Little Seeds Read

Want vs Need

Kidlit agents and publishers say that a child should see themselves in books. That can mean a lot of things. They might imagine themselves in a setting, situation or emotion. Perhaps a book addresses a problem or wish, the reader has. These kinds of books often touch our hearts – we feel a deep tie to them and return to them repeatedly.

This week I read one that really grabbed me, Emelia Wishing by Belen Medina, illustrated by Magdalena Mora (Random House Studio, 2026). It is a story in which I saw a bit of myself, but also, my mother and grandmother. It has set off a week of remembering and analyzing. When I already loved these women with all my heart, this story makes me love and appreciate them even more. (You can read more about Emelia Wishing under the Recommended Reads section of this blog.)

Emelia Wishing lightly addresses the kind of poverty and struggle that many families face. I lived similarly to the book’s main character. Though I never thought of my family as poor, it was always understood that we needed to live carefully and frugal decisions were important. I knew from family stories that my mother experienced poverty as a child and my grandmother, a child of the Great Depression, knew poverty even more so.

I vividly recall wanting things my parents couldn’t afford, being told to make choices, to be patient, and following my mother to the lay-away desk. It was a way of life for us. The struggle to earn money, save it, prioritize how it was spent, and make wise choices was never hidden from me or my brothers. I have a particular memory of a winter when my brothers and I wore warm poofy coats, mittens and boots as my mom drove us to school, shivering in her thin coat and canvas tennis shoes with a hole in one of the toes. I wished she could crawl into my coat to share the warmth. My grandmother saw how Mom dressed too. That Christmas Mom received a green winter coat, and I remember her tears of gratitude.

Going to yard sales was always a tradition in my family – a way of coping and managing tight purse strings. We loved hunting for bargains. But it was a learned love for my mother. She told me that when she was a girl her mother would bring home clothing from rummage sales. Mom always felt self-conscious wearing them, worrying that some girl from school might recognize the old dresses and make fun of her.

Then there was my grandmother’s childhood. One I would describe as extreme poverty. There were nine children in her family. Grandma was in fact born in a train box car where her family lived at one point. Grandma and her siblings walked up and down the railroad tracks collecting lumps of coal that had fallen off trains. The coal was carried back home and thrown into a stove to keep them warm. Grandma remembered eating only popcorn for many of their dinners. When her hair began falling out, likely from malnutrition, she was sent to live with her grandparents who helped nurse her back to health. She was frightened but deeply bonded and thankful to them. But at the same time she wanted to return to her parents, brothers and sisters – afraid to be separated from them. As grandma grew, she and her siblings each learned how to hunt and fish for their meals. Her childhood meals consisted of rabbits, squirrels, catfish, and the occasional racoon.

Once Grandma grew up and became a mother herself, she continued to do what she knew to survive and provide for her family. Eventually after her kids were raised and left to live on their own, she and my grandfather got the idea of making a business out of reselling items of use or value that they picked up at yard sales and auctions. They had a shop called Treasures and Trash where they sold antiques, and used items like baby cribs, tools, lamps, and other things people might need. A treasured memory from my childhood is tagging along with my grandparents to yard sales and auctions, seeking useful items for resale. I learned a good deal about recycling, and repurposing in the process.

There’s an old saying, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” I still see the wisdom in that type of lifestyle and wish more people thought like this. It seems we live in such a “throw-away” society. Appliances, computers, phones aren’t made to last for decades or to be repaired. They are tossed and replaced with newer models. Clothing with holes isn’t repaired – it’s thrown out. Some families don’t even save the leftovers from supper, for another meal. We live in a world where we are led to believe we are incomplete without the latest, newest, shiniest, next best thing.

Today I am comfortable in my retirement, buying what I want, when I want it– the result of years of hard work, but certainly from the sacrifices made by my loved ones as well. I like to think I am a careful, never wasteful person. I suspect I will always feel my heart flutter when I drive by a yard sale or thrift store. I learned important things from a lifetime of thrift. Like Emelia who learned the value of a dollar and the very real struggle to earn money, I too found joy in seeing my parents and grandparents receive the things they wished for and so richly deserved.

Childhood Oopsies

There are so many things to delight in, watching little ones grow. All the first milestones – like their first words, first steps, first laugh, first time using the potty. And there are also all the oopsies, or outcomes children can’t anticipate as they attempt to be grown-up. Things that come to mind include trying to dress oneself only to get tangled up in our clothing (head in the sleeve hole), trying on Mom’s make-up and using a bit much lipstick or mascara, using sharpie markers to make your own homemade tattoos, and cutting your own hair – botching it—then realizing you can’t put it back. I can personally say that all these fiascos occurred when my daughter and oldest granddaughter were growing up.

My two youngest grandchildren (ages 2 and 3) are just beginning to explore their independence and associated oopsies. Sometimes the disasters that occur are impossibly messy and highly annoying, but most of the time they leave us laughing, for we all can relate and know that oopsies are a fleeting part of our childhoods. And sometimes, the oopsie cover-ups are the most hilarious of all. I’m reminded of one such event when my daughter was two or three. I had taken her to visit my grandmother (her great grandmother). I don’t remember letting her out of my site, but apparently, I did and she found a few moments to wander and get into trouble, unbeknownst to us. That evening, after we had returned home, my grandmother called me and told me that a pair of her false teeth were missing. (I guess she had two sets.) She asked me to ask my daughter if she knew anything about it. I couldn’t believe she would, but to my surprise she hung her head and immediately confessed. She had found them soaking in a cup in the bathroom and was mesmerized by the thought of teeth that weren’t part of someone’s head. Who could blame her? She even tried to fit them in her mouth to see how she would look, but they didn’t fit. Knowing it was probably wrong to mess with them, and not wanting to get in trouble, she hid them under grandma’s bed. I reported it back to my grandma and sure enough, that’s where she found them and we all had a good laugh. That incident initiated a discussion on dentures and why Grandma kept some teeth in a cup. So, all in all, the whole oopsie experience became educational. Oh, how I miss those wonderful innocent days of her learning how the world operates.

I recall a few oopsies of my own. One was when I tried to use my mother’s razor to shave my legs when I was about ten years old and emerging from the bathroom with a million little cuts. And then there is my earliest oopsie from before I could walk. I was crawling around on our screened-in back porch when my grandmother saw me chewing on something. She stuck her finger in my mouth and fished around, pulling out a mangled June bug. Hence forth her pet name for me, “June bug,” which my brothers still call me from time to time. For this month’s book review, check out Baghead by Jarrett J. Kroscoczka under the Recommended Reads section of the blog. You’ll also find a project for Baghead Fun under my Activities section.

Stories That Heal:

The Magic of Social-Emotional Learning Books

This month, I’ve been delving into Social-Emotional Learning (SEL) books, a trend I hope is here to stay. Someone wise (I don’t remember who) once said, “Write the story you wish you’d read as a child.” As I try to think of topics to write about, I also have to ask myself, what was happening with me as a child? How did I feel? What books did I love, but more so, what would I have loved and needed that I couldn’t find? I’ve racked my brain recalling what books I read. There were many great stories and authors of the 1960s. Some of my favorites are now considered classics: The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See by Eric Carle, The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, and Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodka. Of the five, only two would be considered SEL – Where the Wild Things Are (temper tantrums and time-out) and The Giving Tree (Love, friendship, and loss). My absolute favorite, though, was the Little Golden Book version of A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, illustrated by Eloise Wilkin. Though Stevenson’s book of poems was originally published in 1884, this 1969 edition, paired with Wilkin’s illustrations, grabbed my heart and made the Victorian-era poetry relatable to me. I saw myself in Wilkin’s children. Their world looked like mine, and I wore the pages thin. What was it that made me love this so much? Certainly, Stevenson’s descriptions of common childhood discoveries, nature, play, even illness (The Land of Counterpane) had something to do with it, but also, I think, it was Wilkin’s quiet, soft, baby-faced children who looked so innocent and vulnerable to the days unfolding. I, too, felt innocent and vulnerable. But seeing her children navigate their lives somehow made me feel like I could, too.

Lately, I’ve read several SEL books that have resonated with me — stories that I believe would have comforted and strengthened me during my own childhood. Unlike the SEL books of my generation, these newer stories dive straight into the heart of difficult emotions. Take neurodiversity, for example: Make It All Go Away by Helen Docherty gently explores how overwhelming sounds or textures can affect us and offers comforting ways to cope. Depression, loneliness, and the challenge of finding one’s voice appear in stories like, A Voice in the Storm by Karl James Mountford and The Cloud that Stuck by Karen Krossing, reminding readers it’s okay to cry and work through sadness at our own pace. Sweet People Are Everywhere by Alice Walker reassures us that kindness exists, even when the world feels harsh. With Magick Hoodoo Child by Amber McBride, the idea of drawing strength from family roots and cherished objects becomes a powerful tool for self-worth. Finally, Perfectly Imperfect Mira by Faith Pray celebrates the courage to try, fail, and try again, embracing our unique paths without comparison. Each of these books doesn’t just list problems, they offer gentle guidance, a sense of belonging, and a reminder that, whatever our age, we can always grow from a good story.

This month, under Recommended Reads you can read about Magick Hoodoo Child by Amber McBride, illustrated by Violeta Encarnacion. And under the Activities section check out Make a Memory Box, inspired by McBride’s book.

And Still, We Survived

This morning I read a children’s book that shocked me and made me just shake my head–The Caiman by Maria Eugenia Manrique (2019, Amazon Crossing Kids), which you can learn more about under the Recommended Reads section of the blog. It is the surprising non-fiction story of a Venezuelan man, Jose Faoro, who raised and lived with a pet caiman. And while I thoroughly enjoyed the book, (It had me on the edge of my seat.) it also bothered me deeply.

So… many people keep exotic animals as pets, including dangerous apex predators. Don’t ask me why, but they do. What shocked me about this story was the access children had to get up close and personal with the caiman then live to tell about it. Perhaps even more alarming are all the adults who seemed to show little concern for these encounters. The way the story is written you would think there was never any concern over the caiman-meets-child scenario. Apparently frequent handling and keeping your caiman well-fed makes it less of a threat to others.

I wasn’t there. I don’t know how controlled these encounters were. And it certainly wasn’t the first time people have done amazingly risky things, so I won’t condemn those who participated in it. When I was a child, I’m pretty certain my brothers and I would have wanted to see, even touch a caiman. And yes, my parents would have taken us to do so. In fact, I was taken to Florida to see my grandparents on my first birthday, and on that trip my family took me to visit an alligator farm where we watched a man wrestle an alligator. Just what every one year old needs to see. Right?

I must also reflect a bit on my life as a parent and ask, have I ever exposed my own child to danger? Well, yes; indeed, I have. There was a trip to Chesapeake Bay. My daughter was only three. We played in the sand, but she was unsure about the water. I said, “You’ll be okay, Mommy’s got you.” I picked her up and we waded out into the water – hip high. I remember the wind was blowing quite a bit and I looked up to see my husband yelling and motioning with some urgency for me to come back in. I turned to look behind me and there, floating toward us, was a small raft of jellyfish. I moved as quickly as I could, struggling to walk fast in the pulling water. Somehow, we made it and we didn’t go back into the water. I had risked much, naively thinking I had her in my arms, so we were safe. Fortunately, for us, nothing happened, but minutes might have changed the outcome.

This happens repeatedly in our world. Curiosity and perhaps too much trust or confidence make us throw caution to the wind. Somehow, we think we are untouchable like cartoon characters that can jump off cliffs and bounce once they hit the bottom of the canyon. Most of the time, people are lucky and the worst doesn’t happen. But then there are those times when they do, like the Tilikum incident at Sea World, Orlando (2010), the Lane Graves alligator attack at Walt Disney World’s Grand Floridan Resort and Spa (2016), The Harambe Gorilla incident at the Cincinnati Zoo (2016), and the countless bison incidents at Yellowstone that never seem to stop.

My advice to everyone is stop thinking things can’t happen to you. Teach your children to use greater caution and stop putting them into situations where they can easily become victims. It’s great to be amused about such risks after the fact, but honestly… let’s not go there again. Fortunately for Faoro and his fans, his caiman never hurt a soul.

The Dark Side

It’s been a rough week here. Two of my very good friends informed me that each of their sons have cancer and are undergoing treatment. Our sweet dog, Harley, stopped eating and our vet informed us he has been silently suffering with a tooth and gum infection. I’ve been fighting my annual bout with spring allergies. And there was another rejection. This one hurt more than others.

I have been writing children’s stories for seven years now, with small glimmers of hope along the way. A few agents showed some interest, and one even offered me a six-month contract, but alas my stories were ultimately rejected. I’ve got about a 1.7% full request rate. 1-3% is considered a normal range. I’ve won honorable mentions in five writing contests which is great encouragement. But all told, I have sent out 296 queries for about 20 stories. All rejected. This is the dark side of being a writer that nobody talks too much about when you’re shelling out money, and with a believing heart, sign up for classes and conferences that so enticingly promote that you too can be a published author.

This last rejection really stung. I pitched a story, one very close to my heart, via an “Above-the-Slush-Pile” opportunity and the editor of the publishing company requested to see the full manuscript. I sent it and she told me she and her team would be reviewing several selected manuscripts, responding in a couple months. Two months passed. I began to envision signing the contract, doing school visits and book signings. “It’s really happening!” I thought. Then three months passed and doubt began to creep in. Dying to know my fate, I emailed a gently worded nudge. A response came two days later – a compliment, but a pass.

Sometimes writing can feel like trying to scale Mt. Everest without boots and climbing gear. But I know from years of participating in workshops, critique groups and on-line forums that this is all the norm in publishing. It’s just business and a very competitive one at that. In fact, I’m lucky to have been considered at all. I might be doing some things right. Yet somehow, again, I’ve missed the mark. One never knows how exactly. You’re told you’re not the right fit for their list, but they wish you well. You never learn specifically what they want. Querying is the writer’s Russian Roulette. The odds of snagging a publishing deal are so very slim.

While I’ve tried to be a trouper about things and get back up on my horse and continue to ride, I have to say, I’m not as tough now as I was when I began this journey. Admittedly, I was quite naïve when this all started. One story that I conceived when my oldest granddaughter was three years old wasn’t drafted until she was seven years old. It has undergone numerous revisions. I’ve tried to illustrate it but lack the necessary skills. Now I feel the manuscript is ready to query, but she turns fifteen in June, and this summer will be taking driver’s ed. I highly doubt she’ll still be interested in a story about a little girl who talks to horses.

Getting published is a long slow process and getting noticed is super tough. I’ve considered self-publishing a few stories, just to be able to hand them to my grandchildren and say – “See how much you inspired me!” But there is a lot that goes on with self-publishing too. Money, for one, marketing, illustration, so on and so on. I’m not sure I have the head for the business end of what’s required. And not all my stories were written for my grandkids. The vast majority were written for children everywhere— stories about life’s wonders, humorous childhood moments of growth, tough to deal with issues, and our connectedness to the natural world. What will happen to those? Were they all so lovingly and painstakingly created only to never to be seen?

It can be a challenge to focus on what is true. My inability to get published doesn’t necessarily equate to being a poor writer. In fact, one editor told me I’m pretty good. But I’m simply not writing what the market is looking for right now. And I can’t be something I’m not. I write from my heart, life experiences and passions. So, I’m at a crossroads. Should I keep writing? Is this an exercise in futility? More so— why do I write?

I guess I write to inspire and entertain. I write to share feelings and observations. I write to connect with others. I write to learn. I write to remember. If I take away the expectation of getting published, then writing is as satisfying as gardening, painting, embroidery, cooking, or any of the other things I enjoy doing. It is an act of creating that nurtures my soul. Remaining in my critique groups, and writing on my blog, keeps me connected to a larger world of kindred spirits and I can be supportive of my friends who also plod alongside me on this journey.

But I wonder, what if I didn’t write children’s stories anymore? How would I spend all that time I’m accustomed to writing? After reading the rejection email, I felt like running away. I pondered these questions while sitting outside watching my chickens, enjoying a soothing breeze on a sunny spring day. Soon, and very clearly, an inner voice spoke to me. “Whatever you do, you’ll be okay.” I let the words sink in and thought yes, I will. I have a good life. Every day, people – people I love—face much harder, bigger disappointments and challenges than this. Maybe I’m not meant to write forever. Maybe it’s all just been a cathartic growth phase. Maybe it’s time to walk away from it…to see what else I am made of.

Then, for reasons I can’t understand, I awoke this morning at 4:30, thinking about the Artemis spaceship, traveling to the dark side of the moon and for one hour or so, losing all contact with all of us on Earth. The fear, adrenaline, and excitement of that period must have been intense for the flight crew. It certainly was for me as I followed their story. How brave the astronauts are. So much to lose, yet so much to gain by focusing on positive possibilities. The phrase, “the dark side of the moon,” played over and over in my head. What could possibly be possible by examining the dark side of the moon?

Dang it.

An epiphany. And possibly another story.

Just when I made up my mind to walk away from such things.

So, I got up, made a cup of coffee, grabbed my notebook and pen.

I will be okay.

And still…. I write.

This month, under Recommended Reads, PLEASE, PLEASE, check out my review of A Perfectly Messed Up Story by Patrick McDonnell. I think this hilarious story about mishaps and resilience was written just for me! It should resonate with just about everybody, and your children will love it!

Making A Joyful Noise

My husband is a quiet man, who lived a long time as a bachelor, enjoying quiet pursuits like writing, hiking, and bird watching. We married when he was 49– nearly five decades into a lifestyle that highly values silent moments. I, on the other hand, had always lived around noise. Being a mother, educator and public programs coordinator I was always in the midst of layered sounds and chaos. For me, listening to the sounds of others has been an important way of gaging how people feel in situations – whether things are going well, or not. “Noise” is just evidence of living in my view.

So, when Tom and I were enjoying time in a park and nearby children were playing and screaming, I was surprised when he turned to me, annoyed and said, “Why do they have to do that?” “They’re happy!” I explained. “They’re making a joyful noise. Were you never a kid?” Tom seemed stunned by my response. After a pause, he reminded me that he’d lived with his grandparents as a child, and his mother had cautioned he and his brother to not be “noisy” and irritate them. It made me sad to think of children, trying to suppress their natural expressions of joy and the discovery of their strengths through voice. His comment made me see him not just as the beautiful, strong, deeply insightful man I love, but also as a man who carries around memories of a suppressed child inside. It taught me that there are no doubt others out there, who have been discouraged at having a voice. That was not my experience growing up though.

That early discussion has changed Tom. And he now looks at the world differently. When we are in public places where people shout and play, I look at him and say, “They are enjoying themselves. Can you hear it?” To me it is as beautiful as the robins that sing the morning chorus each sunrise. And certainly, it has helped reframe how Tom relates to our grandchildren, who don’t know how to contain their vocal enthusiasm for just about everything.

I hear joy in so many things that surround me. I hear it when my little dog Harley and I play chase and wrestle – his little grunts and play growls. I hear it in the purr of small kittens that want to cuddle. I hear it in the excited clucking and squawking of my chickens when they see me heading to their coop to treat them to some grapes. I hear it in our muffled chuckles while watching favorite television comedies or in laughter on the phone, when we reconnect with dear family and friends. I hear joy in Tom’s voice when he’s singing and playing his guitar in the other room. I hear joy when someone eats something I’ve cooked, and they respond with an “Mmmmm.” And I hear the sound of my own joy when I inhale, then say “Ahhhhh” after smelling the first hyacinth and lilacs of spring.

Everyone expresses their joy in different ways. Some with smiles, or high fives. Many with sounds. In a world filled with sad events and hard truths presented daily in our media, I think we owe it to ourselves and our mental health to spend time listening for where joy is being experienced, by any living being. And just as importantly, we should send our own sounds of joy out into the world, as beacons of light and hope to others.

For this month’s book review, you can learn more about making joyful noises in Froodle by Antoinette Portis, under Recommended Reads.

Leaning into Love

Each year, I enjoy entering several spring writing contests for children’s authors. One of my favorites is author Susanna Leonard Hill’s Valentiny Contest. This year, all entries are required to have no more than 214 words, incorporate the idea of superstitions, and, of course, have a Valentine’s Day theme.

Susanna always arranges for the greatest prizes, like critiques, books, and ask-me-anything sessions with other authors. But whether I win or lose doesn’t matter. Participating in these contests challenges me to select words carefully to get my story across, teaching me about the economy of words. I also enjoy reading the stories of other authors and all the variations on a theme that we can come up with. But more than that, I find that making time to write about the holiday heightens my enjoyment for it — to be in a love-minded moment. You too can enjoy these heart-filled stories by visiting Susanna’s website at: https://susannahill.com/2026/02/13/cross-your-heart-the-11th-annual-valentiny-contest-is-here/

This year, I chose to have my main character be a shelter dog in need of adoption, as my husband and I most recently adopted our lively little Yorkie, Harley. Below is my entry.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

Lucky’s Star

By Julie Lerczak

(213 words)

Lucky was a gray-faced mutt stuck in a noisy shelter, surrounded by bouncing, barking dogs. For weeks, people passed her, picking puppies and purebreds instead. “If only I were lucky like my name.”

Word spread through the kennel about an annual Valentine’s Day Adoption Event. Hopeful, but superstitious, Lucky hatched a plan. She’d knock on wood, thumping door frames with her tail and cross her toes, nearly impossible for dogs to do. Surely that would help her find a fur-ever home.

On Valentine’s Day, Lucky smiled, sat tall, and even did her “lucky” dance, hopping in a circle on her hind legs.

But everyone crowded around a litter of kittens.

A little girl held a trembling black kitty with a white star mark on its forehead. Suddenly, the kitten leaped from her arms, darting for Lucky’s cage.

“Stop!” Lucky barked. A black cat could ruin her chances!

The kitten slipped through Lucky’s gate, curled at her feet, and began to purr.

The kennel attendant laughed. “Poor Lucky found a friend!”

“Why ‘poor Lucky’?” the girl asked.

“It’s hard for old dogs to find new homes.”

The girl whispered to her parents.

“We’ll take them both!” said her father.

As luck would have it, the little kitten, soon named “Star,” became Lucky’s brightest one.

A New Risk in the New Year

In the snap of a finger, life can change very fast.

For some time, my husband and I have been talking about getting a dog. We’d had one several years ago that we enjoyed, but we ran into problems with it. We were both still working, and then I had to start taking care of my granddaughter and parents. I was on the road constantly and had little time to spend with our pet. The dog was also getting older and developed some health problems. Though we loved him, we surrendered him to a Papillon rescue society, and we were assured he’d receive the care and attention he needed. It hurt to part ways, and for over a decade, I’ve felt the guilt and sadness of that decision. My husband was especially bonded to “Charlie,” and spoke about him frequently. I hoped that one day, we would try again.

Eventually, things changed. My parents passed away, and my granddaughter is now an independent teen, living an hour away, and no longer in need of childcare. Retired, and with more time on our hands, it seemed like a good idea to revisit having a pet. Plus, I’m in two writing critique groups, and my friends and I frequently write about dogs. The more I wrote and read about them, the more apparent it became that there was a void in my life. So, for months, I’ve been following a variety of breeders and animal shelters and studying the different dog breeds.

Then one day, there was this face posted on our local shelter’s Facebook page. It was a face that you couldn’t stop looking at. It belonged to a small dog—a youngish Yorkshire terrier, maybe 4 or 5 years old —and his owner had surrendered him. I knew he would get adopted quickly, and judging by the number of people responding to his picture with “I want him,” I knew my chances of getting him would be slim. I decided to let it go.

The next morning, my husband was busy. I felt like wandering, and that dog was still on my mind. I decided to drive over to the animal shelter and see what animals they had, hoping that face would still be there. When I got there, I was disappointed to learn he wasn’t there. He was, however, still available for adoption and was staying in foster care as the shelter was full of dogs. The shelter employee handed me an application and said that if I was interested, I could fill it out. “But I haven’t even met him yet,” I responded. “You can meet him after we process your application. If you don’t like him, you can pass,” the woman responded. I thought it was an odd way of handling things, but I complied. When I returned home, I told my husband what I’d done. He raised his eyebrows. “It’s probably not going to happen,” I said. “I don’t know,” Tom replied. “If they handed you an application, it sounds like there’s a good chance.”

I kept busy all day and tried not to get my hopes up. A day later, we got a call. It was the animal shelter. They asked if I could find someone to give me a character reference, since I didn’t have an established relationship with a local veterinarian. I called a friend and asked for help. And again, I kept busy and tried not to be too hopeful. But sure enough, we received the second call, “Buddy is ready for you, if you want to come meet him.” My hands began to shake, and my heart raced. I felt as though I was about to have a baby.

Quickly, my husband and I threw on our shoes and coats and raced to the shelter. Inside, we sat down, and from another room the shelter manager brought out the dog and dropped his leash. “Buddy” ran without hesitation to my husband. Tail stub wagging wildly. Tom lit up. It was love at first sight. Instantly, there was an electric connection with him, and we both knew our lives were about to change dramatically. “Yes, we want him,” I said. The clerk finished putting together the paperwork for us to sign, then told us to help ourselves to any supplies we might need. We grabbed some dog food, treats, and toys, paid our fee, and headed out the door. The dog was wiggly and ecstatic, and we were speechless— like two deer looking into headlights. After we got settled into the car, we headed to our nearby pet supply store to load up on other necessary pet gear, then home…

Much has happened in the last week. We have been learning about Harley (formerly known as Buddy), and he has been learning about us. We’ve learned that though he is young and energetic, he doesn’t care to play with toys. He’s far more interested in chasing our chickens and the backyard squirrels. Harley adores long walks and sniffing every inch of ground for information about who has traveled along his path. He is perfectly house-broken and lets you know if he needs a potty break. He loves treats and dental chew bones. He sleeps through the night, and tummy rubs, bathtime, and brushing are the best things in the world. It turns out that Harley is a “Velcro” dog, ever near and preferably touching you in some way, 90% of the time. He’s extremely well-behaved and always concerned about pleasing us. What I hope he’s learning about us is that we are constant, predictable, and safe. We reward him for being good, talk to and cuddle with him, take him on adventures, and, like him, we like to take afternoon naps. We think he’s pretty amazing, and we are stable. He doesn’t have to worry about being homeless again.

Adopting a dog from a shelter is much like adopting a child from another country that doesn’t speak your language. There is tension, fear, excitement, and struggle in communicating our pasts, our present, and our intentions. But what is clear is that with all new babies, be they children or pets, there is a giant desire to be understood and wanted that opens the door to our patience and diligence in accepting and giving to one another. There is a risk. You could screw up. But there is also a payoff? You become a strong, bonded family, ready to make new memories as you embark on a new path. And it all begins with a split-second decision to take the risk.

For this month’s book review, check out Before You Were Mine by Maribeth Boelts and David Walker, under Recommended Reads. It’s a sweet story about a newly adopted dog, and what his life might have been like before finding his new home. You can also find a Lost Puppy Maze on my Activities page.

Another Year Under Wraps

This month, I’ve chosen not to write about the common topic of Christmas, giving, and holiday celebration. It’s not that I’m a Scrooge about such things. I’ve always looked forward to every kind of yearly benchmark and holiday observation. But this year, I’ve managed to get the jump on shopping for gifts, mailing packages, and decorating. Mentally, I’m past Christmas already. Now, I am focused on enjoying blissful winter stillness.

Winter in Illinois has come in with a bang. It’s only mid-December, and we’ve already had several snowstorms and days with single-digit temperatures. Given this pattern, it makes me wonder what the next three months hold. It could be a very long and rough winter. But I’m okay with it. Now is the season for being curled up on the couch, reading, watching movies, doing crosswords, and listening to music. Now is when I like to sit at my kitchen table, engrossed in watercolor painting or some type of craft project. Now, is when all I want to eat is homemade vegetable soup and fresh sourdough bread. And now is when I quietly huddle with old photo albums, letting my mind slip back into past times with loved ones I miss dearly.

Being shut in, surrounded by frozen stillness, is a blessing. Enveloped in memories, words on paper and in song, and soothed by small sensory pleasures – the steam from my coffee, the fuzzy plush of thick socks, the scent of fragrant pine, I am soothed and restored.

There is scant time for such indulgences once spring returns. With warmth and longer sunlight comes chores. All the raking and mowing and planting. Home renovations, travel, busyness here and there. This is the only time I have to savor fleeting moments of my grandchildren wrapped up in their poofy coats, waddling like little penguins on the crunchy snow. Wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, puzzled, and in awe of the white world that has descended upon them. This is the winter stillness when my dear husband makes countless treks to fill the bird feeders, then returns to his window and binoculars to watch the feathery dramas that unfold. Small, quiet, precious moments that wrap around my heart.

Four years ago, I lost my mother just three days after Christmas. In the days before she passed, before she slipped into a speechless, dreamy state, she mumbled to me, “I have loved so many.” I will never forget that moment. She was pulling away from this world, reviewing the memories of every face and endearing moment that had touched her life. Wrapped in love for eternity.

Yes, now is the time to embrace the stillness. Gifted with another year, I reflect, bask, and am grateful.

This month, under Recommended Reads, I am featuring the book Winter Sleep: A Hibernation Story by Sean Taylor and Alex Moss, illustrated by Cinyee Chiu— a lovely bedtime story about how the natural world rests in winter.

Exploring Thanksgiving Traditions

Thanksgiving is near, and I am gearing up for the big day. I can hardly wait to see my family, and this year will be extra special because my brother Doug, who has not been home for ages, will be joining us. He will get to meet my two littlest grandchildren for the first time. As I plan the menu, I have come across some exciting new recipes I would like to try. The problem is, everyone already has their favorite dishes and will be looking forward to those, so that means there is no need for anything else. I could sneak in a few new additions, but there is, after all, such a thing as having too much to choose from and limited counter space. Tom needs his green bean casserole and corn casserole, my son-in-law likes his dressing, and all three grandkids must have mashed potatoes and gravy. Everyone wants pumpkin pie. I love turkey, and yes, even Jello salads, but most of my family are not wild about either of those. It is hard to please everyone.

Surely, participants in the first Thanksgiving were not so fussy. In fact, I feel certain that they were grateful for any morsel they could get.

The menu of the first Thanksgiving celebration between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag was nothing like what Americans eat on the holiday today. There were no green bean casseroles, pumpkin pies, or Jello salads. And turkey? It was not the only meat served. Historic documents tell us that the Wampanoag brought five deer for the feast, and that the Pilgrims regularly ate quite a bit of readily available shellfish.

The first Thanksgiving was an extended celebration, lasting three days, in celebration of the Pilgrims’ surviving a brutal first year in this country. They could not have done so without the aid of the Wampanoag, who taught them skills and how to use the resources of this new land.

While there are no specific accounts of what foods people ate at that first Thanksgiving, historians report that William Bradford, the Pilgrim colony governor, sent four men on a “fowling” mission to prepare for the event.

The meal may have consisted of:

Roasted wild venison.

Roasted or boiled goose, duck, or turkey.

Grilled or boiled Fish (cod, bass, and eel)

Shellfish (mussels, clams, oysters, and lobster)

Corn, ground into a meal and made into thick, sweetened porridge.

Boiled or stewed beans.

Roasted squash or pumpkin (No pumpkin pie! Butter and wheat flour necessary for making pie crust were not available, and they had no baking ovens.)

Walnuts, chestnuts, and acorns (eaten raw, roasted, or ground)

Wild cranberries or blueberries (fresh or dried)

Wild grapes (eaten fresh or dried as raisins)

Onions and wild leeks (ramps) stewed or roasted.

Turnips, boiled, roasted, or mashed.

Parsnips roasted or boiled.

Dried raisins and plums.

Maple syrup for flavoring.

Sources:

https://www.history.com/articles/first-thanksgiving-meal)

14 Foods Actually Eaten at the First Thanksgiving

I ponder how my family would react to such a meal. To me, it all sounds delicious and extremely healthy, especially since I recently learned I am pre-diabetic and need to cut carbs. What if, this year, I mixed things up a bit? I will feed my family’s bellies but also serve ‘food for thought.’ I will mention the story of the first Thanksgiving to talk about at the table. Though I will not deviate too much from my old standby menu, I could add a few things for folks to think about. A bowl of dried berries and nuts to munch on. A side dish of roasted parsnips and turnips. Maybe I will not buy such a big turkey. I could prepare a smaller one, but also serve something else with it. Duck? Or more vegetable options? I am not sure I can bring myself to eat a rabbit or a squirrel, though I have tried them in the past. Both of my grandmothers always served oysters, either scalloped or in stuffing, and oysters would be traditional, but my husband is allergic to shellfish, and I am not sure that would go over well with the current generations.

Last autumn, Tom and I travelled the entire northeastern seaboard. A memorable stop was Plymouth, Massachusetts, where we toured a replica of the Mayflower ship the Pilgrims traveled on. We were astonished by the crowded quarters the Pilgrims were confined to. In fact, they were not allowed on the deck of the ship. Their trip was long, rocky, smelly, dark, and lacked all privacy and comfort. Their journey was absolutely one of desperation to escape. How fortunate they were to meet the resourceful Wampanoag who showed them the compassion that nurtured them through their first rough year. And yet, I can imagine how the Wampanoag felt seeing the Pilgrims arrive and set up houses in one of their abandoned villages. Who were they? Why had they come? What were their intentions? Why were they so strange? The Pilgrims were indeed intruders on Native lands and a sign of hard, sad, unjust things to come for Indigenous people. And yet, there was this remarkable moment of a feast built with tolerance, curiosity, and compassion between people of differing cultures. A moment of gratitude and shared hope. Something we must never lose sight of.

This month, under Recommended Reads, I am featuring the book, Keepunumuk: Weeâchumun’s Thanksgiving Story by Danielle Greendeer, Anthony Perry, Alexis Bunten, and Garry Meeches Sr. It is the Thanksgiving story from a Native perspective. And under the Activities section of the blog, you will find A Happy Handprint Turkey project to enjoy with the family.