 

Don't get me wrong. Improvements in technology and smart phones and the Internet can be very valuable to us in our everyday lives. But there's something to be said for the thrill of anticipation, of having something to look forward to or work toward.  

Take relationships for example. Whatever happened to old-fashioned dating and taking the time, years even, to really get to know someone before making a serious commitment of marriage or starting a family? Our younger generation has been conditioned to fast-track their relationships, becoming intimate way too soon and setting up house within weeks or months because they want their happily ever after to start right here, right now. Unfortunately, statistics show that the majority of those unions fail. Worse, those who don't learn from their mistakes end up sailing through their lives with a string of messy, unfulfilling relationships in their wake. 

Our fast-forward society influences our lifestyles as well.  We're encouraged to live by the "Keeping Up With The Joneses" mantra. Everyone's doing it! Buy big and buy now! Instead of purchasing a modest starter home and building wealth slowly, many couples saddle themselves with crippling mortgages, toys they can't afford, and living way beyond their means. No wonder the majority of families don't save for their retirement or even a rainy day!

We learn the valuable lessons of patience and delayed gratification when we wait for some things. And the end result is usually much more satisfying. 

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What do YOU think? I love hearing from my readers, so feel free to leave a comment below or drop me a line on my Contact page. 

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Mr. Peabody's Christmas Day Buffet

After our first beagle, Patches, passed away, my husband and I were reluctant to get another dog. A year or so later, our next-door neighbor asked us to come over to see their two new beagle puppies. We went. Long story short, a week later we bought the last puppy from the litter. We named him Mr. Peabody, as in the cartoon dog. The name was soon shortened to Peabody.

It's been said that beagles aren't exactly the smartest dog breed. I disagree. I think they're supremely stubborn. They know exactly what you're saying to them. They just don't give a fat rat's butt!

Our previous beagle had the sweetest disposition. Stubborn, but sweet. Peabody, however, had a mischievous streak that often got him into trouble. Digging up the neighbors' flower beds, terrorizing our cat, chasing after squirrels and rabbits, chewing up shoes and throw pillows, tipping over the trash can in the kitchen... these were just a few of his favorite pastimes.

The funniest thing he ever did was one Christmas a few years after we brought him home. We had opened presents that morning, and Peabody was in his doggie bed, gnawing on his new chew toy that Santa brought him. My parents were expecting us for Christmas dinner at noon, and we were running late. I hurriedly stacked our gifts back under the tree and went upstairs to get ready.

I forgot that some friends had given us a Hickory Farms sampler. 

When we got back later that evening, Peabody didn't greet us at the door like he normally did. We called for him, but he didn't come. When we went into the living room, it looked like a bomb had gone off. The sampler's cardboard box was in tatters and strewn everywhere, along with cheese wrappers, mustard packets, and a pound of Columbian Dark Roast coffee. Apparently, the coffee wasn't to Peabody's liking, but he had a grand time with the bag.

He'd eaten everything in the box, including a huge summer sausage. All that was left of it were the little metal nubs that twisted around the ends.

We found him passed out on our closet floor, snoring loudly. His belly was so distended I don't know how the poor dog could breathe! He waddled down the stairs the next morning and skipped breakfast, but after sleeping most of the day, he was ready for his evening kibble.

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Do you have a funny Christmas memory of your pet? Tell us your story below or drop me a line at www.cheryllsnow.com/contact

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Ode to Autumn

A familiar feeling arises within our hearts when that first nip of cooler weather is felt in the azure September air. It twines its way into the space left between sleeping couples, prompting us to snuggle deeper beneath the blankets. Sweaters and turtlenecks are pulled out from bureau drawers. Our thoughts linger over plump pumpkins, hot apple cider, and baskets brimming with bronze and burgundy mums.

If you listen closely, you can hear it. The very air seems to chant the word — change. Yellow school buses rumble down the street again. Trees display their brilliance in one last hurrah before they shrug off their leafy coats and retreat into slumber. Children run amok through pumpkin patches and corn mazes, and smiling scarecrows sit atop hay bales, surrounded by colorful pots of pansies.

We relish this time because we know what’s coming―those bleak, dreary days of winter when warmer days and colorful landscapes are only a memory and the promise of spring seems so far away.   

But for now, I think I’ll go to the local supermarket and hoist a ripe pumpkin (or two) into my cart and while away the afternoon in a patchwork quilt of raked leaves.

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What are YOUR favorite things about Fall? Submit a comment below! 

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Lost in Translation

I was scheduled to work evening shift on a floor where I didn't know the patients very well. I was told in report that "Mr. B," a fairly new admit to the long-care department of our facility, was very nice, but liked to flirt a bit with the female staff. "He's harmless," the other nurse told me. "But he's really hard to understand because of his stroke, and he gets frustrated sometimes."

As I started my med round, I noticed Mr. B sitting in a wheelchair in his doorway at the end of the hall. He smiled at me and waved, and I greeted him back. Then, in a loud voice, he called out, "Hey, honey! Are we having sex tonight?"

All conversation stopped in the hallway. A couple of visitors at the nurse's station and a tech were looking between Mr. B and me. Mr. B just sat there in his wheelchair, grinning. I felt my face flush as I locked my med cart and walked down the hallway to his room.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Mr. B," I said quietly. "That was inappropriate, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say things like that again."

He looked up at me with a confused expression. "Huh?"

"What you just said to me. That's not appropriate."

Clearly flustered, he yelled, "What's wrong with having snacks?"

I just stated at him.

"SNACKS!" he repeated. "I asked if we're having snacks tonight! What in the blazes is wrong with that?"

Not a thing, Mr. B. Not a thing.

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Good Enough

It's hard when your worst enemy is the one living inside your own head. Many of you know what I'm talking about. It's that pesky, grating voice that whispers in our ear about how we should have handled that situation better. Or tried harder at some particular task. Or that we're simply not good enough.

I'm hard on myself. I always have been. But lately I've grown tired of living in the world of "shoulda, coulda, wouIda."

I think women especially struggle with the need to be the best at everything we do. No wonder we feel so pressured! We're constantly blasted by magazine ads and television commercials touting the road to perfection. Statuesque models with perfect faces and bodies. Ads and movies depicting perfect families, perfect homes, perfect children.

Well, guess what? There is no perfection except God. That exquisite model's face and boobs are going to wrinkle and sag one day, just like ours. Material things only last for a season. And a family without struggles or dysfunction only exists in fairy tales.

To do our best isn't a bad thing. It helps us achieve our goals in life and instills a strong work ethic that, hopefully, will be passed along to our children and grandchildren. The struggle is when we don't realize or appreciate what we've accomplished because we always feel we could have done a better job somehow. It's mentally and physically exhausting.

My new motto in life is "good enough." I can't tell you how freeing those two little words can be! I'm slowly learning to apply it to my writing, my work, and my home. I even say it aloud sometimes when I get that urge to go back and "fix" something that, in my mind, wasn't done to my expectations.

When we're confronted with a long To Do list, a challenging work day, or a problematic relationship, take reasonable steps to do what we can and then say to ourselves, "Good enough."

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Thorns

I was pruning my rose bushes when a thorn got stuck in the end of my index finger. I managed to break off the larger part above the skin, but the tiny point was imbedded deep down and wouldn't budge.

I worried that thing to death the rest of the day! I tried everything. Tweezers, a safety pin, a sewing needle... even the old duct tape trick. Nothing worked. To make matters worse, I realized all my efforts were only pushing the tip down deeper. By the time I went to bed, my finger was so sore I could barely touch it.

The next morning, I stumbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and I remembered the thorn. I looked down. It was gone! Sometime during the night, my body had pushed it out on its own, with no help from me.

I think there's a valuable lesson to be learned from this. So many times, we fret and stress over the "thorns" in our lives. We won't let some trivial matter go, or we obsess over something that hasn't even happened yet, or worry too much about what others think. It's mentally exhausting. And in the end, most of the problems we thought were so big usually work themselves out on their own.

I'm making a conscious effort to choose my battles and stop stressing so much over the pesky thorns in my life. I'm a worrier by nature, so this kind of change doesn't come easy to me.

When we feel ourselves stressing out over something that deep down we know is trivial, ask yourself this question: "What's the worst-case scenario that could happen as a result of this situation?" 

Someone might think less of us or not like us? Oh, well. You can't please everybody. Some chore or errand won't get done until tomorrow or the next day? So what? It'll still be there. A friend or co-worker might get angry because we say no to something we don't really want to do? True friends will understand.

Worrying robs us of joy. Don't let the inevitable thorns of life distract us from living our lives to the fullest!

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A Different Kind of New Year's Resolution

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions.

We've all been there - we choose the clean slate of an untarnished new year to make drastic changes in our lives, whether it's a healthier lifestyle, beginning or ending a relationship, or maybe a new career path. We start out with good intentions. But for most of us, we usually discard our new-found resolve after a few weeks or months. It's discouraging.

I've come to the conclusion that most New Year's resolutions don't stick because we raise the bar too high. We're bombarded on a daily basis by TV ads, billboards, magazines, and celebrities telling us we're not thin enough, rich enough, attractive enough, or famous enough. Happiness, according to our shallow modern culture, is just a perfect body or facelift away. Or that shiny new car. Or in getting that promotion or buying a bigger house. Instead of taking baby steps toward a single goal, we make a long list of all the things we want to change about ourselves and throw down the gauntlet with a take-no-prisoners, all-or-nothing mentality that usually spells disaster.

I think there's a healthier way to improve ourselves and still maintain our self-esteem and sanity. It starts with accepting ourselves, right now, just the way we are. No, we're not perfect. Yes, we all have flaws. But if we don't make the choice to embrace who we are on the inside, no amount of external changes will bring us added happiness.

So... this year, instead of making a negative list of bad habits to kick and unattainable goals, how about coming up with some positive things we can do for our inner self?

Here's my list:

• Embrace God's unconditional love.
• Write more.
• Nurture my inner child.
• Make new friends.
• Don't always follow the rules.
• Trust my gut.
• Don't settle, even if it means waiting.
• Worry less.
• Forgive myself.

What does your list look like? Make it a good one!

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