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‘Twas the night before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…it seemed crazy. We would to be celebrating “Christmas in Australia!”     By Mary Zigan

Waldo, I and the children had arrived from Minnesota to Australia on a perfect, sunny day in March. The year was 1971, we were on a new adventure with a two-year work assignment. We sailed into the Sydney harbor with full view of the famous opera house.  We walked off the gangplanks into the unknown. Our feelings were mixed: excited, anxious, apprehensive.  Everything was unfamiliar.  We thought we knew English but we couldn’t understand a lot of the “blokes.” The Australians thought we were the ones with the accent! We arranged to live in a hostel until we could find permanent housing. Within three months, we were in a small house in a charming neighborhood, the children were enrolled in school, and I was learning to drive on the wrong side of the road in our Volkswagen Bug.  And we were approaching Christmas and would be celebrating what felt like “Christmas in July.”

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…but with a temp of 78◦ we certainly weren’t going to light a fire in the fireplace. But, more disconcerting than that situation was, we had to find a Christmas tree that didn’t look barren and sickly. We finally found one that would pass and put a few decorations on it. It just didn’t “feel” like Christmas does back home we moaned.

Waldo and I decided it would be fun to spend Christmas Day at the nationally renowned Bondi beach only a few miles from our new home. With Barb, our nanny, age seventeen, along with our two children, ages nine and six, we were bound for our first all-day experience as a family on a famous Sydney beach. We packed a picnic lunch and off we went. As you probably know, San Francisco and Sydney are compared as sister cities for glorious weather and this day was no exception. Waldo and I mostly relaxed on one of the provided chaise lounges while visions of sugar plums danced in our heads.

When, what to our wondering eyes should appear…but the water patrol boat roaring up right in front of us. We wondered what all the fuss was about and whose kids were rescued. When in tow appeared Barb and Terri with fear and panic on their faces, and to our horror, what could have easily been a double drowning. Needless to say, that frightening experience brought that day to a full stop for all of us.  That night, when the children were nestled all snug in their beds, as we peered in on them, ringing in our ears were the water patrols words as he drove out of sight;    “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Mary Z

 

 

 

 

 

Give Me a Sign, Lord

 

 

GIVE ME A SIGN, LORD

 

By Paul Tschida

As told to Sharon Sheppard

 

I’d never known such pain as I experienced the day we stood at the grave of our 17-year-old son, Mark.

“Lord, give me a sign that he’s okay,” I prayed.

Four days earlier he’d been driving to school, obeying the traffic laws, when a gravel truck barreled through the intersection and plowed into his car, killing him instantly.

He was the kind of kid any parent would be proud of—clean-cut, hard working, an outdoorsman who loved to hunt and fish. Because of his strong, personal faith, I knew he was with the Lord, but still it hurt.

After the others had left the cemetery, my wife and I asked permission to stay for the burial.  Though I’ve never seen a goose fly alone, apart from a flock, as the casket was being lowered, a lone goose flew over the grave and honked.  Sportsman that he’d been, Mark would have loved it.

The next day one of Mark’s high school friends phoned: “Could we borrow Mark’s pickup truck?  We’re having group pictures taken for the yearbook today.  We thought it would be cool to have one shot of all of us standing by Mark’s truck.”

I drove the pickup into town, happy to oblige.  The senior class from his small-town high school grouped around Mark’s customized, chrome-piped truck.  When everyone was finally positioned, the shot perfectly composed, and the photographer poised to click, a lone goose flew over and honked.  The photographer and the whole class looked up, and every one of us knew something special had happened.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered.

 

 

June 21 Memories

June 21…What’s so special about this day, well a lot!

My late husband Don loved his June 21 birthday! After all, he would remind me every year that it was the first day of summer, the 172nd day of the year, and the longest day of the year. I wasn’t overly concerned, but Don would go on to say, the June Solstice can be anywhere from June 20-21 depending on the year.

In my research, I found another interesting happening on June 21!  Do any of you remember shopping at a Woolworth store? It was on June 21, 1879 that Frank W. Woolworth opened his 1st “F.W. Woolworth Five Cent Store” on North Queen St, Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

And a more recent bit of trivia, if you are a Harry Potter lover! Author, J. R. Rowling, 5th Harry Potter book, the Order of the Phoenix was published in 2003. Amazon shipped out more than one million copies on June 21, making the day the largest distribution day of a single item sold in e-commerce history. The book set sales records around the world with an estimated 5 million copies sold.

Happy, Happy, to anyone celebrating anything this month!

Enjoy the lazy, hazy day s of summer!

 

Mary Zigan

 

 

In Honor of Flag Day

In honor of FLAG DAY, June 14: And to the Republic for Which It Stands . . . is an editorial condensed from a column written by my late husband, Duane Sheppard, for the St. Cloud Times. (Submitted by Sharon Sheppard)

We live in a democracy, right?  Wrong!  Well, kind of wrong.  We pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States “and to the republic for which it stands…”

The Latin root of the word republic means “a thing of the people.” The modern definition of this form of government indicates it is a system in which citizens have the right and responsibility to choose agents to act on their behalf.

On Sept. 18, 1787, the morning after the delegates to the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia had finished their now-famous document, The United States Constitution, a Mrs. Powell approached Benjamin Franklin and inquired, “Well, Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”

“A republic,” replied Franklin, “if you can keep it.”

The word democracy comes from the Greek and could be translated “people-government.”

Some have proposed that, with the advent of modern technology, our whole country could be online and vote directly on all issues decided by legislators.  This would be a “pure democracy,” and would avoid much of the political trickery, deception, bribery, vote trading, and smoke-filled room decisions that, some believe, now characterize much of our lawmaking.

Of course, it is unreasonable to expect that any person could digest all the information necessary to make intelligent decisions on all the issues at the local, state, and national levels.  And it is unthinkable that all citizens could, would, or should be directly involved in all decision making.

So our constitutional fathers drew a marked distinction between a republic and a democracy.  They stated repeatedly and emphatically that they had created a republic with an elected president and representative form of government.

This system was predicated on a Creator-given endowment of life, liberty, and the right to pursue our dreams.  With this heritage, “We, the people,” formed a union where the political power rests not with a king, president, Congress, Supreme Court, political party, military, clergy, the rich or the educated, but with the people.

So on Flag Day and at other special events in our country, we reiterate our allegiance “to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Happy Flag Day!

Lemon Bites

There is no better way to celebrate the month of May than with a No-Bake dessert; especially a lemon dessert. Lemons make the lightest and most refreshing indulgence. What is so nice about this dessert is it can be made in individual servings of 4-6, so there is not a 9×12 pan full of yum sitting around to tempt when only a few people are gathering.

Make and refrigerate this treat at least 3 hours in advance and eat the same day.

 

NO BAKE LEMON OREO CHEESECAKE BITES

INGREDIENTS:

  • 12 Lemon Oreo Cookies crushed into crumbs
  • 1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
  • zest of two lemons
  • 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
  • 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 4 tablespoons lemon Jello powder
  • 1 (8 ounce) tub frozen whipped topping, thawed (see note below)

DIRECTIONS:

  1. Evenly divide the crumbs between your individual serving dishes and press into the bottoms of the dishes to form a crust layer.
  2. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat the cream cheese until smooth.
  3. Add lemon zest, lemon juice and vanilla and mix to combine.
  4. Sprinkle the Jello powder onto the cream cheese mixture and mix on medium-high speed until thoroughly combined.
  5. Using a rubber spatula, fold in the whipped topping until well blended and no streaks remain.
  6. Evenly pipe or spoon the filling into individual serving dishes. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving.
  7. If desired, garnish with additional whipped topping and lemon wedges.

 

                                                Recipe compliments of https:www.mybakingaddiction.com

 

A Simple Haircut Leads to an Inspiring Reminder

Guest Perspective – A Simple Haircut Leads to an Inspiring Reminder . . . By Duane Sheppard

Our guest blogger this week is my late husband, who was a columnist for the St. Cloud Times for 8 years –  This is a Memorial Day column he wrote a dozen years ago  . . . Sharon Sheppard

The most inspiring haircut I’ve ever had was by an elderly barber with a thick foreign accent in a one-chair shop on London Road in Duluth.

It was a busy day three decades ago, before appointments were required for hair care.

By the time my turn finally came, I had overheard some fascinating conversations between this barber and each of his customers.  After telling him how I wanted my hair cut, I asked where he was from.

“Russia,” he replied, rolling the r.

I was curious about this mysterious land behind the Iron Curtain, never having had the chance to talk personally with a Russian before.

“Tell me,” I asked, “what was it like when you lived in Russia?”

The barber launched into the eloquent description of his Jewish village and the wonderful, peace-loving people who lived there.

Then, like an unexpected crack of thunder, a loud, sneering voice called out, “Isaac, if Russia is such a good place. Why don’t you just go back there?”

Without hesitation he explained that the czar’s secret police were abusive, and with the political unrest, chaos, and oppression, it was no longer safe for him to live there.

He went on to describe his escape.  He told about sailing past the Statue of Liberty and kissing the ground when he got off the boat.

The shop reverberated with his next words: “Then I jumped to my feet and said, ‘I’m free!  I’m free!  I’m a free man!”

He paused, and with a raspy whisper that everyone heard, “And I still get goose bumps up and down my back everytime I think of that day!

He went on to tell wat it was like in America to become a citizen and be able to earn a living, raise a family, and help his sons through college.

One became a doctor, another a lawyer, and another died on the beach at Normandy.

While I was teaching in Minsk, White Russia, a while back, my translator, a mother of two young children, indicated that she and her husband were each working three jobs just to try to make ends meet in that troubled economy just after the fall of communism.

“But,” she said with a glow on her face, “now we are free!”

In stark contrast, I sitting with my young grandchildren in Hester Park last Fourth of July, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

The municipal band had just finished playing “Stars and stripes Forever” when a young man walked past, a little unsteady on his feet.  He was dressed in black, his limbs were covered with tattoos, and several parts of his body were pierced.

“America sucks!” he called out to no one in particular.

Granted, there a lot of things about America that need fixing.  But what this young man doesn’t realize is that thousands of men and women have died to protect his right to express that sentiment or any other strongly-felt notion he pleases—publicly and vehemently.

During the 1960s, some draft dodgers and other disenchanted people were saying, “Nothing is worth dying for.”

But I would suggest that if we come to the place where nothing is worthy dying for, then perhaps there is nothing worth living for.

It’s easy to take freedom for granted if it has never cost us anything.

As we approach Memorial Day, let’s thank God and thank a veteran for the everyday freedoms most of us take for granted.

 

Spring Cleaning

Spring Cleaning…Spring Culling – Mary Zigan

 

Since the end of February I have been clothes culling. Spring is the time of year to take a critical look at our wardrobe, be honestly brutal and admit: “If we don’t love the item, or it doesn’t fit, or is outdated, it needs to go!” Gathering, sorting and disposing of items that are taking up precious space in the closet is freeing. Capsule wardrobes are the “in” thing. Less has always been more!

 

So let’s get started:

 

  1. Take everything out of your closet. Yes…everything. Look at your closet completely empty. Does it need a fresh coat of paint, the mop boards dusted, or more racks for shoes or clothes to make better use of the space?
  2. Go through your pile of clothes one by one, that you have removed from the closet. Do you have orphan pieces that don’t work with anything else? Are you really ever going to ever wear these item? Be brutal. Aim to get rid of half the things you own and only put back in, what you absolutely love and feel great wearing.
  3. Purchase all matching slim-line hangers for an organized look that makes you feel happy when you open the closet door.

 

Happy Spring Cleaning! It is the oxygen for our soul!

Being a Mom: The Hardest & Best Job I Ever Had

Being a Mom:  The hardest & best job I ever had   by Sharon Sheppard

I wouldn’t say that the day my two toddlers papered the walls of their room with Vaseline and Kleenex was my hardest day—not even close.  It was frustrating, right along with the day I caught Jonathan drinking out of the toilet using his shoe as a ladle.

But neither of those days came close to being as scary as the day I opened the refrigerator without checking to see if the toddlers were within hearing distance.  (Whenever they heard the refrigerator door open, they came running, and four hands grabbed anything within their reach quicker than I could pull them away and close the door.)

On this particular day, Jonathan grabbed a bottle of codeine cough syrup (this was before the days of child-proof lids) and before I could snatch it out of his hand, he had gulped down a huge swig. I called clinic and the nurse said, “He will sleep for a long time . . .” which sounded pretty good to me until she added:  “You’ll need to wake him every thirty minutes to be sure he hasn’t gone into a coma.”

A coma!  I gulped.  My toddler might go into a coma?  Panic!  And it was all my fault!  I felt like such a failure.

They were born 13 ½ months apart (what were we thinking???) and walked early:  Jonathan at 10 ½ months and Caroline at 9 months.  So we had two babies toddling around, getting into no end of mischief.

For a while my life consisted of cleaning up their messes.  As I was dealing with their latest disaster, the two of them were in the next room working as a team to create another.  One day when I was frantically dashing around getting ready for the in-laws to come from out of town, I had cleaned the kitchen and gone to take out the trash.  When I came in to get the second bag of trash, they had gotten into it and strewn the contents all over my newly cleaned kitchen floor: orange peels, coffee grounds–the works.

One day when we were playing our version of hiding an object and searching for it, 2 ½- year-old Jonathan came up with his own idea of something to hide.  “Where’s ant, Mama?” he asked.  Caroline and I looked everywhere but couldn’t find an ant . . .

Then he stuck out his tongue and there it was.

“Here’s ant, Mama,” he proudly announced.

What a clever hiding place!

I savor treasured memories of cute and clever sayings, homemade Mother’s Day cards, bouquets of wildflowers picked from the woods, lots of hugs, sloppy kisses, and “I love you Mamas.”

But those days didn’t last forever.  Adolescence was no picnic, but I’m delighted with the tender, loving adults they have become.  The two of them are still fun and funny, responsible, and very loving.

I am blessed beyond all measure to have them as friends.  Best friends!

With many thanks to them, and with much gratitude to my own loving mother who modeled all things good . . .

and

Best Wishes to Moms everywhere, Young and Old

Enjoy the Journey!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Spelling Bee

THE SPELLING BEE, a reminiscence by Sharon Anderson Sheppard. This story is told in the voice of a child, since that’s the way I remember it.  Though the story is true, I originally sold this piece as fiction to the Sunday Magazine of the Minneapolis Tribune.

 

Since April is the month when spelling bee finalists from all over the country are studiously cramming for the Scripps National Spelling Bee to be held in Washington, D.C. in May, I thought I’d share my experience as an 8th-grader growing up in Backus, Minnesota, population 350.

 

 

If I’d have known that winning the school spelling bee meant riding up to the county seat with old Horace Botz*, I would’ve spelled “connoisseur” with one “n.”  Even though I’d been secretly hoping all year that I’d win, nobody suspected that it mattered a lick to me one way or the other.  But whenever I closed my eyes, I could picture that brass trophy with my name on it.

Sharon Elizabeth Anderson it would read in gothic script, County Spelling Champion, 1950.

Some people are pretty.  With freckles and kinda crooked teeth, I’m definitely not. If I had a choice, it sure would be nice to be pretty.  But I can spell—backwards and forwards.

It’s a wonder I can spell, since my folks grew up speaking Norwegian and Danish, and you can still hear Mama’s and Daddy’s Scandinavian accents when they talk.    If you asked me to make some generalizations about Norwegians and Danes, I’d have to tell you that Norwegians are quiet and reserved, and they don’t talk that much.  On the other hand, Danes are emotional and gushy and high strung.  At least that’s the way it is at our house.  Daddy doesn’t talk much, and he is always calm and in control.  Now Mama is another story.  She gets excited over the least little thing.  She’s got a real soft heart.  I hope I turn out like Daddy.

Anyway, I was telling you about the spelling bee.  When I came home with the news that I was the school champion, Daddy just smiled and said, “That’s nice, Sharon.  Real nice.” But his eyes were shiny and I knew he was proud.  Mama, on the other hand, shrieked and hugged me and whirled me around the room, and there were tears in her eyes.  I’m too big to be whirled around the room.  No sooner had we got that over with when she started worrying about what I was gonna wear to the county spelling bee in March.

That night we pulled out some options from my very limited wardrobe, and settled on a navy blue skirt and white blouse.  Unfortunately, the skirt had a small spot where a drop of bleach must’ve spattered on it.  But after Mama rubbed some navy blue ink over the spot, it hardly showed at all.  I just hoped it wouldn’t snow the day of the contest and smear the ink.

Everything would have been perfect if I hadn’t been stuck with old Horace Botz.  Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have a man for a teacher, and an old one at that?  My girlfriend’s mother even had him when she was in eighth grade.  I mean, he can’t help that he’s old, but the worst of it is, he thinks he’s funny.  Teachers shouldn’t try to have a sense of humor.  Anyway, I had to ride all the way up to the county seat with him.  He said I could choose a friend to go along.   I chose Mary Ann, who’s fun and funny and my best friend, now that Shirley moved away.

Meanwhile, old Botz gave me lists of words to study from, and I didn’t let on, but I went over every one of those lists dozens of times.  You couldn’t stump me on a one of them.  Like I say, I can spell.  You might say it’s almost a disease with me.  I read a lot, but not very fast because I like to look for palindromes and make lots of little words out of big ones.  Anyway, I’m good at spelling, but I didn’t know if I’d be good enough.

I’d been ready for almost half an hour when old Botz’s black Model A pulled into our driveway.  Mama kissed me (she doesn’t realize I’m too big to kiss) and told me she’d be praying for me.  Mary Ann was already in the car, tickled pink to be getting out of a day of school.  I was mighty glad to have her along, because she kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way up, and I hardly had to say a word.

When we hit the city limits, there was a big billboard that read Welcome to Shingobee Recreation Area, 127 lakes in a 10-mile radius.  By the time we had reached the high school where the contest was to be held, I had made 28 little words out of Shingobee, and still hadn’t exhausted all of the possibilities.

The first person I saw was Alice Klinghammer*, the defending champion.  I’d have known her anywhere from her picture in the county paper last year when she won.  She looked just as snooty in person as she had in her picture, and she was dressed like a persnickety city girl.  She was wearing a store-bought wool plaid skirt with a matching sweater and saddle shoes.  A tiny gold A hung from a fine chain around her neck, and her brown hair was all fluffed up in a stylish hairdo.  Sickening, really.

She was huddled with a couple of girlfriends, giggling.  The three of them sized me up, then whispered to each other and laughed.  I could feel my freckled face getting red, right up to the roots of my frizzy, dishwater blond hair.  Mary Ann squeezed my hand and whispered, “You’re gonna’ win, Sharon, I just know it!  There’s nobody here who can beat you.”

The pronouncer spaced us all apart so we couldn’t see each other’s papers for the written test.   They gave us each a sharp Ticonderoga pencil.

“All set?” he asked with a fake little smile.  No one said anything.  He took a deep breath and began.  My stomach felt like it had a couple of live frogs fightin’ it out, but after the first 20 words or so, I started to calm down.

The man droned on in his English-teacher diction, through chartreuse, supercede, candelabrum, and surveillance.  I struggled with “rotisserie.”  It didn’t look right.  Then the man said, “Pencils down, please.”  We took a break while the teachers corrected the written tests.

Mary Ann was waiting for me out in the hall.  I slurped a drink of warm rusty water out of the fountain, and water dribbled down my chin.  Across the hall Alice was putting on an act.  “Really, the words here today were so simple.  I think I got a perfect paper,” she bragged.  “I had so much fun at State last year!  I’ll just die if I don’t win!”  She straightened her gold necklace and whispered so loud every one of us could hear.  “I don’t think I’ll have any trouble.  These kids all look so young.  I don’t think there’s anybody here older than sixth grade!”  She patted her hair and looked at the rest of us like we were county hicks.  Which some of us were.

Old Botz came out and asked the contestants to come back into the room.  Slowly the emcee read the names of the top five scorers.  I swallowed hard.  Mine was the last one read.

The five of us lined up at the front of the room.  “Each word will be pronounced twice.  You will have ten seconds to begin spelling.”  The emcee licked his thin lips.  “Once you have spoken a letter, there will be no changing it, so think carefully before you respond.  Is everyone ready?”

We all nodded solemnly.  The five of us eyed each other surreptitiously.  (Bet I could get at least 50 words out of surreptitiously.)

“Charles, we will begin with you,” the pronouncer said.  His word was “paraphernalia,” and he spelled it correctly.  Douglas got “ricochet”; Margaret, “liaison”; and Alice, “renaissance.”

“Querulousness,” the man said when it was my turn, and I was grateful for an easy one.

On and on he droned, but nobody budged from the line.  Finally Charles went down on “vicissitude.” A few minutes later Margaret forgot the first “i” in “parliamentarian.”  She looked like she was gonna cry.  The rounds went on to more difficult words.  Finally only Alice and I were standing.  She glanced at me sideways, and she was beginning to look a little nervous.  I remembered that Mr. Botz would probably have to ride along in my dad’s old Chevy if I went to the state finals in St. Paul.  Alice sailed through hieroglyphic and lachrymose and syzygy.  I spelled pusillanimous and bacchanalian and catarrh.

I looked at the clock.  We’d been standing for 30 minutes and we were both getting tired.  Finally Alice faltered on tatterdemalion.  As soon as I heard her say that second “l” I knew she’d had it.  The pronouncer shook his head slowly.  “I’m sorry, Alice.”  She shot me a look of total disgust, taking in my frizzy hair, my shabby cardigan with its skillfully mended elbow, my skirt with the almost-concealed bleach spot.  She heaved a huge, unsportsman-like sigh, then stalked over to a chair on the front row and plopped down, nose high in the air.

I took a deep breath.  All I had to do now was to spell that next word correctly, and the award would be mine.  I thought about the obnoxious Horace Botz with his stale jokes and his stale breath, and I toyed with the idea of letting Alice have it.  Outside the door, lockers slammed shut and the oak floor creaked under its load of hurrying oxfords and loafers.  I thought about my parents learning to speak English, and about how my mom was still working to teach my dad to pronounce his “th” sounds, and how she was probably praying for me right this minute.

“Photophosphorescent,” the man said for the second time, hoping I couldn’t spell it.

“Would you please use that word in a sentence?” I asked, guessing he couldn’t.

“His face got red and he cleared his throat.  “Umm…the object is photophosphorescent,” he snapped impatiently.  I thought about all of the little words I could get out of that one.  Closing my eyes, I spelled it out, slowly, cautiously, so as not to leave out a single syllable.  There was a long, and as they say in books, pregnant pause.  I swallowed hard.  My heart was trying to break out of its cage, and I could feel a trough of perspiration dripping down from each arm to the waistband of my skirt.

The pronouncer stepped forward and held out his hand.  “Congratulations, Sharon Anderson,” he said begrudgingly as he shook my icy hand.  “A splendid performance!”

“Didnelps,” I said to myself, spelling it backwards.

The ride home was embarrassing.  I shoved Mary Ann into the middle again.  Old Botz was babbling on about how proud everyone would be and how nobody from our school had ever won the county championship before.  I’d never heard him give a compliment.  I bet it prit’ near choked him.

It was drafty by the car door, and the wind whistled through the crack where the window wouldn’t quite roll all the way up.  The sinking sun reflected on crusty banks of snow and jackpine-ringed sloughs.  I shivered in my sweat-drenched clothes, wanting nothing so much as to be alone.  My woolen mittens never lost their grip on the prize.  I thought about what Mama and Daddy would say, and I knew that they would be proud of me–very proud.

Mama was waiting at the back door.  I walked slowly into the house, holding the prize behind me.  “How did it go, Honey?” she asked.  (She still calls me Honey.)  “Did you win?”

“Yeah,” I said.  After enduring a lot of high-powered hugging, which I’m much too old for, I headed for my room to find some dry clothes and see if I couldn’t eke another dozen words out of Shingobee.

*Name has been changed

 

 

Spring is Nature

As I write this, April Fool’s Day is right around the corner…and no fooling:  in Minnesota we are getting more snow! By the time you read this, hopefully Spring will have arrived in Minnesota and everywhere.

I am reminded of Lewis Grizzard’s quote: Spring is nature’s way of reminding us that every day is worthy of celebration.

And…Doug Larson’s quote: Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.

Spring breathes new life into the world around us. Somehow it breathes new life within also. We are reminded that every day is a new day to: love, forgive, practice patience, and ask God’s help to see the good and goodness all around us.

God, teach me anew that regeneration is the seed which arises Every Day, and also in Spring.

Mary Zigan