Today, I will be a college graduate. Finally.

All through my adult life, I’ve worn this feeling of being “less than,” a whisper of inadequacy in a world roaring with greater injustices. Still, in the privacy of my own experience, the absence of education…the very chance to claim one, has been a suffocating weight.

Today, I am grateful to God for giving me both the desire to keep learning and the strength and ability to follow that desire wherever it led.

I thank my mom, who walked this road before me and proved, at 60, that beginnings don’t have an age limit. I’m honored to be walking in her footsteps.

I am grateful for my friends and family, who cared enough to read my words and, in doing so, reminded me that my voice matters.

And I am deeply grateful for Sam—whose financial support, quiet sacrifices, and long evenings spent alone while I worked made this chapter of my life possible. His steady encouragement to begin this journey and the simple, priceless refrain of “I’m so proud of you” carried me farther than he knows.

Yes, TODAY, I am proud to say Rock Chalk.

I have another pet peeve. What is it about menopause that causes me to irritate?

Presheatecha.

That’s what.

Pre. she. ate. cha.

What is so wrong with saying a simple, “Thank you?” WHY oh WHY does everyone now have to end conversation with “presheatecha,” or “Eyepresheatecha?”

It joins the list:

1. Like like like like (my students used to watch me count them on my fingers. Right, Amanda?)
2. Absolutely! instead of “I’d be happy to get that for you,” or a simple, “Yes.” (Makes me want to slap a waiter)
3. I seen… (I about to CAUSE a scene)
4. Starting a sentence with “Soooo…” (my brain exits as soon as they start talking)
5. Whole ‘nother (If a reporter on tv says this, they just lost a viewer. I know from experience.)
6. “Ya know” or “I mean” (I will count these on my fingers too, and you will know your transgressions as the words come forth)
7. …and, GO (for example: Soooo…I need a recipe for the best monk fruit dessert…and, GO!)

So, back to presheatecha. Soooo, I can almost guarantee, you do NOT ‘preciate. You haven’t thought one bit about appreciating anything. It is spoken so fast and so automatic, it comes across as insincere and sometimes condescending. AND LIKE, EVERYONE IS SAYING IT, YA KNOW. I seen it all over the place when we went anywhere in Texas, or I mean, Colorado, or I mean, the grocery store, and it takes me to a whole ‘nother stratosphere of irritation. Like, I am seriously gonna need a vacation to get away from like, presheatechas, ya know. I mean, can you all just stop.

Get back to a polite, “thank you,” for the sake of my irritation. If I ask for some extra barbecue sauce, the answer is NOT “Absolutely!” Or, on return with said barbecue sauce, if I say, “thank you,” the response is NOT “Absolutely!”

Come up with something different that no one else is overusing. And…GO!

Now. Where’s my progesterone. Presheatecha.

Holidays are one of my mental challenges as I grow older. For my entire life, every holiday centered around family. If we weren’t with grandparents, aunts & uncles & cousins, we were with siblings and parents, and then our own children as we created new traditions and added family. Holidays meant full days of food preparation and a house or yard full of conversation and fun & games. But traditions change.

My daughters have their own lives in other states, and it is not their tradition to travel to Kansas for holidays, so our celebrations have mostly ceased, and holidays look mostly like every other day, with the exception of commercials on tv or an occasional holiday greeting text from friends. Last night, as we turned out the lights and crawled into bed listening to the pop-pop-pop of the fireworks, I thought about our day, my annual disappointment, and the privilege and blessings I almost disregarded.

We had no plans for the day, but there was a watermelon waiting to be sliced, and I knew my Dad might enjoy that, so I informed Sam that we were going to go over and take Dad out for a few hours and have lunch at the house. Sam was craving a long john for breakfast, so we stopped at the grocery store and got two caramel long johns and three twists. It was humid awful outside, and the AC felt good as we pulled into Dad’s facility parking lot. A CNA walked down the hall with sparkly red stars bobbing on top of her head. Visitors were decked out in red, white, and blue, and everyone had holiday smiles, because holidays call for a lighter mood and anticipatory smiles.

I walked into Dad’s apartment and he was in his recliner watching Wimbledon tennis. “Hi, Dad! Happy 4th of July!”

“Well, THANK you!” he said with a dull sparkle in his eyes. He was happy to learn we were there to take him out for a drive. Sam got his walker in place, I grabbed his full laundry basket, and we very slowly headed to the van. After a stop at McDonald’s for Dad’s coffee, from the back seat, I handed Sam and Dad a twist, and we drove through neighborhoods, admiring the landscaping and commenting on the hard workers who were in the hot sun on a holiday, working on new construction. After an hour, we went home for lunch.

Dad seemed weaker than normal and appreciated the arm support as he made his way up two steps and inside. He sat in “his” chair and I turned on the tennis matches. His laundry was started, lunch was prepared, Dad napped, and instead of sitting at the table, we let Dad stay in his chair and eat in front of the tv. He didn’t eat much, and left the macaroni & cheese and the potato salad on his plate. I was prepared to have him with us all afternoon, but it wasn’t long before Dad suggested,

“I should probably get back.”

We loaded him back in the van and returned him to the safety and comfort of his small studio apartment. I got him a snack and a Coke, gave him a hug, and we left him in his recliner, feet up, ready for another nap.

It is always a guilt-ridden relief when I walk out of his facility. That is hard for me to admit, but I live with a constant tether that is pulled tight, always feeling this invisible burden to spend time with Dad, always feeling the responsibility to not “leave him” stranded and abandoned. I feel good that I spend time with him, and at the same time, I feel a sense of freedom when I can cross that time off my list for the day.

We went home with nothing to look forward to. I did a little homework, Sam went outside and did a little work, and then we watched a mid-afternoon movie. Sam grilled some hotdogs, because that is what you do when it is supposed to be a summer holiday, right? It was too muggy to sit outside, so we didn’t. I sat in my silent disappointment, punishing myself for sitting in silent disappointment.

And then my cell phone rang. It was 8 pm. Dad’s night nurse was on the other end, and Dad wanted to talk to me.

“HellOH,” he said.

“Hi Dad! What are you doing up so late?”

“I , I, I just need to get out of here and get home.”

“Dad, you ARE home.” And I proceeded to go through the whole spiel that is repeated quite often. You’ve lived there for two years, look at your cuckoo clock on the wall, look at your Ferguson Service sign, you have your computer, and your TV, and your recliner – you ARE home, Dad.

This time, he didn’t accept my reassurance quite as easily. “But I just need to go home. I don’t have a home to go to?”

I tried again and was met with silence.

That silence is so difficult to hear.

“Dad, I will be over in just a few minutes. Hang on, I will be there as quick as I can.”

Silence.

And then, as if he were drifting off, mentally and physically, he said,

“I just need to get to…where…my wife…is…”

What a privilege it is to engage with my 94-year-old father like this.

It hurts.

It is annoying and emotionally hard.

It takes time I think I do not have.

And it is also such a blessing. I love this man who has loved me every day of my life.

We grabbed the folded laundry and in the sunset of the holiday, we drove back over to Dad’s to reassure him that he was home and he was not alone. When we entered his dark room, he was in bed, not quite asleep.

“What are YOU doing here?”

“Dad, I came over to make sure you are okay. We just spoke on the phone, remember?” He didn’t.

He was concerned that his cuckoo clock wasn’t working, so after putting his laundry away in the darkness of the room, I corrected his cuckoo clock while he watched from his bed. I walked over to his bedside and told him “Goodnight, Dad – I love you.”

“I sure do love you.”

Isaiah 46:4 says,

I will still be the same
when you are old and gray,
    and I will take care of you.
I created you. I will carry you
    and always keep you safe.

As the day ended, I listened to the pop-pop-pop of the fireworks and felt sorry for myself and missed my kids and the celebrations we used to have, but Independence Day began to take on a new meaning for me.

I am grateful for the freedom I have to be with my Dad and help him on occasion.

I am grateful for the tether that pulls me toward him.

I am grateful for the reassurance that God is with Dad and is providing for him and keeping him safe, until he can get to…where…his wife…is.

I learned Psalm 46:1..45 years ago today.

It was a Friday evening, June 13, and I had a first date with Troy, a boy my parents had not yet met. Mom was cleaning the church, and Dad was still at work at the gas station at 6th and Main. Troy came to pick me up on his motorcycle and we were going to go to eat at Lim’s and then go to a baseball game. Of course, I wasn’t expecting him to arrive on a motorcycle, so I changed from shorts into jeans, and while he waited for me, he picked up Mom and Dad’s Bible that sat on the coffee table and began reading. Before we left the house, he read Psalms 46 and invited me to pray with him. I was 15-year-old mesmerized with this bold, good-looking guy who felt no shame about his faith. We went outside and hopped on his bike, and because I had never ridden on a motorcycle, Troy took me on the back roads of west Hutchinson until I was comfortable with the turns and holding onto his waist, but mostly his shirt, because…first date.

These were the days before mandated helmets, but Troy was careful to not go too fast, and we headed east on 4th street, making our way into town. One block before Main Street, he put his turn signal on to go from the left lane to the right lane, so we could go through the intersection and not be stuck behind the left-turning cars. However, the sun was setting, and the woman who entered the same intersection from the opposite direction didn’t see us in the glare.

I heard Troy yell, “Hang on, we’re gonna crash!”

We did, and hanging on wasn’t possible.

I ended up on the southeast corner sidewalk of 4th & Main, and when I woke up, I saw my dad leaning over me, along with a crowd, and Troy. Dad’s gas station was two blocks away, and it hadn’t taken him long to arrive. My left leg was broken in several places and I had a concussion and fluid coming out of my right ear. Dad rode with me in the ambulance to the local hospital, and later that night, he and Mom followed the transport ambulance to Wichita where they met my sister in the ER.

Our lives were changed in an instant.

We didn’t know that the next two years would include ten surgeries, lots of doctor appointments, an insurance settlement, the loss of most of my hearing in my right ear, and all mixed in with regular teenage drama. He was with me for every surgery. He loved me when I was unlovable. He prayed for me and held me when I was scared. Dad was by my side through it all.

***

Today, I showed Dad the calendar and asked him if he knew the significance of today. And then I lifted my pant leg.

“Ohhhhhh, yeah,” he remembered. We had something new to talk about, more memories that connect and strengthen our bond.

45 years ago today, the Lord was my refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. I really like the way The Message puts it, though. “God is a safe place to hide, ready to help when we need him.”

My dad is a living example of Abba, God the father.

I am so grateful that 45 years later, I can still walk on this permanently scarred leg.

I am so grateful that 45 years later, I can now help Dad walk and return the favor.

I am so grateful that 45 years later, I still know and claim Psalm 46:1.

I am so grateful that 45 years later, I can still say that I am grateful for “the accident.” It changed my life forever.

And I am so grateful that 45 years later, I am privileged to spend time with my Dad.

I was sitting in Dad’s apartment today, cleaning his hearing aids that I found buried in his jacket hanging in the closet. A rerun of a college basketball game was on the TV and Dad had absolutely no interest in it. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him staring at me as I alcohol-swabbed and changed the filters. He wants to be with family, always. It makes life a little more challenging, for sure.

He doesn’t really converse anymore, but he will answer questions with one word or one sentence responses, and it is a struggle to come up with something to talk about, because I am mostly talking to myself. Caregivers of dementia parents, you get me, I know.

Dad has a picture frame that scrolls through downloaded pictures, and as we sat in his room and I desperately looked for anything to talk about, Ginger Ingram and Wonder Dog appeared, a picture my brother had taken in his studio.

“Dad! Remember Wonder Dog?! I was just a-wonderin’? Remember him, Dad?” I proceeded to talk about Ginger and her puppet ministry and the days when she would come visit Mom and Dad and stay the night, and I reminded him of the services she held in the Hutchinson area when we would load my girls up in the car with Grandpa and Grandma and go see Ginger and her puppets.

His eyes lit up a little, and he said, “Oh, kinda…” and chuckled.

The next picture was of Ginger and Lamkins and Linus the Lion.

“Dad! Remember Lamkins?! Remember Linus the Lion? He always said, ‘I ain’t lyin!'” And then I instantly remembered Ginger’s song she always sang with Lamkins, so I sang it to Dad…

“His little lamb I am, His little lamb I am, Jesus loves and cares for me, His little lamb I am.”

I am not sure those words are completely correct, but I sang it like I was sitting on the front row of one of Ginger’s services, mesmerized by her gift of ventriloquism.

“Dad! Do you remember when she would sing that song?”

“Oh…yeah, I do.” And he had a smile on his face that was so very sweet.

***

Those are the moments I need to hang onto.

Tonight, I am grateful for memories that still live in my mind and my heart.

I am grateful for people God placed in our path over the years who made a lasting and eternal connection.

I am grateful Ginger answered the phone today – it was so good to hear her voice and catch up on life.

I am grateful for Ginger, and Lamkins, and Wonder Dog, and Pinky-Poo, and Linus the Lion “I ain’t lyin!”, and Grandpa and the song he sang at Mom’s memorial service, “Grace Loved to Tell the Story…”

And I am grateful my Dad still has some memories that allow us to reminisce.

I have not seen this much cat hair in a house. Well, not in my house.

But, two days of cleaning has eliminated the majority of it, and I vow to stay on top of the matter from here on out.

I successfully completed the only full time semester I will ever have, and it didn’t happen without sacrifice and cost.

Sacrifice was Sam living as a mostly bachelor while I sat staring at three computer screens for full days and weekends, giving me constant encouragement when I tore myself up with stress and panic, and reading my never-ending 5-page+ papers every week.

Cost? Cat hair. House in desperate need of attention. Barely recognizable meal planning. Major dent in finances. And a lack of attention for every person who was not a professor or a classmate.

I am so proud of myself, and I think I earned the right to say that. I am two classes shy of a mortarboard, and my GPA is a 3.9 (rotten online Psych Disorders timed test from last summer). I started out this semester signed up for my capstone course in Modernism, a 500-level English class at KU that I quickly realized was WAY out of my league. But I trudged on, knowing I had to complete this class to earn the degree. I had two classes on campus, Fiction Writing and Contemporary Drama, and then I added two 8-week 3-credit hour elective courses after spring break: Criminal Justice and Religion and Environment. Never have I ever worked so hard and typed so much. Combined, my final papers totaled 67 pages with a 100-question comprehensive exam.

• My final portfolio in Fiction Writing has given me a great start on my goal of writing my story.
• I know something about the modernist writers and the Harlem Renaissance.
• I have a new appreciation for the climate crisis and how we got here, and I really admire Rachel Carson’s work, the Hindu and Islamic proclamations, and astronaut Jim Lovell’s profound statement, “God has given mankind a stage upon which to perform. How the play turns out is up to us.”
• I have a greater understanding of our criminal justice system and the complexities of working in law enforcement.
• I have a STACK of Pulitzer-prize plays and modernist novels that are eye-opening and made me think critically and engage with younger generations who are so brilliant.
• My final grades were earned, required sacrifice, and cost us dearly.
• Mom is my inspiration. If she could do it at 60 years, so can I.

Modernism – 100.65
Fiction Writing – 100
Religion and Environment – 99.64
Criminal Justice – 96.38
Contemporary Drama – 95.8

I am grateful for wonderful professors.

I am grateful for younger students who became friends.

I am grateful that I love to learn new things.

I am grateful for the privilege to go to KU.

I am grateful for the stress weight gain, but I sure am ready to get it off.

I am grateful for my sister and my brother who helped out so much with Dad so I could focus on studies, and I am grateful for my husband who made this possible.

Thank you, Sam, for believing in me and being proud of me. It meant the world to be able to come home each night after class and tell you all about what I had learned. Thank you for reading my words and acting interested even when I can’t imagine you actually were interested in T.S. Elliot or Langston Hughes or Ray Ellison or Virginia Wolff, or Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, or retribution and incapacitation and the 6th amendment, or my creative writing, or or or…

I couldn’t/wouldn’t have done this without you and I love you more than words. And that’s a lot. 🙂

Two classes left. I see the finish line ahead. It’s covered in cat hair, but still.

On Fridays, I stop what I am doing and drive over to Dad’s at 11:30 to get him out of his apartment for awhile and take him out for lunch. It was one of those early May days that produced light rain showers followed by big puffy white clouds with sun peeking through, warming the wet grass and making it shimmer.

“It’s a clooooudy day,” he always says on repeat in his simplified dementia state of 94 years.

I try to engage and change it up by pointing out the shapes, or an airplane passing overhead, but always go back to, “Yep, it sure is.”

He has been a “vegetarian” since he was a child, and at this age, his palate is bland and blah, so the dementia diet consists of grilled cheese, tomato soup, French fries, macaroni and cheese, baked potatoes…and pancakes. Set one of those options in front of him and he will eat, no questions asked. It makes choosing a place to eat out fairly simple, but oh so boring.

We got settled into my vehicle after his walker was placed in the back and headed down the street. “What sounds good for lunch, Dad?” I asked, knowing the answer before he ever spoke.

“Oh, you know what I like, so whatever you put in front of me will be fine.” He paused a minute, and then added, “It’s a cloooudy day.”

I sighed, internally, responded with, “It sure is,” and drove in silence, knowing he just enjoyed a change of scenery and these outings made him feel less institutionalized for an hour or two.

I was tired of French fries and grilled cheese, so I decided to take him to The Big Biscuit for some pancakes. It wouldn’t be overly crowded at 1 pm, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the noise. We were greeted at the door by Dez, a cheerful waiter with pink cowboy boot earrings that dangled, one red rhinestone sparkling on the heel of each boot. Dez’s brown, curly hair was tied up in a bun, giving the earrings prominent spotlight and room to swing.

“Hi there – are there two of you today?” they asked in a deep voice and then showed us to a booth in the corner. I wondered if Dez had a cold but then realized, no, this was Dez’s normal voice. I opted for the seat that faced the wall so Dad could have the expanse of the room for viewing while we sat. Dez took our drink orders and left to get Dad’s coffee and my glass of water, returning with a small individual silver metal pot filled with hot coffee and a mug. After dad’s coffee was poured and our lunch order was taken, Dez cheerfully replied, “I’ll get that order turned in right away. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime!” and headed toward the kitchen.

“IS THAT A GIRL?” Dad said loudly.

I winced. Not knowing how to explain it, I just said, “Yes,” and then, “It sure is a clooooudy day.”

We waited while our pancakes were on the griddle, and enough time went by that Dad refilled his coffee mug with his little pot of coffee while I tried to act interested in the ramblings of the latest interview on ESPN that was close captioned on the wall, eavesdropping on the ladies sitting at the table next to us talking about the graduation trip they had planned in sultry Georgia next month.

Finally, the manager on duty delivered our plates. If you have never been to Big Biscuit, fair warning here. The buttermilk short stack is two pancakes that are exactly the size of the circumference of the dinner plate. Exactly. So, there is no room for a slow drizzle of syrup oozing down the side of the cakes. I stared at my plate and wondered where the syrup was supposed to go, and picked up the little pitcher of maple heaven, barely drenching the exact center to keep from making a mess while Dad unrolled his utensils from the paper napkin cylinder.

Before I knew what was happening, Dad had his silver coffee pot in his hand and was pouring hot coffee all over his pancakes.

“Dad. DAD. Dad! That’s coffee, not syrup! DAD!”

I could see on his face he was thoroughly embarrassed, but he is a proud man and said nothing at all, setting the pot down and picking up the little pitcher of maple, drenching the entire surface of the cakes with ooze that now made its way to the outer edges and dripped…all over the table. If he realized the minor disaster, he didn’t let on. Instead, he picked up his fork and began eating the coffee maple mush. I wanted to laugh, hoped no one else was watching this fiasco, and sat across from my father, watching the syrup continue to flow and drip onto the paper napkin Dad had not put in his lap. Did you know a paper napkin can hold a good amount of syrup?

Dez stopped by the table and asked, “Is there anything you need?”

“Extra napkins,” I eeked out, looking at them with embarrassed desperation. They smiled and said, “On it.”

Dad continued shoveling bites of mush into his mouth, unaware of his surroundings, and apparently quite hungry, in spite of coffee pancakes. When the stack of napkins arrived, I slowly moved a couple of them towards dad’s side so he would get the hint that these were clean replacements for the syrup receptacle.

Oblivious.

He stopped midway and took a drink of his coffee and then looked at THE napkin. He picked it up, wiped his mouth as syrup began dripping all over his shirt, and then placed the napkin in his lap, like a gentleman.

What do you do in that moment. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, right?

“It’s a clooooudy day,” I said, and kept eating. But the coffee was good and his plate was clean when all was said and done.

Dez, you’ll need to refill that empty little syrup pitcher and use a big wet towel for that bench.

I put my sticky father back into my vehicle and we enjoyed the puffy clouds all the way back home.  

Today, I am grateful for moments with Dad on Friday afternoons.

I am grateful for sticky laundry.

And I am sure grateful for clooooudy days and pancakes.

Friday was the last day of very active grandparenting before my daughter and son-in-law returned from their cruise, and the kids wanted to go shopping 35 miles away, so what do we do? We shop. And then we go to Braum’s for ice cream. And then we are hyper and need to ride the 4-wheeler in the garage and hang up our week’s collection of colored pages while we wait their arrival.

This morning, chicken and I woke at dawn, because who can sleep on a couch with a hidden musical toy under a cushion that is impossible to find in the dark? Grandson offered to make eggs for everyone before we left. Yes. We. The four oldest decided to join me on the drive back to KC and spend another week with Ama. I guess I wasn’t a complete childcare disaster.

I am in my senior year at KU and have a midterm due tonight. Instead, I am writing my thoughts on this Thursday mid-morning as I sit at a kitchen table in my daughter’s home in north Texas while two little boys giggle at a handheld screen over on the couch, and eight kids take a break from school work to jump on the trampoline outside.

Taking care of ten grandchildren by myself for a week is no small task. At the end of each evening, my bones ache, my back cramps, and my feet are screaming at me. But there have been so many priceless moments and I am so grateful these children know me and know that I love them.

I’ll take these grandparent aches any day over the dread of a midterm.

When I see sunsets like this one, I think of Elwood. He is my first best friend’s dad, and for some reason, I have always correlated him with the hymn, “Beyond the sunset.” 50 years ago, I am absolutely sure he said that was his favorite hymn, and I have never forgotten it. And when I think of Elwood, I think of Norma, his wife. And when I think of them both, I think of Lori, my first best friend.

That means, I think of the Mendenhalls every time I see a sunset like this one.

Beyond the sunset, O blissful morning, when with our Saviour heav’n is begun.
Earth’s toiling ended, O glorious dawning; beyond the sunset when day is done.

Beyond the sunset, no clouds will gather; no storms will threaten, no fears annoy;
O day of gladness, O day unending, beyond the sunset, eternal joy!

Beyond the sunset, a hand will guide me to God the Father, whom I adore;
His glorious presence, His words of welcome, will be my portion on that fair shore.

Beyond the sunset, O glad reunion with our dear loved ones who’ve gone before.
In that fair homeland we’ll know no parting-beyond the sunset for evermore!

I was walking with my husband the other night and we had to stop so I could take these pictures. We walked 2+ miles after dinner in complete silence. It was therapy after a long Sunday. In that silence, I began thinking about dying, an odd therapeutic subject, but therapeutic it was.

I thought about how we will go about planning Dad’s service one of these days, and then I thought about how the older we get, the smaller our circle becomes, and then I thought about my own death, and how I would want to be remembered or forgotten.

I wasn’t thinking about heaven. I think about that all the time. But I was thinking about what happens after we are gone, who is affected, how things are handled, what, if anything, is kept to remind someone about us. What type of permanency do we leave for those in our circle, or are we forgotten over time, only to be remembered occasionally.

I thought about Elwood and Norma and wondered if they were with Mom and the Thornburgs, with their Steve and our Steve.

I thought of Lori and wondered if she thinks about Tyler when she sees a sunset like this. And then I thought of Cindy and wondered if she saw this sunset from her vantage point. She is on the other side of it now and it must be so much more brilliant there.

I thought about being 60 and remembering when I never thought I would make it this long.

I thought about how sunsets are never the same, and if you miss one, you miss it forever, because this day is fleeting and soon it will end.

And then I thought about that song, the song one or more of my choirs or ensembles sang:

This day is fragile – soon it will end
And once it has vanished, it will not come again
So let us love with a love pure and strong
Before this day is gone

This day is fleeting when it slips away
Not all our money can buy back this day
So let us pray that we might be a friend
Before this day is gone

This day we’re given is golden
Let us show love
This day is ours for one moment
Let us sow love

This day is frail – it will pass by
So before it’s too late to recapture the time
Let us share love, let us share god
Before this day is gone

I am grateful for sunsets that spark memories.

I am grateful for the Mendenhall family.

I am grateful for silent walks with my husband.

I am grateful for hymns from my past, songs from my past – they are now songs of my present, which also makes me grateful for my memories.

And I am still grateful after all these years for naked trees, the most beautiful trees of all, because their beautiful strength is in their structure, and they are most beautiful with a pink and blue backdrop. At least they were on Sunday evening.