Bill was a short, freckled, auburn-haired, handsome-ish man blessed with the gift of gab. A charmer.

Despite having only an eighth-grade education and no interest in reading, his friends included doctors, shop owners, and even a NASA rocket engineer.

Each time I consider posting this type update, I question why I’m doing it. I could just write my review and goals in a journal without putting it out in the world. Is there any benefit to you, my readers, in this sharing?

I’ve been on a two month blog sabbatical. I didn’t plan to do that.

The November winter blues, worry about the health of a loved one, the holidays, and the strong pull of the sketchbook share part of the blame…..

My writing group friend, Pearl, sent out four prompts for our group. I cannot provide a ready response to three of the four questions.

You’d think I’d know what my idea of perfect happiness is, what my greatest fear is, or what trait I find most deplorable in others. I’d have to cogitate for a spell to find answers to those.

Here’s the definition and origin of the word wonder, from Etymology Online:

Old English wundor "marvelous thing, miracle, object of astonishment," from Proto-Germanic *wundran (source also of Old Saxon wundar, Middle Dutch, Dutch wonder, Old High German wuntar, German wunder, Old Norse undr), of unknown origin. In Middle English it also came to mean the emotion associated with such a sight (late 13c.).

Tis the season to gather round the fire to tell tales of ghouls, goblins, and ghosts.

As a rational, scientifically-minded, twenty-first century woman, I don’t believe in ghosts.

I don’t know if this story is about the ghost of Marie Elizabeth or a ghost of me. My ghost.

I’m a ghost?

I want to make a blog post, but I’ve been having trouble finding my words (again). The news from the Middle East has made it hard to focus, to find joy amid such suffering and fear of more to come.

So I’m going to post silly little thoughts instead of an essay to let you know I haven’t forgotten you, my fellow earthlings.

Word. Term. Expression. Language. Tongue. Communication

What’s in a word?

I’ve been obsessed with words for as long as I can remember.

My library has a bin where folks deposit old magazines they want to pass on to others rather than dump them into the recycle or the trash. Whenever I’m in the neighborhood, I pop in to see what treasures await.

As promised, below are collages from my second altered book. You won’t be surprised to hear that at the moment, I have three others in progress. I won’t be torturing you with those any time soon (maybe on Instagram).

The theme of altered Book #2 is dance.

I have been bereft of words lately. One possible reason they are escaping me is that my mind has been working in pictures.

Back in May, I started making collages in altered books. Most have been repurposed children’s board books. One was made from a notebook.

A few weeks ago, in a “Women Rowing North” guided autobiography group I belong to, we received prompts about writing our darkest stories. Some of the prompts focused on family dysfunctions, others on mistakes we may have made in our past. I chose to write about one of my failures.

I challenged myself to dive into my life and come up with something notable from each of my trips around the sun. For some years, it was hard to pick which facts to mention. Other years, I had to pull out a journal or check the internet for what happened that year to jog my memory.

My mind has been working in pictures rather than words of late, making it difficult to produce a blog post. But I do have a special one in the works for next week (if my words don’t jump into the creek out back and float down to the Huron River). So rather than posting nothing, I bring you another random caboodle.

It is my habit to reflect upon my life, mainly at the start of the year and as my birthday nears in July. I do mini reviews with the equinoxes.

Although many retired folks give up this practice, I find meaning in goal setting, reviewing my progress, and ensuring, more generally, that I’m living according to my values.

On March 26, 2023, I posted the above quote on Instagram and my website. I’d come upon it by chance, not while reading a book by Campbell. In my post I said, “This sounds wise, but I'm pondering what the first sentence means.”

Last week, when I was writing the “Buddy and Bobby” essay, I wanted to include a picture or two Bobby drew in prison and maybe some excerpts from his letters. I searched high and low and couldn’t find them (that darn poltergeist at work again). I did find a thirty-year-old journal that has developed that musty, old library book smell.

This week’s post is an essay I wrote for an Ageless Possibilities writing workshop in which I’m participating. The last assignment was to write “A Story of Generations.” I focused in on these writing prompts, “What exists …

I listened to a Meghan Daum essay the other day where she rattled on about people who reminisce with longing for days gone by. I could hear Bruce Springsteen belting out “Glory days” on my inner jukebox.