Tell Me Your Story

My Father’s Influence

In honor of Father’s Day I’m publishing this once again, with some portions taken away, as this is continues to be relevant…

I think about my father often. He truly was a wonderful dad! When he took his life in September of 2010 we were in shock, but that is another story…my father gave me so much over the years. He truly helped shape the woman I have become.

My dad, holding my sister’s hand. I am on his back; if you look closely you can see a second hood with fur behind my father’s -that is me. This picture was taken in Kotzebue, Alaska where we were living at the time.

When I was young, putting words on paper and creating a story was joyful for me. Raising children and living life pushed my creative energy to the back of my mind. The very last gift he gave me was the gift of writing. How did my dad give me this final present? When he passed, feeling compelled to say something at his memorial service, I wrote him a letter to say goodbye. Although reading the letter, while fighting off tears was nearly impossible, the creation of the letter reminded me of how much I loved the art of writing.

The Goodbye Letter To My Father

(This is written in the present tense, as written in September 2010, a little rusty from years of not writing. Some names have been omitted for privacy.)

Dear Dad,

Every once in awhile Greg will ask out of the blue: “What do you remember about your parent’s while you were growing up?” This of course takes me by surprise and I mumble a few things. When asked this, I thought of you and mom collectively.

Over the last four days, I have had pictures and memories flood back. I cannot write them all down or put them all into words. These are some of the things that have made me into the person I am and the habits I have formed:

When we were very small you used to tell us stories of the Three Ninnies, who we knew were really us. My siblings and I would die of laughter.

As I grew older and stopped having bedtime stories, I had a hard time getting to sleep. One night I wandered out of my room and complained that I couldn’t sleep. You sat me down and said: “You should read before you go to sleep because it will take your mind off of the day’s events”. I followed your lead and for the most part have gotten to sleep without a problem.

In being active yourself, you taught me to be active. As you know, I was a swimmer. When I could not swim after my spinal surgery, I followed your example of staying active by walking. When I was able to slowly start doing more, I cycled and then I swam. Finally, following your lead, I ran and rarely ever stopped.

Dad, I remember cross-country and downhill skiing in the winter, and cookouts in the snow. You said you weren’t a builder, but you built: a playhouse that we loved, ice skating rinks in our yard in Winnipeg and even an igloo one winter in Muskoka.

You sat with me and cried as you explained the options I had ahead of me when my scoliosis had gone past the point of wearing a brace. You supported me as you allowed me to make my own decision to have the spinal surgery. Then following the surgery, every Sunday, you patiently unscrewed my brace so that I could take a weekly shower.

There were so many trips that gave us our love for travel. You encouraged us to explore the world and never discouraged us when we were heading into dangerous territory. When your eldest daughter, two of our friends, and I were heading to a country on the brink of war, all you said to me was “Don’t go to Sarajevo, there is fighting there”. You never stopped me from going to Mauritania, even though you were were scared to death of the high slave trade in the area. I never knew you felt that way until last year.

When I was pregnant and alone, you helped me turn my house into a home by hanging shelves and showing me how to do it myself. You held my hand when my first marriage ended and let me go when I met Greg, you knew I was safe and happy. You gave me your blessing when we were married, because you said I was not only marrying a good man, but a good family.

My father with my eldest child, his first grandchild.

Dad, when you became a grandfather you wanted to be called grandpa, but my eldest had other plans. First she called you “Gucky”, much to your chagrin. She said to me the other day “I must have called Bop Bop ‘Gucky’ first because I loved ducks so much. Eventually, my child coined the name Bop Bop and that became your name. All the grandchildren loved you, even though Nana was doing all the work. You only had to smile and play the “mousie” game and the kids would laugh and laugh.

There is so so much more I could say. You taught me to always do my best and be strong in whatever I did. I never saw your scars emotionally or physically. I am sorry. I hope you know how much we all loved you. Although you never believed in Heaven, I hope there is one. I hope that you and your sister are looking down upon the day. We have come together to celebrate your life. We will never forget you.

Love,

Sarah

My Father’s Continued Effect On My Character

My dad’s influence still resonates today, in my words and life. Many of my stories have echoes of what is contained in this goodbye. My siblings and I were truly lucky to have such a great dad!

Four years ago, in the Denver Airport, I sat across from an elderly man; watching him I wondered: “Who my father would be now?”. He had a good life, yet full of trauma, perhaps he chose how he wanted to be remembered.

This is a photograph given to my eldest. Until I made this digital copy, there wasn’t one in my possession. The peace, love and joy on his face is how I remember my father. Imagine a sparkle, in the bluest of eyes, and that was my dad.

The Garden of Strong Mothers

Authors Note: This story was originally published in 2022; reading it again today, I was surprised by the fact that early May is just as cold this year as it was four years ago. I recently started swimming again after a knee replacement in mid-March. My mother, 27 years my senior, had a knee replacement 5 days after me. Over the last two months we have only talked on the phone as we both work through recovering from our procedures. As we don’t live in the same area, we have not seen each other.

Time has marched on since I wrote this story, but the words remain true. Tomorrow I will be celebrating Mother’s Day with my mother and mother-in-law, both in their mid-80s. My husband and I are fortunate that we are each still able to celebrate with our moms.

To all mothers: Happy Mother’s Day!

Last week, in the 32 degree weather, I headed to swim in the pool outside. I was intent on just reusing words I had written in the spring of 2020, for my next story. As I started to move through the warm water, thoughts and words swam around me. At the foundation of these thoughts, were the original words:

Growing up, I always considered my paternal grandmother (who I was very close to) the be strongest woman I knew. She had gone through tragedy and continued to carry herself with strength and dignity. I wanted to emulate my grandmother. She is still held as a role model to live up to. Like an Oak tree, my “Ana” was tall and strong.

My mother, on the other hand, is more like a flower in the desert. Something that has to have incredible strength to endure the hardships of where it has to grow.

Like a flower, my mother doesn’t appear as if she would have the need of strength. She has had to go through more than one person should have to. Over the past few years, I have come to recognize that my strength comes somewhat from my grandmother, but mostly from my mom. Not only was my mother strong in the hand that she was dealt in life, but has helped me to be strong when I needed it most. She would have come to London, after the Lockerbie tragedy, had I wanted her to. When I was going through a dark period, she came to Boston to be with me. She helped lift me up when I was separated from my first husband and pregnant with my firstborn; then through my eldest daughter’s first year of life. As life goes on, my mom continues to be here for me and I try to be there for her. I hope her strength will pass on to my daughters.

With each stroke made while moving through the water, I realized that I have surrounded myself with strong women, all mothers. I envisioned a garden where the flora represented my friends. A kind of poem started to form….

Each time I swam this past week, I thought about this poem (I am not poet). In the end, I couldn’t think of one of my friends who has not had to carry something heavy in their soul. Does everyone have to go through hard times? I look at my grandmother, my mother… perhaps this is human nature. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that my family and my friends are resilient, each with a special strength to be revered.

For The Birds

Are you a Morning Lark or a Night Owl? Have you ever heard the expression “The early bird gets the worm”? There are many idioms that have to do with birds. A few more examples of these are: making sure you have a “nest egg”, “spread your wings”, “birds of a feather flock together”, “a bird in hand is worth two in the bush”… Apparently, sayings about the feathered creatures have been around for centuries. The magnificent winged animals are believed to be descendants of dinosaurs, no wonder there are so many expressions about them!

In my youth, a slow “relationship” with birds began. I wasn’t a great observer nor was there much interest in spending hours watching these feathered animals. My father taught me the call of a chickadee: “chick-a-dee-dee-dee”; it became a bird I could identify by sight and sound. In my youth the chickadee became my favorite bird. Another childhood experience with birds was during our summers in Muskoka. At least once a summer dad would take us on a family boat ride to an island that he called “heron” island. There we would see the Great Blue Heron nesting with their young. As I grew into adulthood, my dad complained that this special bird nesting ground was being overrun with cormorants.

For years, little notice was taken of my “feathered friends”, but here are a few scattered memories: there was the time, while living in London when a pigeon landed on my head; in my early twenties, I became intrigued with the Blue Footed Boobie; lastly, one day on a bike ride, at the age of 27, a bird pooped on me (which is said to be good luck) and some positive fortune came my way that night. That was the extent of it, although I am sure there was much use of bird idioms with complete disregard to the avian origin of these phrases.

The year our son was in 5th grade, he became fascinated with birds. As parents, we wanted to encourage this hobby; my husband was a little more gung-ho than I was. Part of spring break of 2015 was spent in Cape May, NJ; it was the beginning of the spring migration. Unfortunately, our son got sick and didn’t enjoy our time looking for birds.

Later that spring and summer, there were many opportunities for bird watching: a camping trip, outdoor day trips, and then time at our cottage. Back then, the hobby of birding was a little slow paced for me and my neck hurt from looking up for the songsters in the trees! However, during this period, I learned taking pictures of birds was rewarding.

When our middle child started to watch and learn about birds, he taught us that the “Canadian Goose” refers to any goose from Canada, while “Canada Goose” refers specifically to the large goose with a black head and neck.

We also learned that “Sea Gull” is a misnomer; there are many different types of gulls and they don’t all live by the sea.

For a summer or two, my son and I would walk our dog early in the morning. One day, this young owl was sitting in the tree as we walked. I didn’t have my phone or my camera on me. As we headed back to the cottage, this little bird of prey was still there. On a chance, leaving my son and pooch at home, I went back to where the night bird was perched. He was still there!

My son seemingly lost his interest in watching birds, but I continued taking their pictures. Between the years 2016-2018 many bird photos were taken, either in our backyard or on trips:

After our trip to Alaska, as I have written about before, our middle child told us he was depressed with extreme suicidal ideation. We struggled as a family, mentally and emotionally for quite awhile. Although, I took many pictures of nature between the summer of 2018 through the spring of 2021, almost none were of birds.

One of the only pictures I have of a bird during this period: a Western Gull behind the “Bird Of Paradise” flower

Sometime in 2019, as we were trying to ground ourselves, I learned that my husband found his calm in watching birds in our yard. That was news to me and very different from how I centered myself. When COVID restrictions were lifted in the state parks, in 2020, my husband was spending a great deal of time outdoors; this is probably when his interest in “birding” started to take off. Meanwhile, I was walking for exercise and then eventually swimming (once the pool reopened); this is how I found my inner peace. I hadn’t accepted the slow patience to seek our feathered friends in nature.

My hiatus of bird photography ended in 2021, since then I have taken an abundance of pictures featuring these magnificent creatures. When this story was started, there were over 1,900 pictures as I searched “bird” in my photo library. Now, I have whittled it down to 800+ photos. Here are some of my favorites:

Our backyard is full of feeders for the bluebirds, crows, pileated woodpeckers, gold finches, chickadees, the adorable Carolina wren and multiple other birds. I enjoy watching the birds at the many feeders behind the house. This winter was cold and snowier than usual for our area. The colors of the birds in the woods stood out and were easier to see from our kitchen window. Because the snow became somewhat icy, my husband started throwing mealworms on top of the snow (or ice) that lay on our deck; the blue birds became accustomed to it. One day, while my spouse was out of town and I sat at the kitchen table looking out at the deck. The blue birds were there looking for their food. They were out of the savory morsels that they so desired. What amazed me was that these beautiful little birds knew where their food came from: they hopped toward our sliding glass door looking in as if to say “where is my food?” A stupid person is often called a “bird brain”, but in my humble opinion birds are highly intelligent animals!

I have been asked by friends “are you a birder”? My answer is: “No, I like to take pictures of birds.” In recent years, although still a novice in this art, I have used my photos as inspiration to create jewelry.

The first two pieces in this series, the Great Blue Heron and the Purple Gallinule, were created for classes.
The Great Blue Heron was practicing some of the techniques I learned with texturing, sawing and finally riveting the bail on the pendant.

These three pendants were experimentations. The first with blank space as the image for the Great Blue Heron and trying to fix mistakes with a little soldering. The Raven and the Pelican pendants, I was once again playing with texture, space created with the jeweler’s saw and some patina.

These are the last two bird pendants made by me, thus far. They are currently my favorite, as I have combined metal upon metal. The duck, although flipped for the pendant, I riveted sawed out silver onto “flame painted” copper. The hawk is silver soldered onto a texturized silver backing and then painted with patina.

I’m more of an observer of birds. To me, a “birder” is someone who knows the names of different species of the flying creatures, what they look like, and perhaps can recognize the calls of the winged animals. After many sightings, quite a few birds are recognized by me. I am not a birder, but my husband is. I love the way he lights up when talking about birds and their behavior. At times he can isolate the song of a specific bird among all the others that might be singing. If we are out for a walk in nature together, my spouse will point out a bird and tell me what he knows about it, as I try to capture a photo before our feathered friend takes flight. When we go on outings like this, we are partners in the process; it is a nice way to spend time together. As I grow older perhaps the hobby of “birding” will be taken up, but for now my place as “bird observer” is fine by me.

Empty Pages

New Beginnings

By Anonymous

I was recently at a dinner party, a 60th birthday celebration for a dear friend. There are 12 of us, in this close knit group. We range in ages from 53-64. We all met in our early 30’s in our neighbourhood. We travel together, celebrate life’s miles stones and end of the week together. We raised our children and dogs together, we hold each other through divorces and illness, sit at bed sides and bring meals when needed. We drink wine and water, margaritas and sidecars, none of us have given up the drink yet but most have slowed down our consumption substantially. We dance on tables and run or work out together at 6 am. You get the picture, it is a tight knit group of women. We adore each other and treasure our friendship.

The conversation at one point turned, as it inevitably does at this middle age, to what season of life we are living in. The birthday girl equated it to the autumn of life. We had to agree that certain body parts are falling. Colours of hair and skin are changing, like leaves we are becoming spotted with dark or streaked either by grey or the ubiquitous blond. We shared ways to combat this, red light therapy, creams, hydrogen peroxide, surgeries, lifestyle changes, sleep etc. I came home and thought “Fuck that”. Don’t get me wrong I will still use the creams and have a red light mask. But I have decided to embrace the dark circles on my cheek to life well lived in the sun.

The dark circles represent wonderful summers in the sun in Muskoka as a child and teen. Teaching swimming on the docks, sailing, water skiing, skinny dipping during the day. Winter vacations in Florida, visiting my grandparents, long walks on the beach, playing tennis with no hat. Winters skiing in the sun (with no helmet!). All these moments without sunscreen. Soaking in the vitamin D that I didn’t know existed. In fact, we would hold tin foil up to our faces and coat our bodies in oil to improve our “tan”. Which in my case, was always a burn and more freckles galore. For a while it was “cool” to coat your nose in zinc, when teaching on the dock. I probably should have done more of that as now I coat my nose with chemotherapy creams to fight the basil cell carcinoma that keeps returning. But it was worth while. And I plan to continue all those activities in the sun and more now that I am nearing the end of my 6th decade.

In fact, I am choosing to see this stage of life, not about fall at all, but yet an other spring. As the earth goes around the sun and we pass though seasons multiple times, so is my life. I have recently experienced a good degree of loss in my life. The past decade included a divorce of a 22 year marriage and the death of our family dog. More recently, in the past year I lost my father, the break up of a long term relationship with a man I loved, the loss of two more family dogs due to cancer, long before their time was due. My children have grown and moved out of the family home. A month ago I was at my lowest point. Walking through empty rooms and living with ghosts. I had gone from two years earlier, a home filled with people I loved, my own three children, two step children, two wonderful dogs and my partner of 7 years. My parents independent and well and in their own home. It was a time filled with highs and lows, laughter and love, drama and noise, forgiveness and lessons learned. Some stages of life are a season unto themselves. As I reflect, the last decade felt like autumn, many moments of beauty and warmth and full of colour with a sharp turn into a short season of winter, dark, cold and lonely with only glimpses of sun on occasion.

As we start 2026, I have a renewed hope of spring. I have a puppy. He brings me joy and love everyday. My eldest daughter is getting married and it is such a joy and honour to be a large part of this plan for her future. Although I have lost my father, I feel him with me everyday in ways that beget an other short story. As the sun beams in my back windows over my back yard of snow, I feel that I enter this next stage of life as a new beginning. I ran into a friend recently who was a widow, and was in love with a new partner. She commented at how lucky we are to experience new love again, at this stage of life. What joy! And like a teen, I feel that is yet ahead of me again. I am not in the autumn of my life but spring, and excited for what lies ahead.

My Year Of Creativity (December)

Unedited

The sun has set on 2025 and a new year has begun. Will 2026 be a year of color, with rainbows after a storm? Maybe the sunlight will shine on a field just right, and the glorious hues of the grasses grown will pop? Or the days could be dark, full of angry storm clouds overhead. Although it might be hard, on the darkest days beauty can still be found…the year has just started and what lies ahead is yet unknown.

Nursing a cold that appeared on New Year’s Day, I am reflecting on a year that is now past…in the greater scope of things, 2025 (for lack of a better word) sucked! Last year might have been spent in blissful ignorance, if knowledge of Project 2025 hadn’t urged me to listen to the news. Without tuning in to current events, there would have been little awareness of the chaos that our current administration has set to the world order. In our area things seem to be unchanged. My social media feed would have consisted solely of jewelry reels and hobby sites. Last year a choice was made to see life beyond my own backyard.

In December 2024, I decided that my 2025 New Year’s resolution would be to complete one creative project a month. The year ahead looked like it might have hard changes. For many people the prediction rang true. Being aware of what was taking place within our country caused me to have many negative emotions. The reason for my new year’s intention was this: having something to focus on, would clear the noise that might be rattling around my head. As last year’s door started to close, my husband asked if I thought the creative outlet helped. “Yes, sort of”, was my simple answer.

Paying attention to what was happening, gave me an understanding of where our country seems to be heading. The direction the U.S. is going is very bad. Currently, the one thing that has consequences for me is this: If Project 2025 were to fully go through, my rights as a woman would be severely diminished. As a white female in my late 50’s, turning the clock back to a repressive age might have little bearing, but it would affect our daughters. Equal rights are being challenged: since the overturning of Roe V. Wade reproductive freedoms have been rolled back in many states. In November 2025, the U.S. Department of Education reclassified traditionally female professions (social work, public, health, nursing, teaching…) to non-professional; possibly this is the beginning of time going backward for women. Many more freedoms have already been taken from other populations in our country.

Working on artistic endeavors last year allowed for an escape from the outside chaos. At the beginning of December 2025, there was doubt that I would complete this last month of creativity…one day, during the second week of the 12th month, my knee went out on me while swimming. At first, barely any weight could be placed on my leg and the thought of standing to solder any of my pieces seemed impossible.

Rest was needed because a large portion of my extended family was going to St. Thomas for the holidays. The trip was to celebrate my mother. She is turning 85 in March. I wanted to be in the best walking shape possible when our vacation began. Much to my chagrin, not loving to sit still, time was taken to mend. Bored with the wire wrapped, beaded necklaces, a chain made of wire (that required no soldering) was started.

Early in the month, a class to learn the art of decoupaging shells had been signed up for; this craft of decorating objects with paper was something not done in years! The workshop, was held upstairs in an area that had no elevator. Luckily my knee was stable with a brace and I was able to attend the class:

Two, imperfect, ring dishes were made. An art (lost by me) has now been recovered.

The third week of December turned out to be a busy time: We had the first “big” snow of the year; One of the projects I had started working on in November, was almost finished: a hawk pendant; Another piece, also started in the 11th month, was ruined: a bezel set stone; Lastly, my youngest daughter and I took an enameling workshop.

Experimenting with enameling: front and back of pieces

A few days before we flew to St. Thomas, my chain necklace was finished and the hawk pendant was painted with patina.

On December 24th, it was time to depart for the long planned trip. Although a few months before our matriarch’s actual birthday, this period was chosen because it was the best time for many of my mother’s grandchildren to attend. Unfortunately, we each had one adult child missing. Although it didn’t feel like a winter holiday, it was the first (and probably the last) Christmas that my mother, sister and brother have been together in about 3 decades. A beautiful location had been chosen: the property where we stayed was on a cliff. There were many Iguanas on the rocky shore. Cats and jungle fowl live together. We only stayed for five nights, but there was time for town, the beach and a day of snorkeling. Mostly, for those who don’t see much of my mother, there was the opportunity to celebrate her. This holiday was a nice way to end the year!

12th Month Complete

With this post, “My Year Of Creativity” ends. On my own, I plan to continue to create and write. What form the anecdotes take on this blog is yet to come. Hopefully, some of you will “test the waters” and share your story. Remember, this is why the site was created: for you to tell your tale. The only rule for the narrative (whatever form it takes) is that the account needs to be true…

Author’s note: The new year has already started ominously. Yesterday, I woke up to the news that the our country launched strikes on Caracas, Venezuela. President Maduro and his wife were placed in U.S custody. Although the Venezuelan president is a dictator, the fact that he and his wife were taken has serious implications for the world order. To better understand this please watch Heather Cox Richardson: the last six minutes are the most important.

Heather Cox Richardson:

How U.S. taking out Maduro matters to the world:

Despite the early bad news, I wish you all the best in the year to come and leave you with this:

“Everything can be taken from a person but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances”.

-Viktor Frankl

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My Year Of Creativity

January https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/02/01/my-year-of-creativity/

February https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/07/my-year-of-creativity-2/

March https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/30/my-year-of-creativity-march-2025/

April https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/05/18/my-year-of-creativity-april-2025/

May https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/06/06/my-year-of-creativity-may-2025/

June https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/07/11/my-year-of-creativity-june-2025/

July https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/08/08/my-year-of-creativity-july-2025/

August: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/09/14/my-year-of-creativity-august-2025/

September: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/10/21/my-year-of-creativity-september-2025/

October: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/11/08/my-year-of-creativity-october-2025/

November: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/12/12/my-year-of-creativity-november-2025/

I Remember

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103. This was originally written in December 2018 on the 30th anniversary of the Lockerbie Bombing. Today marks the 37th year of this terrorist attack…

I Remember

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid I would be homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during Winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London. I cannot put into words what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.

30 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London

Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium,

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan;the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, In remembrance for those that had died.

Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.

Remembrance

Unedited

In October of this year, there was a short visit to Syracuse, NY. After a several hours of driving that beautiful autumn day, a stretch of my legs was greatly needed. I met with a loved one in the area and went for a stroll. We walked through a beautiful graveyard, as the autumn breeze blew. The golden leaves, of some of the changing trees, moved overhead with the wind. Up and down slopes we traveled and eventually reached Syracuse University campus.

When my youngest moved to the area, I mentioned the desire to one day to visit the memorial for those who were victims of the Pan Am flight 103 bombing in 1988. Having studied abroad with these students, this tragedy was an defining event in my young adult life. As we neared SU, my daughter said to me: “I found the memorial you mentioned wanting to visit”. We walked along the paths of the campus. Eventually, we came upon the tribute that was placed for my classmates.

We stood in silence, me with a little lump in my throat, almost 40 years later this is still hard…

About a week after my child and I viewed the site on University Hill, it was Remembrance Week. She sent me this picture in front of Hendricks Chapel.

Then, a few days later, a friend forwarded me this from instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/syracuseu?igsh=aGthbTEycjR1NTh5&utm_source=qr

Remembrance Week

“Each year in the fall, Syracuse University observes Remembrance Week. Events are designed by the Remembrance and Lockerbie Scholars, whose goal is to raise campus and community awareness of terrorism and to encourage the entire Syracuse University community to remember the victims of the Pan Am 103 bombing by becoming involved and working to positively impact others.”

–From Syracuse University/Remembrance

https://remembrance.syr.edu/events/

Although it was hard to read the names, the first chair was the worst: I sat next to Kenneth Bissett on the plane to London. Interactions with many of these students are recalled. Yet with the sadness, gratefulness is felt: the SU community continues to remember….

Authors Note: Tomorrow is the 37th anniversary of the Lockerbie Bombing, and once again I will share my story.

My Year Of Creativity (November 2025)

In early September of 2024, my husband and I went to the Delaware Art Museum’s sculpture garden. Quite taken with The Crying Giant, by Tom Otterness, he became a subject for many photographs.

There have been so many days since January 21, 2025 that I have wanted to put my face in my hands, just like this colossal, yet gentle, figure. The dismay and disbelief over what is happening in this country feels monumental; in the early months there was the desire to weep and, to due lack of sleep, sometimes the tears came.

The mournful sculpture was created in response to the events that transpired on September 11, 2001. That day, which is commonly know as 9/11, terrorists coordinated attacks on the United States. They were part of an Islamist extremist group from several Arab nations. Sadly, Islamophobia began almost immediately on 9/11/01. Hate crimes increased. People, couldn’t see the difference between a religion and an act of terrorism by zealots; this made me sad.

The seeds of bigotry have always been in the soil of this young country; all it takes is a little rhetoric for it to germinate and grow. For those who resided in this nation, it was a horrific time. However, the American people came together on that day and the time following. There was global support: nations around the world held vigils and offered sympathy. 38 large jets landed in Gander, Newfoundland, as planes flying into the United States were diverted. The Canadians opened their homes, churches and schools to the people from these aircrafts. Food and accommodations were provided to thousands of unexpected “guests”.

That day, just over 24 years ago, the attack came from somewhere else. Currently, the horrors come from within our country. Our allies have been pushed away; it is doubtful there are any countries who would rush to our aid now.

By the end of November 2025, the sun seemed to be setting on what was once a country that people from all over the world wanted to be part of. The current administration dismantled so much of what was good about this country; it has rolled back years of progress in medical, social and global relations. Racism, xenophobia, transphobia, antisemitism and misogynistic tendencies are becoming “normalized”. People in the highest offices in this country seem to think it is “OK”: to have people being taken off the streets by masked agents because of the color of their skin; for the leader of our country to verbally attack women in the White House press corps and make derogatory remarks about their appearance; that the man in the Oval Office suggested democratic lawmakers be put to death because they urged service members to disobey illegal orders…. NONE OF THESE THINGS ARE NORMAL!

Paying attention to the news in November, the endearing statue, from the Delaware Art Museum, kept coming to mind. For all the things mentioned previously, there was want to put my head in my hands.

Perhaps it seems like I spend the whole day listening to the news; this is far from the truth. For the most part, my life is full, yet many days are spent in the minutiae (swimming, walking, playing the New York Times puzzles…). In November I didn’t travel very far, most of the month was spent close to home. Time was spent with friends. Some afternoons were occupied by writing my October story. Other periods, following lunch, working on my creative project(s) kept me focused.

As the 11th month came to a close, my mother’s house was visited. The American Thanksgiving holiday was upon us. Knowing Mom would ask everyone at the table what they were thankful for, I began to think. Deciding what to say seemed elusive, as this country’s golden light continued to fade. Then, the realization hit me, although angry with the politics of this country, hope and joy could still be felt.

Hope was present because it was becoming increasingly clear that a majority of Americans are unhappy with the current events. Special elections in November and people speaking out were evidence of the American people being downcast. Joy surrounded me. I have to a loving family, good friends in my corner, a roof over my head, food on the table and the ability to create, learn and travel. There was still much to be grateful for!

I arrived home from my mom’s with one day to finish my creative endeavors. Many projects had been started in November. Only some were finished…

11th Month Complete

This is the first project finished in November. I had been carrying this stone around with me since April. There are three drilled holes, but one didn’t go the whole way through. My bead reamer didn’t help. I had to find a way to cover the holes. Bezel setting seemed to be out of the question, so I tried my hand at wire wrapping by following a reel. This was not as easy as the short film made it look; it turned out clunky! I will probably cut the wire away and eventually try something else for this stone.

My soldering last month focused around closing seams. These three rings are the product of this practice. They were supposed to be pinky rings.The bottom ring is too big. The top ring (which I like the best) is too small. But, like the *Three Bears,* the middle ring is just right!

This ring is made from the handle of this spoon:

My last endeavor to be finished was another wire wrapped necklace made at night in font of the tv. The final bead was place on November 30th.
Making similar necklaces all the time, is becoming tiresome, but repetition helps to build mastery of a skill.

My Year Of Creativity

January https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/02/01/my-year-of-creativity/

February https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/07/my-year-of-creativity-2/

March https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/30/my-year-of-creativity-march-2025/

April https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/05/18/my-year-of-creativity-april-2025/

May https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/06/06/my-year-of-creativity-may-2025/

June https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/07/11/my-year-of-creativity-june-2025/

July https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/08/08/my-year-of-creativity-july-2025/

August: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/09/14/my-year-of-creativity-august-2025/

September: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/10/21/my-year-of-creativity-september-2025/

October: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/11/08/my-year-of-creativity-october-2025/

My Year Of Creativity (October 2025)

Unedited

Authors note: This story begins with a continuation from my September story, if it is not read, you may feel a little lost, here is the link to that story: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/10/21/my-year-of-creativity-september-2025/

On October 1, 2025, I awoke at Ghost Ranch to two pieces of news: the first bit of information was not surprising: the U.S. government had shut down in the wee hours of the morning. The second fact was a text, from Kay, saying: “Sadly I have to go home. That’s the only remedy. I’m already in Albuquerque at the airport…”. The altitude was too high for my friend.

I was angry with myself for not staying at the hospital and taking Kay to the airport. Although grateful for the time we spent together, my heart broke for her. She had planned this getaway as a celebration for a momentous occasion in her life. However, my friend had given me a gift: being invited to travel with her, to this magical place, is an experience I will always treasure.

For me, the first day of October began well before the sun rose. Eventually people in the lodging around me began to awaken. The first person to greet me was one of the women from my class that had become a friend in the few days since we had met. She had traveled from Albuquerque to attend the silversmithing workshop. As I relayed that my roommate had left the ranch, my confusion over the high security in the Española hospital was also expressed. She was sorry Kay had departed. My classmate then confirmed that the bewilderment and somewhat of an uneasy feeling, from the night before at the hospital, was warranted: the unassuming town is considered to be the drug capital of the New Mexico.

Although Kay had left, I wasn’t alone. People at the ranch were welcoming and most meals were eaten with my two friend from class, one woman from Kay’s workshop, as well as various others that were met during our stay. The last three days at Ghost Ranch were busier than the first two; evening hours were spent the at the art studio.

Thursday night I finished my second piece of jewelry: a bracelet with a beveled stone:

Although, still quite a challenge, the process of setting a stone is becoming a little easier. Every time I take a class, in a new location, there are different techniques used; this time I learned to use sawdust underneath the stone to help make it sit properly.

Friday, October 3 was my last full day at the ranch. We had three hours of class that day. Knowing there was not enough time to make something big, I spent my time playing with wire. A ring was made:

This is a different type of ring for me. I am still trying to decide if I like it.

When classwork was finished, we broke for lunch then returned to clean the studio. That evening there was an art show displaying pieces form the various workshops which included: Introduction to Southwest Silversmithing, Visual Journaling, Batik, and Painting (in the style of Georgia O’Keefe?).

Pictures from the Intro to Silversmithing Class portion of the art show. My work is in the middle and those of my two friends are on either side.

Our time was almost over. I have traveled many places, in this country and abroad. The canyon, where Ghost Ranch resides, might be at the top of the list for the most beautiful spot!

Saying goodbye to my Texan friend on Friday night, I wished her well and gave her a hug. Very early Saturday morning, I bid adieu to my friend who lives in Albuquerque, also with an embrace and then was off to the airport.

The trip home was uneventful; there were no flight delays this early in the government shut down. I had time to watch two movies. One film, downloaded before leaving for New Mexico, was The Trial of the Chicago 7; it looked like a suspenseful drama. Shortly after the video started to play, I recognized the name Abbie Hoffman and realized this was based on an event that occurred shortly after my birth.

There were times while watching this historical American legal drama, that I could barely breathe. The protests that led to these men being charged were shown as peaceful. However, the people at the rally were met with extreme police brutality that created a riot. Everything about the trial was taxing and I wondered if Hollywood had sensationalized it. Apparently it was worse in real life. According to time.com,”The Trial of the Chicago 7 Is a Riveting Movie. But the True Story Is Even More Dramatic”(https://time.com/5900527/trial-of-the-chicago-7-true-story/). Bobby Seale was treated so savagely that I felt sick. You might wonder “why didn’t you stop watching the movie?”. The answer is simple: it showed a part of history. Our past should never be ignored for it is the only way to learn from humanity’s mistakes.

The next movie was a light hearted comedy. By the time my plane landed, my nerves were less strained. My husband picked me up at the airport and we talked about our lives since we had last been together. As I got ready for bed, still thinking about the movie from earlier in the day, I felt relieved that we would be in Canada for the next “No Kings ” protest. We were headed to Lake George, New York to spend time with our daughters and then on to our cottage in Muskoka for a week…

Plans sometimes need to be revised, as was evident the next day when my husband tested positive for COVID. We decided that I would head to New York on my own. Our trip to Ontario was canceled. Five days later I was on my way to Lake George. A relaxing long weekend was spent with my two daughters, the boyfriend of my eldest, and their dog.

Although disappointed that my husband and I wouldn’t be heading north of the border, the knowledge that my spaces in our home were a mess did not escape me. Between unpacking and repacking from my summer away, a trip three weeks after I returned home and then this trip, there was some organizing to do.

Traveling home on October 15th, from New York, there was also a decision to be made: would I join the next “No Kings” protests? Both the “Hands Off ” movement in April and the first “No Kings” rally in June had been attended. But this one seemed bigger and more dangerous.

The news was reporting of tear gas being deployed into Chicago’s peaceful protests. Reports of pepper spray being used on nonviolent opposition were also circulating. Knowing that in my county, both the sheriff and county councilman were clearly in line with agenda of the current administration (due to videos they had posted) didn’t make me feel safe. However, having listened to Heather Cox Richardson’s political chat the night before, her words ran through my head: “if you are worried about exercising your free speech and not using it, then you have already lost it”… A resolution was made that if a friend was going, I would go too.

Thursday, while unpacking, I got in touch with friends to see if they would be around for the protest Saturday. Everyone was busy. The thought of going to the protest alone scared me. Technically, a decision had been made because there was no one to go with. Maybe I gave up to soon?

Friday morning, the words from HCR were still in my head. Really, a familiar face was what was needed, someone known that would stand in solidarity with me. There were some like minded women that I knew, but was not close to. I reached out anyway.

In the end, I showed up to the “No Kings” protest. The smiling face of my first husband’s newest ex-wife was there to greet me. The two of us stood in solidarity with about 3000 other people, which had most likely doubled from the amount from June. We were there for America, to show up for our neighbors and to speak out against an administration that is trying to destroy democracy. I waved my American flag. There was joy and unity; chanting and singing; costumes and signs.

Signs and Costumes

“Offred’s” sign reads:

Now I’m awake to the world. I was asleep before. That’s how we let it happen. When they slaughtered Congress, we didn’t wake up. When they blamed terrorists and suspended the Constitution, we didn’t wake up then either. They said it would be temporary. Nothing changes instantaneously. In a gradually heating bathtub, you’d be boiled to death before you knew it.

-Margaret Atwood

…then the dinosaurs danced.

I was happy to be part of the “No Kings” rally, and thankful to stand with someone known to me. This time there was no reason to be scared, but what about the next time? Currently, in this country, we still have the right to speak our grievances but that could change. There is more to be done. In my own quiet way I am trying to push back.

For me, the final 13 days of October were uneventful. The news continued to report terrible things: the AI-generated bombing of excrement on protestors; a temper tantrum exhibited by tearing down of the East Wing of the White House; some of the administration moving to military bases; Snap benefits running out for millions of Americans….

My spaces at home were organized. A boring necklace was made as my creative project of the month. Now that I feel more settled, November will offer more creative time.

10th Month Complete

The necklace is somewhat of a choker style, perhaps a little small. The intent was to pick up the colors of the stone from the necklace I made in New Mexico.