Friday Tidings

This is the photo that broke off a piece of my heart and changed me. The American flag placed in the hands of the mother of a soldier killed in action. This will always remind me why I honor Memorial Day.   Betsy Schultz lost her son, Joseph, on Memorial Day 2011. Her life was irrevocably changed. She used her grief to gather friends, family, and hundreds of volunteers to complete the Captain Joseph House—a place of respite for those coping with the same loss Betsy understands so well. Too often I hear my own complaining about how bad things are—but I haven’t lost my only son.  So, this weekend I especially remember the families of those who do know this loss, live with it every day, and find ways to keep living in honor of those they loved and lost.  It’s called the ultimate sacrifice—and to those who live with the loss, you have my heart.

I’ve been inside the Madison Diner just a few times—but I’ll always remember those moments when fresh made, real ice-cream milkshakes were delivered in frosty-cold metal containers—with a tall glass and a spoon to enjoy it slowly. It’s far more than a serving—but no one here is keeping score.  My grandson was about six on our first visit to the Madison Diner (now he’s graduating high school). He ordered a full-sized milkshake—and all thoughts of the accompanying burger and fries were lost as he made every effort to finish it. He and his Papa made a pilgrimage on their own several years later. Since then, I’ve walked past the diner hundreds of times. And every time I remember those smiles between the delicious sips. Even though I don’t recall all the conversations, I’ll remember sharing it with those I loved. A few legendary Madison Diner milkshakes over the course of a decade isn’t too much of an indulgence. Even though the delicious shakes don’t last, the memories do. I hope th

      Special celebrations became more so, knowing time was no longer on our side. Back in 1974..... Mom was creeping slowly along a woodland area—stooped over like she was searching for something she’d dropped. I was traipsing along behind, humming to myself, oblivious to her search mission. She was determined to find the illusive springtime morel mushroom. At 16, I went along for the hike, but mushrooms held no interest for me, and I wasn’t a whole lot of help searching for them either. Mom had taken a mushroom identification course and she assured me morels stood out from all the typical mushrooms you’d ordinarily find—which she affectionately called LBMs—little brown mushrooms. This is what I knew about mushrooms: grocery store mushrooms wouldn’t poison you. We kept walking—and Mom hunched her way through the forest. We returned with a few morels, which she proudly exclaimed would be worth our five-mile search and rescue. That evening, she sautéed them with fresh garlic an

Sitting still was not something Gail could do. She tried, though. When circumstances brought her and her older sister to the convent boarding school, her wiggles kept her in constant trouble. The Nuns were not patient with the bubbly active girl.   “Why can’t you be quiet like your older sister?” Gail heard this every day. Rambunctiousness was not allowed. Her punishment was continual. She cleaned chalkboards, scrubbed toilets, but the worst was taking a rough cloth and getting all the black heel marks off the wooden floors. The mandatory uniforms included shoes that left telltale heel tracks, and Gail spent most of her time on her hands and knees scrubbing back and forth trying to remove each one. Besides the intense scrutiny of the custodians, Gail had to have her work approved by her teacher. Naturally, there were dozens of girls walking by as she scrubbed, and some purposely left fresh marks, turning around with a smirk to make sure Gail noticed. Endurance could be used to d