Month: June 2026

The morning of July 4th is so quiet around here, you might wonder if the entire subdivision entered the witness protection program.

But aound 9, garage doors start rolling up. Bicycles, ride toys, wagons and strollers emerge as Operation Decoration begins. Red, white and blue streamers wrap handlebars, balloons are anchored to Big Wheels and patriotic pinwheels glimmer in the sun.

Neighbors who know each other, and don’t know each other, begin congregating a block down from the corner. Friendly greetings of, “hello, good morning, nice to see you, and how ya been?” fill the air. The political divides and acrimony that often pierce conversations these days are temporarily suspended.

A convertible led the parade last year, a pickup the year before. The parade commences and loops through the neighborhood as parents steering toddlers and babies in strollers gradually fall to the rear. After the last set of short, pudgy legs cross the finish line, our brood returns home. Whoever drew the short straw lights the charcoal.

I can still see my dad firing up the grill on the Fourth years ago. The ritual began with a small stand to hold utensils taking its place next to the grill. On the front of the stand was a yellow sign that read “Men at Work” in big black letters.

Forever a farm boy, Dad loved the summer heat. The only thing better than an outdoor temperature of 101 was 102 with his shirt off.

Mom would be bustling around inside, putting a dash of paprika on the potato salad and monitoring the baked beans. She worked culinary magic in a small kitchen with countertop space not much bigger than a placemat.

Meanwhile, back at the grill, having subdued flames shooting 10 feet into the air, came the sound of hisssss-crack-pop. Man at Work just opened a cold one. Tradition and hydration all in one.

Most of the cracking and popping around here will be from ball games in the backyard. The grands are growing bigger, swinging harder and sending balls flying faster and farther. The zinnias are nervous and so am I.

The flag will fly from the front porch. We used to hang it only on holidays, or when family members who are veterans came to visit, but when our son-in-law deployed to Iraq, we began flying Old Glory every day and never stopped. Those red and white stripes are sobering reminders of the sacrifice of hundreds of thousands throughout the years. Flying the flag is a small way of saying thanks.

Fireworks at a sprawling sports park in a burb to the north will finish the day. Traffic is always horrible, parking is terrible and when it’s all over the thick ominous cloud of smoke hanging low overhead may send us to an early grave, but oh what a show.

With any luck we’ll be home by 11:30, in bed by midnight and fall asleep grumbling about the fireworks still popping off all around us.

It’s good to be an American. Happy 250^th!

Stone tablets are so yesterday.

A professor from Princeton recently shared that his Ivy League students had to have the Ten Commandments explained to them. Yes, that is the same New England college where the famous Jonathan Edwards was once president.

For the record, I went to Princeton. Once. I walked the campus when one of our kids lived nearby in New Jersey. The Princeton campus is so drenched in history and beauty that you can gain IQ points by just wandering around the buildings.

Who knew that beneath that grand exterior lurks a pocket of cultural illiteracy.

They are not alone. Voices from other prestigious schools chimed in, noting they, too, had to explain allusions to the Bible not only in the founding documents, but in the writings of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Abraham Lincoln.

The good news is, I can help. I didn’t teach adult Sunday school as did President Jimmy Carter, but I did teach kids, including our own. We taught them to memorize the Ten Commandments with their 10 fingers. Hold up one finger and you have the First Commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me.” God gets first place.

For the Third Commandment, place three fingers on your mouth in a “shush” position: “You shall not take the name of the Lord God in vain.”

Their favorite was the Tenth Commandment: “You shall not covet.” Stretch out both arms, make wild grabbing motions with all 10 fingers and shout, “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

What’s so wrong about not knowing the Ten Commandments or biblical themes? They’re part of our DNA as Americans.

The founders not only knew the Bible well, they lived out some of the themes. Early settlers weren’t fleeing Pharoah and Egypt like the Hebrews in the Old Testament book of Exodus; they were fleeing King George and Great Britain. They didn’t cross the Red Sea, but they did cross the treacherous Atlantic. Early arrivals came ashore and began wandering in the wilderness, just like the Hebrews.

The founders’ beliefs were as varied as the founders themselves, but they all knew the Bible—even if they didn’t believe in the Bible. It is like knowing Shakespeare even if you don’t like Shakespeare.

Jefferson famously made his own loose-leaf notebook version of the Bible, taking out the parts he didn’t like, a practice still in vogue today. Despite differences, those founders carved out the framework for one of the strongest, freest, most prosperous and powerful nations in the world, based on the principle that human beings have inherent rights and freedoms because they were created in the image of God.

As Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.”

To be unaware of the history of the themes and thoughts that so heavily influenced our country’s founding is like mom without apple pie, or the red and white without the blue.

It dangled, wiggled and squirmed on the hook. It was click bait and I clicked. No pause, no hesitation. Click. Just like that.

I’ll tell you what hooked me. Mature women. They had me at the word “mature.”

Well, let’s back that up. They actually had me at “Hosin garlic noodles.” It was a recipe for a weeknight meal. When you’ve been cooking as long as I have, you need something fresh occasionally, motivation to keep dragging yourself to the kitchen one more live-long day.

When I opened the noodle recipe, “5 Eyelash Tips for Mature Women” popped up. Beside it was a picture of a woman 48 years old, tops. By my calculations, she could still have kids at home and has not filed for Social Security. But sure, let’s go with, “mature.”

Mature beats “senior.” Senior conjures up memories of high school graduation and being carded at certain establishments for proof of age. The only time I’m carded now is when I buy spray paint at Walmart.

Mature also beats the term “older adults.” I hear that and want to know, older than whom? Shall we all line up by age?

I’m not wild about the term “elders” either. It conjures up images of Walton’s Mountain with old women darning socks in rocking chairs alongside old men whittling with pocketknives.

Mature has a somewhat different connotation. Mature implies confidence. Mature hints of a refined woman who always matches her shoes with her purse and owns a vacation home along a coastline somewhere. I’m amenable to mature.

As any mature woman would do, I followed the essential steps to stop damaging my eyelashes. Step one was, “Quit using expired mascara.”

I had no idea mascara expired. This will not surprise our kids and grandkids, who check everything in our fridge and pantry for expiration dates. We tell them we don’t check expiration dates, because our eyes and noses tell us when something has gone bad. Case in point, when the sour cream grows blue green fuzzies on top, it has expired.

My mascara is not growing blue green fuzzies, so I assume it is good.

The next warning was to “Stop using waterproof lash products because they are a nightmare to get off.” I’ve never had nightmares after removing eye makeup, so, again my mascara must be excellent. I’m now two for two—not bad for a mature woman.

The last warning said: “Stop pulling out falsies.” I didn’t write it; I’m just quoting it. Clearly, they mean you should not rip out your false eyelashes.

Confident that I did not need to purchase the miracle mascara with 5,000 five-star reviews, I returned to the recipe for noodles.

A mature woman can survive without long lashes, but no woman in any season of life can survive without food.

Years ago, we had a financial adviser who was so young I often wondered if I should bake cookies before he came to the house—peanut butter or chocolate chip?

He once said something that I found semi-appalling. He asked if we knew the three phases of retirement. We confessed we did not. With a grin, he said, “Well, there’s go-go, slow-go and no-go.”

Maybe I felt miffed because he was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and had no crow’s feet around his eyes. Yet at the same time, a neon light flashed in my head saying, “Remember that!”

The young man was right. I see it now, both in the rearview mirror and the crystal ball.

We are still “go-go,” but “slow-go” and “no-go” will surely be coming. Probably not today, next week or next month, but someday. Therein lies the problem – Someday.

You can’t plan on Someday. Someday has a mind of its own. Someday may come sooner or later than you expect. Besides the matter of timing, there’s already a heavy load hanging on Someday.

Someday, I plan on contacting a college roommate and suggest we meet for breakfast in Louisville like we did some years ago.

Someday, when we head west, we will keep going all the way to Kansas and once again walk the rolling hills of the Konza Prairie covered in tall grasses swaying in the wind. You can see buffalo herds and wild horses in your mind’s eye. Best of all, you can reach up and nearly touch the sky.

Someday, we’re going to spontaneously pick up some of the grands, go to a park that borders the river, take off our shoes and socks, let the mud ooze between our toes and spend an entire afternoon skipping stones.

Someday, I’m going to show up unannounced at a friend’s house with a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers just to say thanks for the friendship and prayers that have gotten me through the hard spots.

Someday, I will grab my hubby and announce we are driving out to the country to sit under a dark sky and count the stars.

Someday, I’m going to make tiramisu, crème brûlée and broccoli cheddar quiche with heavy cream because it’s a waste of time to go years without such delights.

Someday, I’m going to pin all my loved ones to the wall and say, “Look me in the eyes. I have something important to say. Thanks for making life wonderful.”

Maybe today is a good time for a Someday.