So? What’s my point? It is not necessary to actually have done something in order to have a strong opinion about it or for it to have a profound effect on your life and your reactions to life.

Actually, this is more a “Things I’d Like to do Before I Die” or a “I May Never Do It Again…But, At Least I Did It Once” sort of narrative.

I personally am lead singer for a country western band (Tanya Tucker with blonde hair and a flat chest) posing as a dull-witted accountant by day. However…when I get in my car and crank that radio up, I become a menace-on-wheels darting in and out of traffic and speeding up and braking to the beat of whatever song is playing. I play my imaginary piano and air guitar while singing at the top of my lungs. It’s Fun! It really is. But…I am not pursuing music lessons at night or auditioning for road tours.

What is it that most makes your heart race? That entices you to risk and change? What fantasies whisk you out of the mundane and into the extraordinary? What adventures intrigue you beyond your own limitations?

Temporary diversions? Or life-long goals? Whichever…these are the things that motivate us to “keep on keepin’ on”.

I’ve not been white-water rafting; but, I can close my eyes and feel my heart hammer with the rhythm of the rapids. I can hear the pounding of the angry water and taste the icy wetness on my face and lips. My body can tense in the struggle to keep a tiny craft from crashing against brutal rocks. Exhaustion and Exhilaration! White-knuckled energy! It’s a state of mind. It’s a fact of fantasy. The dream may be as simple as a week away from the job and the routine. Or…it may be as far-fetched as finding Prince Charming and riding off into the sunset. Doesn’t really matter. Very often it is the anticipation that is most enjoyable. Escape and retreat take many forms. It is peaceful unwinding at times: physical adrenalin-pumping activity at others.

So? What is my point? Is it necessary that there be a point? If you are still searching…then…you’ve missed the point entirely.

P.S. I once said I could never ‘be’ white-water rafting. White-water rafting as a temporary diversion, that is. I could, however, be white-water rafting as a life-long obsession. All I need is someone to share the adventure. Someone whose reality is as solidly centered around me as are his fantasies. Someone to make my heart hammer to the rhythm of his laugh and his sigh. Someone to make my blood pound as he kisses the wetness from my face and lips. Exhaustion and Exhilaration! White-knuckled energy that ensures survival – even if we fall off the raft.

I need this same someone to find excitement in the daily anticipation of sharing and loving. I’m needing that someone to enjoy a long, slow, gentle ride downstream as much as he relishes the rapids. I’m needing to be cherished by someone I cherish. I feel the struggle against a formidable current attempting to suck me under. Someone will help me “keep on keepin’ on”.

- Jo

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MoM’s Reflections

When I sat down to interview my grandmother about this piece, I was hoping for deep insights, some grand inspiration behind it, an emotional undercurrent that had driven her words, or maybe a story that had been waiting decades to be told.

Instead, she laughed.

“I barely remember writing it,” she admitted, shaking her head, almost amused at herself. “It was just a quick jot-down. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

She didn’t remember where she was, just that it must have been somewhere between 1991 and 1995, likely scribbled on a lunch break in the car or during one of her sleepless nights. The words weren’t planned. They just… appeared. And yet, decades later, they still held meaning—not just for her, but for me.

I don’t claim to have my grandmother’s wit or her gift for storytelling, but as I’ve sifted through her writings, I’ve found myself relating to them more than just about anything else I’ve ever read. Maybe it’s because she was such a huge part of my childhood or that we share the same genes, but I think it’s something more than that. We simply think the same way about a lot of things.

I’ve spent much of my life with scattered thoughts, an insatiable craving for adventure, an excitement for the anticipation of new experiences… But paired with a hesitation, a quiet longing. I’ve always told myself I just wanted someone to share the adventure with.

It’s not something I’ve ever really said out loud. Nor something I’ve sat down and really explained to anyone.

And yet, when I read the last two paragraphs of her piece (words she barely even remembered writing) I felt something deep and unexpected. Like someone had put my own thoughts and feelings into words.

I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotions that hit me that day. But what struck me more was the realization that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. My grandmother had felt it too… As I’m sure many of us do.

She had tried to experience adventure alone once. She had gone to Paris by herself, thinking she would enjoy the solo experience. But when I asked her how it was, she answered simply:

“I did not.”

She needed someone to share it with. And I understood that feeling.

But if you think this was a sad, wistful conversation, you’d be mistaken.

We laughed—a lot. We talked about future trips and brainstormed places we wanted to see. In fact, her only mention of regret was

“If I wrote this over again, all I would change was the name Tanya Tucker. That that woman has been a loser since I don't even know when.”

See, that longing for companionship in our adventures isn’t the same as needing it. My lesson in her piece wasn’t about finding someone to share experiences with—it was about finding what makes your own heart race. What excites you. What draws you in and keeps you dreaming.

It’s about discovering your own escapes and retreats. The things that help you, as she puts it…

“keep on keepin’ on.”

One of the most fascinating things about my grandmother is the way she writes. No plan. No outline. Just an emotion that takes her where it wants to go.

“I never know where I’m going when I start… I just start writing. And eventually, I know when it’s time to stop.”

And when she does reach the end?

“It’s like taking a tranquilizer… I feel like I’ve got my arms around what I’m feeling. And then I’m done with it.”

Years after writing White Water Rafting, she actually did go white-water rafting—but on a much gentler course than the wild adventure she had imagined.

“We went on a relatively mild course, as you might imagine,” she said with a chuckle.

But one thing lingered, she wished she had done it again. That memory, that moment, was just a taste.

“That’s what I regret,” she admitted. “Not doing it again.”

Her words have stayed with me.

How many times do we experience something once, love it, and then never return? Not because we didn’t want to… But because life got in the way.

And then she said something that hit me harder than I expected:

“I used to have a list of things I wanted to do. But over time, my list started getting smaller and smaller. Not because I had done them—but because I gave up on them.”

She didn’t say it with sadness or regret. Just honesty.

And isn’t life like that? A river with unpredictable currents, where responsibilities and routines slowly anchor us down? We tell ourselves we’ll get back to the things we love later… When things settle down… When the time is right. But the time is never right. And before we know it, our list has shrunk.

Our conversation shifted to me. My own goals, my own adventures ahead. She wanted to hear about them because, at the end of the day, I am her grandson. And she is my grandmother.

As we wrapped up, she gave me one last piece of advice. A simple sentence that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since:

So, to whoever needs to hear this:

Maybe it’s time to pick up the paddle again. To stop waiting for the perfect person, the perfect moment, the perfect plan. To stop hesitating and just go.

Because in the end, life is White-Water Rafting. It’s unpredictable. It’s messy. But it will also take you places you never imagined.

And it is breathtakingly, achingly beautiful.

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Share MoM's Magnolia Moments

I had not wanted to come here. The eighty-one year old grandfather of my daughter-in-law had died a couple of days earlier. His funeral was being held in the same small church my son had married in only months before.

It wasn’t funerals, in particular, that I didn’t want to attend. It was family events, in general, that made me melancholy and ill-at-ease. I watched as an old man shakily helped his wife to her feet and a lump swelled in my throat. A young man laid a stern hand upon his son’s shoulders, and I wanted to cry.

Since my divorce nearly two years ago, I felt conspicuously alone at these gatherings. That’s strange, considering I had always attended weddings, funerals, and any other social event alone anyway. Still...for whatever reason...I dreaded this feeling of ‘singleness’.

To make matters worse, I would not know a solitary person there, except for a few of my son’s in-laws. The family would not arrive at the church until moments before the service and my son was a pall bearer. I sat in this small-town church, pews filled to overflowing...absolutely alone.

It seemed everyone was looking at me. Normally, I’m not so paranoid; but, everyone was looking at me. Some who knew my son were telling others I was his mother. Some were, no doubt, remarking about our resemblance or lack of it. Others were noting that I was an “outsider”. The nearly-silent murmurs fairly screamed of my intrusion.

It was then I heard that noise...Familiar to me...Endearing to me. It was the squeak of old new shoes...old ‘new’ shoes – Dress shoes purchased years ago specifically for a wedding or funeral and worn so infrequently they were never ‘broken in’. I swear I heard my mother shout... “Patty! Go get Daddy’s new shoes out of the closet!” They were sixteen years old – SIXTEEN – and we still called them “Daddy’s new shoes”. In that moment, with that sound, I felt comfortable in this place. I knew these people. Not their names; those were unimportant. But, I knew the essence of these people.

They wore holey, worn-out jeans and khaki shirts with the sleeves ripped off. They sopped home-made biscuits in fresh cane syrup and never had a meal without rice and gravy. They gossiped about the same neighbors they would give their last dime to help. They never missed a home ball game and grandfathers watched as their grandchildren attended the same school they had attended and planted the same fields they had harvested. I knew these people. I knew the very heart of them.

A warm feeling of belonging enveloped me. The congregation sang ‘Amazing Grace’ from beginning to end and not one of us reached for the reassurance of a hymnal. The words came from memories we don’t even recall creating. We simply know the words...doesn’t everyone?

More shuffling of feet...An occasional squeaky shoe...Loved ones comforting one another. It was a funeral; but, it was good. People saying good bye to a landmark in the community. That’s what the preacher had said. “His white hair will not be seen again in the window from the road. He was a landmark in this community. And...we will miss him.”

They will miss him...as will we all...as we are diminished by the passing of each fragment of a way of life unknown to a new generation. We will miss him...as we are less as a nation and as a people who are not being replaced ‘in kind’. It is good to know some things will never change...like the sound of old ‘new’ shoes.

- Jo

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MoM’s Reflections

My great-grandfather, Orville Phenice, passed away on March 19th, 1993. ‘Old New Shoes’ was written by my grandmother about a week after his funeral, capturing a moment still tender in her memory. When I asked her about the piece, she couldn’t recall the exact day she wrote it.

“Now keep in mind I’m old and this was a long time ago,” she laughed. But she thought it was likely “during brief intervals at work” or in the early hours of the morning, “like 2 or 3 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.” Writing, as usual, was her way of working through the complicated feelings that stirred after events like this.

My grandmother had been divorced for a touch under a year at the time. She admitted that throughout that marriage she often went to events alone. “He never went with me to anything. I was always alone,” she recalled. Yet despite that, she found herself unexpectedly uncomfortable and lonely at the funeral.

“I remember that... It was puzzling to me that I, all of a sudden, felt alone…when he never went with me to anything.” she said.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising. She was surrounded by strangers, faces of a grieving family she barely knew. The only two she really knew were her son and daughter-in-law. My parents to be specific (adding a bit more to MoM’s Reflections this go around).

My mother vividly remembers reading ‘Old New Shoes’ after my grandmother first wrote it. But when I asked about that day, her voice grew soft. “Well... I was touched. Even now, when I get to the part about seeing the white hair in the window, it brings tears to my eyes.”

When my grandmother first wrote ‘Old New Shoes,’ she shared it only with my mom and dad. But her stories have a way of traveling. My mom, moved by its tenderness, passed it along to her family, and before long, a relative included it in a book honoring their great-grandfather.

The preacher’s description of my great-grandfather as a “landmark” has always struck me as significant. For my grandmother, it was profound. “It wasn’t casual. That’s what the community felt about him.” she explained. My mother added a more literal interpretation – “He sat right there by the window. If you drove down that highway – and everyone did – you saw him.”

Honest. Trustworthy. Capable of anything. Those were the words my mother used to describe him, but she kept coming back to one phrase: “Everything he did was for his family.” She must have said it half a dozen times during our conversation, and each time, I could hear the truth of it in her voice.

Even now, the house he built still brings the family together. They gather each year for a larger-than-you-think family Christmas in it. My mom takes the annual family (all-women) ‘Chick Trip’—a family tradition rooted in the closeness he fostered.

While interviewing my grandmother, I couldn’t end the conversation without asking about the actual shoes from the story. My grandmother laughed and said “Oh yes, they were real. They were his Navy dancing shoes – and he won many dance contests with them.” When she was a young girl, those shoes were sixteen years old, and still his ‘new shoes.’ “Later on,” she added, “…his new shoes were actually new shoes.”

In many ways, ‘Old New Shoes’ has become a story that resonates differently for each person who reads it. For my grandmother, it was therapeutic and brings memories of her father. For my mother, it brings back cherished memories of her grandfather. For others, it speaks to the importance of family, or community, or the quiet weight of grief. My dad told me, “It paints a picture...one of a small-town community that you could put almost anywhere...” He bets there are “…thousands of communities just like that across the country.”

For myself, ‘Old New Shoes’ reminds me that even the smallest, most ordinary things (like the squeak of worn shoes) can carry the weight of memory, love, family, and belonging. Especially in todays world, it makes me realize that across all our differences, we share the same deep-rooted connections to the people and places that shape us. ‘Old New Shoes’ reminds people that these small communities are woven from the same fabric. Good-hearted, hard-working, ordinary people who quietly live extraordinary lives of kindness and connection.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to consider subscribing. You can also like, comment, or share the post to help spread these moments of reflection, family, and connection. Thank you for reading. I’d be grateful to have you along for the journey.

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Seems these letters get closer and closer together --- and --- more and more difficult to write. Truth is, I don’t know what I want this year. Nothing ‘sounds good’. Know what I mean?

I thought about re-asking for some of the things you never came through with ... like those majorette boots. You were right, of course. The rubber boots you brought were more practical and, anyway, I’ve almost forgotten that incident entirely. But, what about the bicycle? That green and purple bicycle?? I know I had horses to ride --- it’s just that bike was so shiny. Then there was the fringed leatherjacket. The sweater you sent instead was nice --- somehow not the same --- but nice. And remember the year I kept calling you ‘Nicky, Baby’? You know ... the same year I asked for the padded bra and Tony? Thank you, Santa, for giving me neither.

Then, I thought about repeats of some of my favorites over the years ... those soft, little kittens in a basket, for instance. By the way, I know Daddy picked them out. Or, maybe another basketball goal? My boys still play on that old goal. I loved the piano lessons. And my pearl ring. Three years I had to ask you for that ring. Funny, I didn’t mind at all giving it away when he wanted to take it with him to Vietnam. Most of all, I remember that box of colors .... A small box of colors was placed a little way off to the side of my carefully arranged portion of gifts. (Seems like I was nine.) Momma and Daddy took particular care every year to see that you left each of us very nearly the same things --- a coat or sweater or something we really needed anyway, a trinket of some sort, and a doll – always a doll. I never played with them. I just put them away to save and then talked my brother into giving me his truck. But that Christmas I had a box of colors, too. EXTRA. ONLY ME. I snatched them up and hid them in the pail with my rock collection. I always felt you left them there for me to color my wishes come true. Later that night, when I sneaked them out, I colored a shiny bicycle ... purple and green.

In the days that followed, I would get them out and color pictures of new clothes for my sisters, a brown and silver guitar for my brother, and a bright blue tractor for Daddy. They seemed to love those colored drawings, as if they were real. I believed those colors were magic and that you gave them to me because I knew it.

If I had those colors today, I’d color everyone in the world a wonderful plaid. Different colors still, but plaid, so that our preoccupation with the plaidness of us all would make the white-, black-, red-, or yellow- ness of us all of no importance. Next, I’d color a home for every unwanted child and a child for every empty home. I’d color churches filled with worshippers and prayer back in schools. I’d color money invisible and unnecessary. I’d color minds and bodies strong and healthy. I’d color up the hole in the ozone and color away the tears on the Indian’s face. I’d color peace and contentment in each heart; trusting that families and nations would come around shortly after that. I’d color my Mom and Dad young again. Then ... if there was an ounce of magic left, I’d color a pair of white majorette boots with a gold tassel.

Santa, I know what I want for Christmas after all. Please bring me a brand new box of colors.

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MoM’s Reflections

This is one of the few pieces my grandmother wrote without a date on the handwritten version. From her recollection, she was in her 40s at the time, placing it sometime between 1985 and 1991. At the time, she was an Accounting Supervisor at Vista Chemical, balancing work, family, and the challenges of the holiday season.

The inspiration for this piece came after a conversation with a coworker who shared her sadness about not having children to celebrate with during the holidays. Feeling the weight of her own struggles, particularly the worry of not being able to give her four boys much for Christmas, she turned to what she’s always done best. Writing.

During her 30-minute lunch break, sitting in her pickup truck with an accounting ledger notebook in hand, she poured her feelings into what became her Letter to Santa. She didn’t really plan for it to go beyond the page. She did, however, share it with a colleague, something she rarely did. That small decision set the letter on an unexpected path.

Before long, the Letter to Santa was published in the company newsletter. From there, it was shared across all three of Vista Chemical’s locations. It resonated deeply with people, sparking heartfelt responses. “That one touched a lot of people,” she told me.

In the weeks that followed, coworkers sent her handwritten letters (this was the pre-email era, after all) sharing their thoughts. Some wrote about their own struggles during the holidays, while others reflected on environmental concerns sparked by her words about the ozone layer. A few shared stories about not having children, echoing the theme of longing in the letter. One memorable gesture came when half a dozen coworkers sent her boxes of crayons, and one even sent plaid fabric in a nod to her colorful metaphor.

Yet, despite the outpouring of admiration, my grandmother confessed something surprising to me: she regretted writing it. Not because of how it was received, but because it eventually made its way to her parents. “I thought, oh my God! I just made my mom feel horrible,” she said, worried that the letter might have made her parents feel like they hadn’t given her enough growing up. However, they loved it so much that they framed it and proudly displayed it.

This project, MoM’s Magnolia Moments, gets its name from two parts of her identity. The “Magnolia” reflects her pride in being from Louisiana, a place synonymous with magnolias and Southern charm. The “MoM” stands for “Mother of Men,” a title she holds as the proud mother of four boys.

This letter was written during one of her first Christmases with all four children, her youngest just a baby. It captures a complex moment in her life. A mixture of love, sacrifice, and a little magic. And as I discovered through our conversation, it reveals why she writes: “It’s therapeutic for me,” she told me. “I put my thoughts in writing because I’m not a speaker. It helps me capture my thoughts without them being crazy.”

This is the first piece I’m sharing, and through this process, I’ve already learned so much about her. I currently have 30–40 pieces she’s written over the years, but during our interview, she revealed something exciting: she has random notebooks filled with ideas and unfinished stories she always wanted to write. “If I didn’t have to work all the time, I’d have written more” she said.

I hope this glimpse into her world has touched you as much as it has me. If you enjoyed her Letter to Santa, please consider subscribing and sharing this page. There are many more stories to come, and I can’t wait to uncover them with you.

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