The late, great Robin Williams said, “Spring is nature’s way of saying, ‘Let’s party!’”

Can’t you just picture him running around on stage, arms waving in the air imitating a partying flower in that high pitch hilarious voice?

I realize how fortunate we are in Florida that we don’t typically experience the really cold weather that kills everything green. But this year was different and now everything is brown and sad, and much has died.

But one of my trees that I so hoped would survive is starting to show signs of life. I think I heard a whisper of “Let’s party” when I was out there the other day.

I wish Robin were still with us to spread that contagious joy as only he could.

Happy spring! 🌻

I never got to say how much we enjoyed knowing George, and how lucky we feel to have had him in our lives when I first wrote about him in “Mailing A Leg.”

The way we met George pretty much sums up the type of person he was. Hubby was checking his mom into “rehab” after a fall. Unfortunately, these places are filled with folks who have nowhere to go, most with advanced memory issues and a few perfectly fine mentally, like George. He came wheeling in with his walker like the welcome committee. He showed them the ropes and said to hubby, “Come to my room and I’ll give you the list of channels.” Admittedly, hubby’s first thought was, uh oh. But then he realized, he does only have one leg; I can probably outrun him.

George is gone a year now and we still reminisce about him, like how he would sometimes put the entire email message in the subject line; how he would steal Golf Digest from dialysis for hubby; and how he would be all set up with napkin in lap and fork in hand when hubby arrived with food. And we still quote his favorite expression, “Yeah, right.” (Said with great northeastern sarcasm as George was from Connecticut.)

Another sweet memory is when we had George over to make onion rings, as cooking was the thing he missed most. He planned it for months and insisted on buying all the ingredients – the biggest size of everything with the hopes of doing it many times.

George loved watching cooking shows and had us order things on Amazon to try to improve the food in the rehab. He even talked of starting his own YouTube channel, “Cooking with Nothing.”

We have great memories of George and feel fortunate to have known him. His infectious enthusiasm was outweighed only by his appreciation for every little thing we did, which was evident the first time I went to his room. “Look around,” he said, “everything I have is because of Joe.”

I miss going to the movies. It makes me sad that a pastime that was so revered when I was growing up is slowly disappearing. I get it. With 85” televisions, why would anyone pay the ridiculously increasing cost of a movie ticket to sit in a freezing cold theatre, with annoyingly loud sound, equally annoying commercials, and even more annoying neighbors when at home you can throw a pillow at someone who is talking and pause the movie when you have to pee. It’s kind of a no brainer.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but think about the lengths we went to just to see a movie. I made fake IDs to get into R-rated movies; we hid people in the trunk so four of us could see the drive-in movie for the price of two; and we sometimes walked five miles (once in a blizzard!) to the theatre. (I remember it being a long walk, but I was shocked when I recently mapped it.) And the trunk thing is unbelievable especially since now I’m the one who gets nervous just sitting in the passenger seat.

But movies were all we really had. Not only that, but once you missed a movie, chances were you’d never get to see it. If you were lucky, you might catch it on network TV years later, poorly edited for television with tons of commercials.

I guess we’ll always have the memory of our movie going days, which unbelievably also included smoking in the theatre.

It’s posts like this that make me think, how old am I? And, was I a juvenile delinquent?

I wonder why some folks refuse to call 911. Recently, one of our neighbors had a medical incident and drove himself to the hospital. Well, he tried to drive himself to the hospital but instead he drove into a ditch. That’s not what this is about though. This is about our neighborhood. I’m beginning to think it’s weirder than most.

Ironically, that guy lived next door to the French woman who called 911 constantly. She would stand waiting on her driveway with her purse on her shoulder until the EMS guys had to tell her, “That’s not how this works, Ma’am.”

Then there’s the house where the 500 lb. potbellied pig lives. Freckles walks on a leash but won’t budge unless you give him a treat.

There’s the old German woman with the dog that always ran (well, wandered) away. Thankfully everyone knew Tasha and would bring her home. We went by once and Tasha was lying on the front lawn. Our neighbor had gone to Home Depot forgetting to put her in the house. (Hubby wanted to take Tasha home to teach mom a lesson, but I wouldn’t let him.)

There was the older couple who insisted on driving to New Jersey. They actually made it there but had a fight and the husband got out at a stop light saying, “Have a nice life.” The NJ police found him sitting on someone’s lawn and called us since we were the only names he could remember.

There’s the ex-ballet dancer who walks with a limp and has a three-legged Great Dane. She disappears for months at a time, most recently returning without the dog.

There’s the bicyclist who rides up and down for hours every day. (In full cycling gear I always thought it was a woman, but I learned recently that there’s an ongoing debate among the neighbors about this.)

There’s the “Californians” who moved here years ago with California tags so that’s how they’ll always be known. We don’t really know them. They just wave when they walk by with their dog in a stroller.

Then there’s the house where the barefooted hillbilly lives. When they moved in there was a tree house in their backyard until one night they found the previous owner up there drunk and quickly tore it down.

It’s not me, right? The neighborhood is weird.

Funny thing is that I kind of like it and have felt comfortable here since I started bringing my cat and dog for weekends at “Club Joe” almost thirty years ago.

I don’t think it’s too late to say Happy New Year. (I still laugh at the Seinfeld clip where Elaine was disgusted when she “got happy new yeared in February.”)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I read only one blog* besides my own, which is Tommy Tomlinson’s “The Writing Shed.” (And yes, ironically, he has what would have been the perfect name for my blog.)

Tommy found his way into my heart with his memoir, “The Elephant in the Room” about being overweight in America. His writing is what mine would like to be when it grows up.

Tommy’s new year post included a sign in the Milwaukee airport that says, “Recombobulation Area.” I love this word. 

“The airport director installed that sign in 2008 because he knew how weird and disorienting it can be to go through an airport.” So, he provided a place for folks to stop for a second, take stock, and clear their heads.

My wish for us all in 2026 is to recombobulate.

*The Writing Shed is part of Substack, which is kind of next-level blogging.

When I was fourteen my father bought me a makeup mirror for Christmas.

I didn’t wear makeup then and still don’t today, but it is one of my most cherished gifts.

I guess Dad thought it a natural choice for a teenage daughter. I used it occasionally to tweeze my eyebrows back when I had them. Now I use it to pluck the two-inch gray hair that mysteriously appears out of nowhere.

The mirror may be rarely used but it has traveled with me for fifty-plus years and is still in pretty darned good condition. (The lightbulb is original.)

I wish you the merriest Christmas and sincerely hope that one of your gifts turns out to be a “makeup mirror.”

Cartoons served as every kind of lesson for my siblings and me. But for hubby growing up in Germany, they just weren’t a thing. Although he doesn’t get our silly Bugs Bunny quotes and Flintstone references, he seems to have survived just fine. But I couldn’t bear the thought of his not knowing the Peanuts gang the way I do.

So, for Halloween we watched, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. His first comment was, “What’s up with their hair?” It’s funny how you kind of forget how “follicle challenged” many of the characters are until seen through a fresh set of eyes. And he was dismayed when the Great Pumpkin never showed and Sally turned on Linus. 

Although still traumatized by “that pumpkin thing,” we watched A Charlie Brown Christmas. This is a family favorite, and thankfully hubby enjoyed it too. My family started watching in 1965, and as siblings were added, they too became equally enamored with the Charles Schulz masterpiece.

An interesting tidbit is that with no laugh track and the unusual choice of an unorthodox jazz score, the producers and network predicted the project would be a disaster. But the show received rave reviews in 1965, and not only does it stand the test of time, it gets more relevant every year.

Give it a look if you haven’t seen it in a while and see if you agree. Although it’s no longer on network TV because Apple bought all the rights, they do offer it free at Christmas for non-subscribers. (This year the offer is good December 13-14.)

• Go to tv.apple.com or open in the Apple TV app
• Find “A Charlie Brown Christmas”
• Stream it without needing a paid subscription (You’ll have to create an Apple TV+ ID)

Sometimes when I’m in the shower I think about Carl Reiner.

Yes, that Carl Reiner: famous comedian, father of Rob.

When I read Reiner’s memoir, what stuck with me was that he said he most appreciated being able to take a shower every day.

I do understand that sentiment at 90 years old, but it’s amazing that even after such a long and storied career, life has a way of boiling things down. Nevertheless, that’s gratitude I can get behind.

I hope you will forgive me for nudging you, yet again, toward the G-word, but I think everyone (including me) can use a little reminder of all we have.

Not surprisingly, the late, great Diane Keaton also seemed to have a handle on what gratitude should look like.

In an interview, Keaton was asked what she most valued in life. She said, “I really enjoy seeing. I guess my favorite thing in life is the fact that I can see. It’s just so unbelievable.”

“Never let the things you want make you forget the things you have.”

Happy Thanksgiving 🌻

p.s. Be honest, if I had titled this post along the lines of being grateful, would you have opened it?

When is it okay to lie?

This is one of those questions designed to reveal someone’s personality and values. A common answer is: “To spare someone’s feelings.”

My answer is the not so noble: when it pertains to weight.

Hubby and I have always had a silly cat/mouse-type game about the subject. Years ago when we were in Texas, I was pulled over for speeding (allegedly). The police officer held his flashlight on my driver’s license and asked, “How much do you weigh?” Which barbarically enough was listed on our Florida driver’s licenses back in the 90s.

“One thirty,” I said.

“Well,” hubby said as we drove away. “Now I know!”

“I didn’t tell him how much I weigh,” I said. “I told him what it says on my driver’s license.”

I have never told the truth about my weight, and I don’t intend to start now. There, I said it.

While out to dinner with friends recently, one of them (a man, of course), asked everyone “How much more do you weigh now than you did in high school?”

I blurted out: twelve pounds.

Now, in hindsight (and if I had been drinking), I would answer in an entirely different manner.

On the way home, hubby said, “You were pretty quick to answer that weight question.”

“Well, you know I didn’t tell the truth, right?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

I do feel a little better knowing that most people lie about their weight (https://www.livescience.com/18206-people-lie-weight-surveys.html).

But, I may take it a bit far.

When I was being prepped for my first colonoscopy, the anesthesiologist told me it was Propofol that he was giving me. I immediately thought of Michael Jackson and asked, “How do you know how much to give me?”

“We go by your weight,” he said.

“Nobody weighed me today.”

“We get it from the forms you filled out,” he said.

Uh oh.

When I read about the last 100km of the Camino’s Portuguese Way I noted the difficulty level was considered easy. I’m not really sure what scale was used to determine this, but it’s definitely not the same used for, say, cruise excursions where easy means you have to have a pulse.

Admittedly I did not train for hills, and living in Florida for the past 45 years where the only “hill” is a maybe a curb, left me unprepared. At one point toward the end of the day’s walk we turned a corner and were faced with a big hill. I must confess I literally said, “No f’ing way!” (Only I didn’t say f’ing.) I have to hand it to my fellow pilgrims though as one simply said, “We got this,” and started up that hill.

Needless to say, I found the experience challenging, but I’m glad I did it and I’m kind of proud too.

The Camino means different things to different people. For some, it’s a traditional religious pilgrimage, while for others it’s a spiritual journey or a “walking cure” that offers a holistic and therapeutic experience.

Noting the many memorials along the way, it’s obvious the Camino is also a healing from life events. It offers a way to process grief, loss, or major life transitions. Walking becomes a form of moving meditation that provides the space and time needed to heal.

Unplugging from modern life cannot be understated. It was wonderful to not hear or see any news for eight days while also knowing that for over a millennium, pilgrims have walked the same routes, creating a profound sense of connection to history.

For me, the reason for doing the Camino was very simple. I believe that when God puts something in your heart, you do it.

Thanks for reading.

Buen Camino.