Author Archives: Lisa Tan

A news story on CBS This Morning caught my attention and yanked me right down memory lane. The story stated that only one-third of teenagers get summer jobs anymore, and after the story, the morning crew was reminiscing about their first jobs. Naturally, my brain went to my first gig… Bowen’s Food Center.

Buckle up because the memories came flooding back so fast I almost didn’t know where to start.

Anybody familiar with Bowen’s knew Tom Bowen, the owner. Let’s just say he expected you to earn every penny of your two-dollars-and-some-odd-cents per hour you made. Back then, we feared him. As adults, we applauded him.  Truthfully, we couldn’t have asked for a better first boss.

Tom Bowen has been gone over 5 years now. I remember seeing his obituary and I couldn’t help but get a pit in my stomach. So many emotions I felt. The obvious reminder that time is flying by, but also the way it stirred up so many wonderful teen year memories. It made me long for a day back in the late 1970’s when we moaned about working a three-hour shift at Bowen’s, not realizing we were making memories we’d never want to erase.

We learned the pride of earning money – I bought my first car, a baby blue Ford Fairmont Futura, with my savings from Bowen’s. I bought it at none other than Gary Tharp Ford in Forest City. We learned how to socialize with the public, which feels rarer every year. And we learned that it’s okay to have a boss whose tall presence made you jump into action the second he walked through the door.

Looking back, I’m sure my breaks were longer than they were supposed to be. I ate food on break that wasn’t paid for and I clearly partied way too much on the weekends as my memories remind me. The building is still there. Other businesses occupied it after it closed, but when I drive up Secor in Forest City and see that east side door – the one we employees used to walk through, I can’t help but smile.

Most of the younger employees were all school classmates/friends, and we spent as much time pulling jokes on each other to pass the time as we did actually working. And we did it all while wearing those maroon jackets – usually with one of the buttons hanging on by a thread.

I can still remember the feeling of picking out a clean jacket (if you were lucky), slipping it on and rolling the sleeves up while walking toward the front of the store, ready to start my shift. But not before stuffing the pockets with the essentials: some loose change, a comb or pick, a Kleenex or two and heaven forbid you’d forget your lip gloss. Lip Smackers if you wanted to smell like a walking strawberry or Kissing Potion if you were going for that shiny, sexy roll-on glamour. Because a 15- or 16-year-old girl had to look her absolute best ringing up canned peas.

I truly enjoyed being a cashier. No scanners back then. You actually had to punch in the numbers like you were working a 10-key adding machine. And I was good at it. I was fast. And I proudly memorized the Wednesday “3-Wild Hours” sale items like I was supposed to. Prices were stamped on items and so you weren’t going to change the prices just for those 3 hours and then switch them back. You just had to memorize them.

Typically, the customer would always remind us before we even got to the item. You knew they doubted they received the sale price when they asked you for the receipt. Every time someone asked me for their receipt, I had that split-second panic wondering if I’d screwed up. I’d smile confidently, while silently praying I wouldn’t soon be seeing them in my line again with the receipt in hand and certainly not while Tom was anywhere within a 5-foot radius. Nothing made your stomach drop faster than a customer marching back toward your register and Tom standing close enough to witness it.

I can still remember working a Wednesday evening shift, rushing around at home asking Mom where the FC Shopper was. Wednesday evening meant the 3-Wild Hour specials, and I needed to memorize what they were. I took my job seriously… I just waited until the very last minute to act like it.

Remember those metal pricing stamps where you had to roll the numbers and ended up with ink all over your fingers? I can still hear that loud clink when you stamped a product. The real challenge was getting a clean mark – not smearing the ink or stamping it so lightly you couldn’t read a thing.

The guys always treated it like a competition to see how fast they could price an entire case of canned goods. They were fast, alright – but half the numbers were smeared. So, when a can came that you couldn’t make out the number, we handed it to the carry-out boy sacking groceries and told them to go find it in the aisle and check the price.

When we weren’t busy checking out customers, we were supposed to grab a dust rag, pick an aisle, and pull every product forward so the shelves looked perfectly stocked. It was somehow very gratifying and I took it way too seriously. I’d get my row looking perfect – only for some shopper to grab the one can or box that ruined my masterpiece. As soon as they passed by, I’d march right over and fix the gap like the overworked, underpaid guardian of aisle 3 that I was.

I can still picture the back-room area where we took our break. It had a time clock on the wall. I believe it was green. For those of you who don’t know what that is… Google it. You’d hunt for the card with your name on it, then stand there watching the clock tick to the next minute so you could squeeze every possible second out of your break. Then you might punch out and linger a little longer. Who was to know, right?

Reminiscing with Sue Ouverson, she reminded me we used to sit on sawhorses during our breaks. Maybe that was Tom’s way of making sure we didn’t get too comfortable or stretch those breaks a minute longer. As if any of us teenagers even noticed we weren’t sitting on an actual cushion – we were too busy thinking we were living our best lives on lumber.

The biggest dilemma of any shift was deciding what to grab for a snack at break time. The whole store was basically our buffet. Technically, we were supposed to pay for our breaktime treats, but at two dollars and some odd cents an hour, you start redefining the word “supposed.” It better served our conscience to think of it more as a merely a “suggestion.”

On weeknights I either worked the 5:30 – 8:30pm shift, or the 6 – 9pm shift. The later shift meant part of your job was vacuuming the carpet in that entrance area. The carry-out boys would bring in the carts, set them on the carpet you just vacuumed, leaving dirt and gravel particles, but that signaled it was almost time to leave.

We juggled our schedules constantly among each other to accommodate our social lives and according to a diary I found, I complained more about having to work far more than I should have. Funny how hindsight softens everything. I guess my social life was important. We lived in the moment.

One Friday evening during my 6 – 9 shift, my boyfriend, Jay, walked in to surprise me. He had driven home from Iowa State because he missed me and was looking forward to surprising me. And oh, did he ever – surprise me, that is. I think the look on my face disappointed him to his core. Typically, I’d would have been thrilled to see him, but even though I don’t remember what it was, I apparently had plans that evening that didn’t include him.

To this day I feel regret for acting that way. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I’d would have been crushed. It all turned out well in the end though – we married a few years later, so I guess all was forgiven- although he never forgot.

I’m not proud to admit that one Saturday morning I was let’s just say “not feeling so hot” from obvious reasons the night before. My friend Cris made me check somebody out when she knew full well what I really needed was a sprint to the bathroom. She shrugged, smiled and said, “That’s what happens when you’re a peon,” meaning she had seniority over me. That memory obviously left an impression. I checked that lady out, praying the contents of my stomach would stay put.

Only recently, while reminiscing with a friend and looking at old photos, did I remember there was a cigarette counter at Bowen’s. And… Brach’s candy that you could scoop into a white bag that had to be weighed. We’d take the bag up into the small coupon lady’s room where the scale was located, so we knew what to charge. That little room was also where the microphone lived, which is how I ended up announcing to the entire store over the intercom – courtesy of Dave Mehl, “JACK MEOFF – TELEPHONE… JACK MEOFF – TELEPHONE.”

Not until my co-workers erupted in laughter did it dawn on me what had just come out of my mouth. I’m sure my face matched the color of my jacket. I don’t know what’s more laughable– that I said those words or that we’d page someone for a phone call.

I remember working the day somebody announced that Elvis Presley had died. I was up front near the checkout lanes and the whole store seemed to pause. Some moments just freeze themselves into your memory.

And then there was Jerry. Not Jerry Tweeten – he was as nice as they came. I mean Jerry, the very tall customer with a hearing aid and a stutter. He’d never grab a cart. He’d just wander the aisles, make eye contact with one of us girls and then stand there smiling… lingering. We’d walk away and he’d meet us down the next aisle. Creepy! We were always relieved when he finally bought his one or two items – clearly purchased just as an excuse to be in the store. I couldn’t help but be nice to him, but at the same time I always made sure I walked out of the store with a friend at the end of my shift.

There was gratification in telling the carry-out boy, “They also need 6 bags of softener salt.” The look I’d get! As if lifting forty-pound bags was a personal insult. I’d purposely not tell them what kind so they could go unload all the groceries and then have to come back in and ask “what kind?” Some of them wised up and remembered to ask before they left the store.

That was true customer service. The carry-out boys followed customers to their cars and loaded everything – even the softener salt bags. It reminds me of the service you got at Schnebly’s 66, just a few blocks from Bowen’s. You’d pull up for gas and never even open your door. Just roll down the window. They’d ask what kind, stick the hose in, and wash your windshield while the tank filled. I can still hear Rick or Russ as clear as day: “Morning, Lisa – the usual?” Oh, how I miss those days.

Hearing that only one-third of teenagers get jobs today flipped the nostalgia switch in my brain and suddenly I was right back at Bowen’s again. The more I thought about it, the more memories that surfaced. The maroon jackets, the 3-Wild Hour specials, the carry-out boys hustling to cars in their white shirts that never stayed white for long… I remember so much of it. And if I had teenagers today, I’d absolutely encourage them to get a job. Not for the paycheck, but for the pride that comes from earning it.

The pride of buying my first car with my Bowen’s wages will stick with me until my dying day – or until dementia sets in – whichever comes first. Yes, it was work, but it was also where you learned responsibility, teamwork, how to greet the public and how to show up even when you’d rather be anywhere else. Those things quietly shape a person in ways a classroom never could.

Time for a toast:

To Tom Bowen and Bowen’s Food Center, where we learned responsibility, teamwork, and the fine art of pretending we didn’t eat half our break-time snacks without paying.

To the fine art of realizing we forgot to punch out for break… right as the break was ending. Nothing like sitting there for an extra ten minutes just so you could punch back in and pretend you meant to do it that way all along.

To teen jobs – not for the money, but for the memories, the mischief, and the character we accidentally built while trying to look busy.

And to the gift Tom Bowen gave to me and hundreds of other teens through the years – the gift of earning a dollar. In a time when so many want to be given what they need, I’m grateful I learned early that the real treasure is in earning it. That’s something you have to experience to appreciate it.

Tom, I hope the handful of teenagers who still get summer jobs today end up with a boss like you – someone who scared us just enough to keep us in line but cared enough to make us better humans. You were tough, you were tall, and when your silhouette hit that doorway, we straightened up fast. But we also learned how to work, how to earn, and how to grow up. Not every kid gets that today. We did – because of you.

I regret I never told Tom this while I had the chance. But I know somewhere, somehow, he’s receiving it now.

Let’s raise a glass or a can of perfectly stamped Shurfine goods in Tom’s honor – and toast.

Cheers!

The names on the timecards above are the people I could remember working with during my years there. Obviously, there were many before me and after me and I’m sure I missed some names too.

Please share this blog post with someone you know that worked at Bowen’s during the mid to late 70’s. They might enjoy a trip down Bowen’s Food Center memory lane. And, if you worked at Bowens in the later 70’s, please share some of your memories.

Remember that thrill you felt as a kid when your parents announced they were going out of town for the weekend? You tried to act calm – “Oh? Where are you going? When exactly will you be back?” Because inside, you were already planning the invitation list, the snacks, and the glorious freedom.

I still experience that same feeling when my husband announces he’s going out of town.

In my last blog, I mentioned that my husband was coming home from his weeklong fishing trip. The week went fast, but I remember when he took off early last Saturday morning with his sons – the feeling I had was no different than the feeling I had at age fifteen or sixteen when Mom and Dad headed out the door.

OMG… freedom!

I can eat what I want.

I can go anywhere I want.

I can come home whenever I want.

And now here I am in my 60’s and the list hasn’t changed much. My husband leaves for a week and suddenly I’m thinking the same thing: Wow… I can eat anything I want. I can do anything I want.

What is wrong with me? It’s not as if I can’t eat what I want now. It’s not like I can’t go where I want at any time now.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. And I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way.

Women need time alone. Women need a vacation from being the housekeeper, the laundress, the finder of lost socks, the clearer of toothpaste streaks, the answerer of “What’s for supper?”

It doesn’t mean we don’t love our husbands.

It doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy their company.

It simply means we all need time where we don’t have to answer to anyone, repeat ourselves to a selective listener, or pick up after anybody. Hell, I have a hard enough time picking up after myself. We need time where we get to just… be ourselves.

This week I had an appointment every single day. That meant showering, doing my hair, putting on a little makeup, finding nicer clothes to wear. Inside, I was screaming:

My husband is gone! I need a day I can wear my favorite sweatshirt, skip the hair and makeup and binge watch Netflix if that’s what I want to do.

Those lazy days are rare. Most of the time, there’s somewhere I need to be, something I need to do, or someone counting on me to show up.

So, what did I do?

I created a day. I rescheduled an appointment or two and made a day just for me – nowhere I had to be. I even pulled the shades so if somebody came up the driveway, they couldn’t peek in and see me on the couch. I was bound and determined to have a day where I could do absolutely nothing except what I wanted to do and nobody knew.

And I loved every second of it.

I try to figure out why I feel the way I do because in all honesty, my husband couldn’t care less if I’ve been watching Netflix all day. Plus, he spends a great deal of his time down in his man-cave.

So what is it?

Maybe it’s because my ex used to walk in and comment, “Good grief, you’re always on your computer.” Those things stay with a person. He made me feel guilty – and guilt has a long shelf life.

Not too long ago, I was talking to a woman who said she thought all married couples should live in duplexes. I laughed. Then she said, “No, really. Think about it – one person on each side, under the same roof, but you have a wall between you. You can be together when you wanted and then you could… go home… right next door.” We got a good laugh out of it, but is it really so absurd?

Love with a little breathing room. Togetherness with a door you can close when together is not where you want to be.

The Countdown

I really am looking forward to my husband coming home. I do miss not having an adult to converse with, but I’m not looking forward to the explosion of fishing paraphernalia that will appear the moment he walks through the door. He’ll be good at putting his fishing clothes in the laundry room, but the freedom clock will have ticked down to its final second.

It’s the same feeling I had at sixteen, watching the minutes disappear before Mom and Dad returned. That tiny bittersweet moment where you know your freedom is about to end and life is about to get back to normal. Although back then, you were more concerned about making sure you left no signs of the party you had the night before.

In all actuality…

That’s love. That’s marriage. That’s being human.

We treasure the people we share our lives with… and we treasure the quiet pockets where we get to be entirely ourselves. We really do need to be grateful for the busyness – the appointments on our calendars, the places we’re expected to show up – because they remind us we’re still alive, still needed, still part of something.

But we appreciate even more the days when the calendar is blank, the house is quiet, and the only person we have to answer to is ourselves. Those days feel like tiny miracles… the kind you don’t realize you’re starving for until one finally shows up.

And the bright spot?

I’ll have fresh walleye to eat and my husband will have made memories with his boys – as it was a father/son/son-in-law fishing trip. And for that, I’m grateful.

Grab your favorite cocktail, it’s time for a toast:

Here’s to husbands who travel, wives who exhale, fishing trips that restore their souls and lazy days spent home alone that restore ours.

Here’s to the glorious week where the bed is all ours, the shades stay pulled, the sweatshirt stays on, and Netflix politely asks if we’re still watching.

Here’s to fresh walleye, quiet houses, and the rare magical day where we don’t have to shower, speak, or pick up a single sock.

And here’s to the moment they walk back through the door, trailing fishing paraphernalia like it was confetti, reminding us why freedom is sweet… and why love is sweeter.

Cheers to marriage, memories, and the next fishing trip being scheduled soon enough to keep the whole system running smoothly.

I’m brushing my teeth this morning, and as usual, my brain is running a full marathon. Local news says school is starting soon. I haven’t written a blog for weeks. It’s my last quiet day before my husband gets home from his fishing trip. Why is Frankie downstairs barking like she’s trying to warn me about absolutely nothing, but with such great passion?

This is how my mind works – always active, always loud, always juggling seventeen tabs. It’s why I tell myself I need to meditate more. I need to quiet my mind. It’s also why I don’t meditate. My mind doesn’t “take a break.”

While thinking about school starting, my brain took a sharp left turn to the year we took our youngest, Mark, to Iowa State for freshman move-in. Empty next syndrome was warming up in the bullpen. Even though my ex-husband and I were divorced, we both knew that day was going to be rough. We’re terrible at goodbyes, and even though he wasn’t leaving forever, it still felt like some kind of ending.

But then my brain – helpful as ever, asked:

What year did we take him to Ames?

What year did he graduate from ISU?

Hell, what year did he graduate high school?

And the answer was: Ma’am, we don’t know.

Shouldn’t a mother know these things?

I’ve never been good with dates. I can’t remember my kid’s age without doing the math. I once wished my grandson a happy 7^th birthday… twice… and he wasn’t seven either time. My kids shrug it off because they know their mother’s brain is basically an Etch a Sketch during an earthquake.

My mom remembered every date, every age, every detail, but she wrote everything down. Daily calendars, notes, reminders. Maybe that’s the difference. Maybe the dates should matter more to me, but they don’t. The moments do. The feelings do. The people do. The numbers? Not so much.

Thankfully, my sister-in-law gives me a calendar every Christmas with all the important dates pertinent to me, already written in. It’s the greatest gift for someone like me. And yet – the worst thing I ever did was forget her actual birthday. The woman literally hands me a personalized cheat sheet every year, and I still manage to blow it. If anyone has the right to roll her eyes at me, it’s her.

My job is simply to look at the calendar… which becomes a problem on the days I’m still living in last month. I may have missed the entire first week of the current month. What are the chances somebody had a birthday during those first few days of the new month? Don’t ask.

Maybe this means I’m not living in the present moment. Maybe I’m either replaying the past or pre-worrying about the future. And lately, with so many friends and family facing medical crises, my mind goes to the big stuff – the any day could be your last day stuff.

That’s when the word bucket list popped into my head. People facing grim diagnoses suddenly doing the things they always meant to do – travel, adventures, experiences they kept putting off. So I asked myself: Do I have a bucket list?

The answer… NO.

Travel isn’t my thing. I love the idea of being somewhere beautiful, but not the packing, the airport, the plane, the logistics, the pet-care arrangements, the watering of plants, the whole production. I can enjoy someone else’s vacation photos just as much as being there – sometimes more, because pictures don’t include humidity, crowds, or the smell of someone’s sunscreen.

Take our wedding in Hawaii. The photos? Stunning. Magazine-worthy.

The actual spot? A tiny patch of sand with a couple lying behind us like they were extras in a low-budget beach movie. Gorgeous ocean in front of us, trashy chaos behind us. Reality rarely matches the brochure.

The reality is, it isn’t about what we do, it’s about who we spend it with. It’s about the memories made. For me, memories don’t require airports, itineraries, or bucket lists. They can be made right in my own backyard, or up at our cabin, where life slows down enough for me to actually feel it.

That’s where the good stuff happens: watching sunsets with the people I love, grandkids fishing off the dock, pizza on the boat because it tastes better out on the water, fish fries with Papa Tan and Limon & Dt. Cokes on the porch while a Sage & Citrus candle burns in the hanging lantern.

When we’re there, the world softens around us. That’s my idea of heaven. Family time. Simple moments. Real memories. The kind you don’t need to write down to remember, because they stay with you, even when the dates don’t.

And that’s kind of the theme here, isn’t it? Reality rarely matches the brochure of life.

My thoughts get jumbled when I haven’t written for a while, but underneath all the noise – the dates I can’t remember, the barking dog, the bucket lists I don’t have, the travel I don’t want – there’s a simple reality:

I don’t need big adventures to feel like I’m really living.

I don’t need perfect dates to prove I love my people.

I don’t need a bucket list to check off to feel fulfilled.

I just need to be present for the moments that matter – even if I can’t remember what year they happened.

So grab your favorite drink, it’s time for a toast:

Here’s to the overactive brains, the forgotten birthdays, the calendars we apparently need a calendar to remember to check, the bucket lists we don’t have, and the travel we enjoy only when someone else does it.

Cheers to living life one chaotic, mismatched, reality-vs-brochure moment at a time and to remembering that the best adventures don’t need a passport – just a porch, a sunset, and people who don’t mind when we forget their birthday.

Cheers!

I haven’t written a blog in several weeks now, and I’ve missed it. But anyone who knows me, knows I keep adding irons to my fire, and writing was put on the back burner. But here I am, because something I read this morning stoked my fire.

Before we dive in, let me say this: today’s blog may seem a little heavier – not the light, infused with humor kind of writing you usually get from me. But I promise… you’ll end it with a smile.

This morning I read something that hit me hard. It spoke directly to something that I’ve felt for a long time: the decline of our moral integrity – especially in how we react to the death of someone we don’t agree with.

A man on social media wrote about how people now celebrate when a pubic figure dies. I’m not sharing the author’s words verbatim, but the message was clear: We aren’t falling apart because we disagree. We’re falling apart because we’ve reached a point where some people cheer when another human being dies.

Not because they knew them.

Not because they were harmed by them.

But because they didn’t share their political views.

And he was right – this  moral failure isn’t owned by one group. It’s everywhere now.

When Senator Lindsey Graham passed away recently, social media lit up with jokes, celebrations, and people treating his death like a political victory. And every time I see this happen, I cringe.

What’s the matter with people? What have we become?

You don’t have to admire someone. You don’t have to vote for them. You don’t have to agree with a single thing they ever said. But if your first emotion when you hear someone has died is joy… politics isn’t your biggest problem. Something inside you is broken.

We talk all day about kindness, decency, morality – until it’s someone we dislike. Then suddenly compassion has an expiration date.

Character isn’t measured by how you treat the people you agree with. It’s measured by how you treat the people you don’t.

And your kids are watching – taking it all in. After all, parents are children’s first teachers.

The Division We’re Living In

Our world has become so divided that it feels like we’re sitting on the ingredients for a civil war. People are angry, hostile, and in some cases, unhinged. Racism is louder than ever. Hatred is everywhere. And somewhere along the way, our moral compass spun out of control.

When someone in the public eye dies – especially someone political – the comments online are cruel.

“I’m ready to pop the champagne!” “Popcorn is being popped!” “Good Riddance.”

Do people forget that this person was a human being? That they meant the world to their family? That someone is grieving them right now? Their grief is real, raw, and unimaginable – and yet strangers online celebrate.

Why?

Simply because his views weren’t their own.

I understand feeling upset by someone’s difference of opinion. I do. But I always remember something I once heard – I believe it was Kathie Lee Gifford who said: “When you don’t like someone, say a prayer for them. It’s impossible to hate someone you’re praying for.”

That stuck with me.

I often think of this scenario that my small brain concocted. It helps me when I find myself reacting negatively to someone I’m not especially fond of. Imagine your one-year-old child falling into a swimming pool and is drowning. You can’t reach them in time. Standing nearby are two people – one you’ve known all your life and adore, and one you absolutely detest.

While the person you adore stands frozen, unable to help for fear of drowning themselves, the other person, the one you detest, jumps in without hesitation and saves your child’s life.

In that moment, every difference would disappear. Because humanity would matter more than opinion.

Why can’t we think that way now? Why can’t we look at people we dislike and remember they are human beings with families who love them? Why can’t we remember that every life has value, even when we disagree with the person living it?

The Little Soul and the Sun

Many years ago, I read a book called The Little Soul and the Sun, a parable authored by Neale Donald Walsch. It tells the story of little souls in heaven, deciding their next incarnation and the life lessons they hoped to learn.

One Little Soul says, “I want to learn forgiveness. But in order to learn forgiveness, someone would have to smite me so I could forgive them. And who would do that, for you all love me so much.”

Then a friendly soul stepped forward and said, “Not to worry, Little Soul. I will.”

And the Little Soul, confused, said, “But why would you do that? You are a being of utter perfection!”

And the Friendly Soul said, “Simple. It is because I love you so much I would do it. But I have one thing I want you to do.”

The Little Soul exclaimed, “Anything! What can I do for you?”

The Friendly Soul replied, “In the moment that I strike you and smite you…in that moment that I do the worst thing to you that you could possibly imagine – in that very moment…”

“Yes?” the Little Soul interrupted, “yes…?”

The Friendly Soul became quieter. “Remember Who I really am.”

The moral of the story… God has sent us nothing but angels.

I’ve never forgotten that story. It made me think differently about the people who challenge us, frustrate us, or even hurt us. Maybe they are angels in disguise. Maybe they volunteered to play the most difficult roles so the rest of us could remember compassion, forgiveness, and love. Maybe they are part of our learning, helping us grow in ways we don’t yet understand.

Think about that next time you feel contempt for a political figure.

Instead of asking, “How could they?” perhaps ask, “What is this moment asking me to become?” If every soul comes here to teach and to learn, then maybe the greatest test isn’t the politician’s character – it is our own.

A Toast With a Wink – Because We All Need One

Here’s to compassion, even when it feels like trying to hug a porcupine.

Here’s to remembering that every human life has value – even the ones who make us roll our eyes so hard we swear we can see our brain.

Here’s to choosing kindness over chaos, decency over digital pitchforks, and humanity over whatever fresh nonsense social media serves up.

And here’s to us – the imperfect, emotional, beautifully complicated people trying to navigate a world that sometimes feels like it’s being run by raccoons in a dumpster fire.

May we argue less, listen more, and remember that celebrating someone’s death is never a personality trait worth bragging about.

May we teach our kids that compassion doesn’t get to clock out early.

And may we all try – even just a little- to be the kind of humans who would jump in the pool to save the child… even if the kid’s parents voted differently.

Cheers!

I know you’re all dying for an update on Frankie.

Okay, maybe not dying.

Mildly curious?

Just accidentally clicked on this post?

Or, could it be that I just needed an outlet before I started Googling emotional support for puppy moms?

Either way, buckle up, because venting here is my therapy and I’m in need of support… and a lot of it!

I remember Gracie as the world’s most perfect puppy – soft, angelic, practically floating around the house on a cloud of obedience. Except… that’s a total lie. I don’t remember her being a puppy at all and even in her adult stages, she certainly wasn’t a cloud of obedience. In fact, I did a lousy job training her. Just ask my youngest son. Gracie was my emotional support dog. And, that’s all she needed to be.

I compare getting a puppy to childbirth: you forget the pain or you’d never do it again.

Modern medicine at least gives moms epidurals. Where’s the epidural for puppy owners? And if there is one, can it work for 2, 3, maybe even 4 months at a time? Asking for a friend.

Consuming alcohol crossed my mind, but I’d just fall asleep and wake up to Frankie having turned my entire family room into a hodge podge of “things that use to look vaguely familiar.”

I don’t remember Gracie ever chewing on cords. Frankie? Frankie thinks cords are her calling. Her passion. Her art form.

If it plugs in, lights up, charges, powers, or connects – she wants it in her mouth.

The Newborn Parallels Are Real

When I open her kennel after a nap, she does the full newborn stretch – the back arch, the tiny yawn, the “pick me up, Mother” routine. OK, maybe she doesn’t arch her back the way a baby does, but she does roll over onto her back when she stretches. Either way, it works.

I melt.

She wins.

If I could press pause on that soft, sleepy sweetness – just hold it a little longer before the wild puppy energy comes roaring back – I absolutely would.

Crate Training: My Public Apology

When I got Gracie, I thought crates were cruel.

Cages.

Punishment boxes.

Prisons.

Oh naïve, dumb Lisa.

Crates are God’s gift to puppies and their humans. After extensive Googling, AI interrogations, and lurking in Facebook groups full of people who claim they’re a dog trainer, I can say confidently:

Her crate is her safe haven.

Her nervous system’s OFF-switch.

Her spa.

Her sanctuary.

My salvation.

I’ve always had trouble calling it a crate. Bed sounds so much nicer. Her happy place. Her “thank you for saving me from myself” chamber.

In all my puppy reading, I was excited to learn that a 16-week-old puppy needs 4 – 6 naps a day. Reading that, I swear I heard angels. Complete with trumpets… and a full gospel choir.

But mornings are tough. I get her up at 5:30 am She’s been in her bed since 9:30 pm the night before, so she’s done really well with holding her tiny bladder through the night. She goes outside immediately and proceeds to do both of her jobs. Then, it’s coffee time for me and since day one, she spends the first hour, sometimes more, cuddling with me – alternating between lying on the couch or my lap.

That’s the part I love.

But then there’s a 3-hr. awake window after breakfast and that’s the tough one for me. The rest of the day, 90-minute awake periods are all she can handle. Any longer than that and she becomes a wind-up toy possessed by the spirit of chaos.

Sometimes she’s so overstimulated I can’t even catch her by the halter to put her in her bed. I swear it’s like trying to catch a greased squirrel.

But when I do catch her and place her in her bed, it’s like pure magic. Cue the angel choir.

Silence.

Peace.

Gratitude.

Both of us humming “thank you” as she drifts off.

And the really great thing? She doesn’t protest her bed at all. Maybe a couple of times, she let out a few barks, but they’re ignored and she settles right down. And often, when I open her door so she can come out, she’s so content, she decides she needs more time.

Just like babies, puppies go through phases. Some adorable. Some… character building. I keep asking:

When will she stop chewing… everything?

When will she stop zooming around like she’s training for the Puppy Olympics?

When will potty training stop feeling like a hostage negotiation?

But then I remember:

Around 6 mos. of age, she’ll calm down. A few more months, she’ll be even better. In a year she’ll be a full-blown dog. And before I know it, if we’re lucky, she’ll be old like Gracie was – and I’ll wonder where the time went.

I won’t remember the chaos. (Although I’ll have a husband to remind me.)

I won’t remember the frayed cords.

I won’t remember the barking or the zoomies, when she ran so fast, she did unintended somersaults.

Or the, “do you hate me?” puppy growls.

I know I won’t remember, because I don’t remember Gracie doing any of it, and that was back when my brain still had storage space. Apparently selective amnesia is nature’s way of making sure we keep having babies and adopting dogs.

Grab a drink (I know I will) and let’s toast:

To the puppy stage – the phase no one warns you about because if they did, no one would ever get a dog again. Even if they did warn you, you wouldn’t listen. Their cuteness is intoxicating.

Here’s to the biting, the barking, the zoomies, the “is she possessed?” moments, and the way she can go from angelic cuddle muffin to feral woodland creature in under six seconds.

And here’s to the future: the calm, wise, loyal companion she’ll become… the one who will sit beside me like she’s always been perfect, and I’ll barely remember the chaos she put me through.

To Frankie – may her baby teeth soon fall out, her naps lengthen, and may I remember that underneath all that fluff and energy, is my future best friend.

Woof and Cheers!

I have this little playhouse in town (mentioned in previous blogs), my happy place, my hideout, my escape, and apparently the location where I’m routinely reminded I’m not 25 anymore. The other day I decided to take out a big, overgrown bush that was projecting out enough to cover one third of the driveway.

Simple enough project, right? Well, by the time I was done, I looked like I’d been dueling it out with the bush and the bush won. My sunglasses sliding down my nose, I was hot, sweaty and crabby. And why in early June, are we already dealing with this kind of heat and humidity?

As I was dragging branches and putting them into a pile, I remembered something from last summer. I was doing yardwork then too, muttering to myself, “Why don’t I know a local handyman who wants to make a few bucks? I’d gladly pay someone to do the fall and spring cleanup. Plus, odd jobs as they came up.”

I walked inside, checked the mail and sitting right there inside the mailbox – like a message straight from the universe to me personally, was a little handwritten note:

“Will do yardwork. Reasonable rates. Give me a call.”

I called. I didn’t hesitate.

He answered.

And that’s how Jason came into my life.

Since then, Jason has mowed my lawn, raked leaves, trimmed bushes, shoveled snow, and even helped me haul in a heavy piece of furniture. All I need to do is message him, and he’s there within a reasonable amount of time. He needs the work, but what I love is that he appreciates getting the work. Sometimes I think he wishes it would rain more often just so the grass would grow faster and he could mow twice a week.

Jason lives in a group home, and while I don’t know his whole story – nor do I need to – I know enough through short conversations to understand he hasn’t had an easy road. He’s told me bits and pieces. He could have easily gone down the wrong path, never to return. But during those times he ventured down the wrong path, he turned around and tried again. He believes in working hard and earning an honest dollar, and that’s exactly what he does.

One morning when he came to mow, I was at the house. Watching him walking up, pushing his mower, I couldn’t help but laugh. He had saved up to buy a brand-new mower, and bungee-corded to it, were his leaf blower, a rake, and a 12-pack of beer. He didn’t try to hide it or apologize. He just said very matter of factly, “Heh, I’m an alcoholic. But it doesn’t affect my work. If you have a problem with it, I’ll leave the beer at home.”

I told him I appreciated his honestly and could he do my job first thing in the morning before the others? We both chuckled at that and he said if I ever felt he wasn’t doing a good enough job, to let him know.

And then came yesterday.

After whacking away at my shrub, I messaged him: “Call you come help me load this into the back of my pickup?”

He didn’t see the message until hours later and messaged back saying if I could have my pickup at the house by 9am the next morning, he’d be there. I did. And he was.

It didn’t take him 10 minutes. I could have easily done it, now that I wasn’t feeling the exhaustion from cutting it down, but he could use the money.

I asked him how much I owed him, and he said, “Fifteen, twenty bucks – whatever you think.” Then he pointed to my pickup and said he’d hoped by now he’d have a pickup of his own for doing exactly this kind of work – helping people clean up, haul branches, limbs, brush, whatever.

But then he told me why he didn’t.

He said he had to give his sister $1,500 to buy a grave marker for their mother. “She died back in 2013,” he said. “She wasn’t the best mom in the world… but I got a few memories that tell me she did the best she could. And she was a nurse, so she had to have had a good heart. We just felt we owed her that much – to get her a gravestone.”

With a smile on his face, he described it: “It’s really pretty. It’s got gold in it – not real gold, but gold-plated or something – and they even had a little nurse hat that they could etch onto it so people know she was a nurse.”

As he walked away and I grabbed my blower to clean up the last of the mess, I felt that tug in my chest – the one that makes you want to hand someone $1,500 and say, “Here, go get your truck.” Not sure what kind of a truck $1,500 can buy, but that’s none of my business.

This man lives day-to-day, picking up jobs, probably just trying to keep himself in beer and cigarettes. And you know what? It’s his money. He earns it. He can spend it however he wants.

I asked him what he was going to do the rest of his day. He said not much. He had drunk too much the night before and he was dragging. But, he had plans to go to the community kitchen later on for a meal.

“Oh, we have food at our home,” he said, “but when I go to the community kitchen, I feel like I’m dining out.”

Dining out.

That one got me.

He didn’t say it for sympathy. He didn’t say it for effect. He said it because that’s his life. And hearing it made me feel two things at once: a little guilty and a whole lot grateful.

As long as he keeps doing a good job and putting in the effort, I’ll be there for him.

Driving away with the brush in the back of the pickup, I couldn’t get him off my mind. I thought about him going to the community kitchen, feeling like he was “dining out.” And I decided the next time he was doing a job for me, I’d at least have a plate of cookies ready for him.

I remembered one time I gave him a ride home and had half a sandwich in a to-go container. Before he got out, I reached into the backseat and said, “Jason, could you use this? I promise I didn’t bite off it, but cut it in half.” His eyes lit up.

“Oh boy, would I! Thank you, thank you so much. Oh, what a treat.” And you know what? He wouldn’t have cared in the least if I had taken a bite off it.

Everybody needs a Jason in their life – someone who shows you how another part of the world lives, someone who reminds you how good you really have it.

Like I always say, Our worst day is somebody else’s best day.

Raise your glass, it’s time for a toast:

To the Jason’s of the world – the ones who show up in their overalls with a mower, a rake, and a twelve-pack bungee-corded on like it’s OSHA-approved. The ones who work hard, don’t sugarcoat their story and show up even when life hasn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for them.

To the men and women who make “dining out” at the community kitchen sound like a 5-star event, who save up for gravestones before pickups, and who make our lives easier with their grit and hard work.

Sometimes the hero doesn’t fly in with a cape. He walks up wearing his overalls and says, “Whatever you think it’s worth.”

Cheers, Jason!

This morning with a cup of coffee in hand, and my husband scrolling through his phone ignoring me, I turned on the morning news to hear the following: 2 passengers aboard the cruise ship MV Hondius have now died, due to the deadly virus aboard the cruise ship. That virus, called Hantavirus, is now known to be caused by rodent droppings that passengers had apparently come into contact with while off on excursions, bringing the nasty stuff back on board with them.

This news ties in with the recent blog I’ve been working on. How, you might ask? Read on.

This past winter, right around Christmas, I saw one of those cute little signs you put next to a bowl of treats for delivery drivers. A sweet little “Thanks for stopping! Have a cookie on us,” moment of holiday cheer.

If anyone owes their drivers a treat, it’s the Tan’s. Technically, I know it’s their job. It’s what they do. But 3 deliveries in one day? At this point we could justify having our own personal Amazon driver. Full-time. With benefits. Maybe even a holiday bonus.

I know, I know – I shouldn’t feel guilty that the Amazon drivers make several trips a day up our driveway. We’re supporting the economy. But I do. And this winter, that well-intended holiday bonus I wanted to extend to our drivers, could have ended in disaster.

I bought one of those cute signs thanking our drivers. I put a bowl with about a dozen chocolate chip cookies inside. I set the cute sign on top and patted myself on the back, proud of myself for doing a little something extra to show our appreciation.

What I did not know is that when you leave fresh cookies outside in the winter, wrapped in cellophane like a Hallmark commercial, you need to bring them in at night. I learned this the hard way.

One morning I noticed the cookie supply was low, so I added a few more. The next day, a few more. Then I forgot about them… for a day or two.

A few days later when I lifted the “Enjoy a Treat” sign off the top of the bowl, I was mortified.

My cookie bowl had been playing host to an unauthorized after-hours party. A discovery that confirmed I had accidentally opened a rodent-run bakery. Why was I surprised? The sign didn’t even cover the entire opening of the bowl. Sheesh!

I actually thought about waiting until next winter to write this blog – maybe it could serve as a public service announcement. But I have a feeling I’m the only idiot who would ever do this, so what the heck.

In that moment of removing the sign, I was no longer the sweet lady offering warm holiday cheer. I was the woman handing out chocolate chip cookies lightly coated with mouse pee and poop.

The embarrassment. The horror. The immediate desire to enter the Witness Protection Program.

I’m praying the drivers either didn’t take a cookie… or at least had a good laugh before tossing it into the nearest snowbank. My execution was… let’s just say, not Martha Stewart cookie-handling protocol approved.

And no, I’m not putting out a sign that says, “Dear Amazon Driver, if you picked up a cookie last week, please accept my heartfelt apology for the mouse-piss glazing.”

So, I’ll just say lesson learned. Next time (if there is one), cookies come in at night, fresh ones go out in the morning, and the mice go find their own Amazon Prime subscription.

Speaking of Amazon…

I seriously don’t know what we’d do without it. Amazon is basically a member of our household at this point. A very punctual, very reliable, very non-judgmental member.

We even have a 4’ x 6’ sign posted out by the generator – partly to cover the ugly plywood that’s covering the electrical workings for our generator, that says, “Go Away. Unless you have amazon packages, merlot, or tacos.”

It’s been fun watching cars slow down just to read it. Half of the county now knows our stance on tacos.

A lot of people don’t like Jeff Bezos. Sure, he has more money than he could spend in a lifetime. So what? In my opinion, and my husband’s, he deserves it. He gave us the ability to wait until 3 days before Christmas to come up with gift ideas and have them arrive on time. Sometimes, the item arrives the very next day.

And what a fun surprise when I go to check out and Amazon says, “Oh, don’t worry, this one’s free – you’ve accumulated enough points to buy a small country.” All joking aside, those points matter.

I’m willing to bet to all those naysayers who dislike Bezos, they have at least one box laying around with the Prime logo on it. Probably two. Maybe three if they’re honest.

Amazon is a staple. A necessity. A convenience. A lifestyle.

It also brings my husband more joy than Christmas morning. Every day he comes home, sees a package, and says, “I don’t remember what I ordered…” I roll my eyes, but only because I’m guilty of the same exact thing. Then the box is opened to hear the, “Oh yeh, that’s right.” Obviously, it was something we couldn’t live without… NOT!

Grab your favorite drink and join me in a toast:

Here’s to the Amazon drivers who know our driveway better than our relatives, to the packages we forgot we ordered, and to the cookies that will never again be seasoned by wildlife.

May our deliveries be fast, our points be plentiful, and our Merlot-and-taco bearing solicitors find us soon.

(Relax kids – nobody’s dying – yet. I’m just writing. No hinting implied.)

Why don’t my kids ever call – just to chat? I truly don’t understand it. It’s not like they have jobs, kids, activities, responsibilities, or lives of their own, right?

I wish I could see the look on my kids’ faces when they click on this blog and read the title – if they even do. Read it, that is.  I know exactly what they’ll think: Oh no. We’re in trouble. No subtle hinting here. Mom’s guilt-tripping us via her blog.

Honestly, two out of the three of you might deserve a light sprinkle of guilt. The youngest son calls nearly once a week – but he’s still single, so he has the advantage of not going to kids’ activities and fewer humans yelling, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!” in the background.

And yes, yes, I can already hear the chorus: “Ya know Mom – the phone works both ways.”

It does. Absolutely. But there is something sweeter – something warmer – about knowing the call was their idea. When your child instigates the conversation, it hits differently. It lands right in the soft spot of a mother’s heart.

A couple of years ago, my oldest son called out of the blue. I remember answering with, “Is everything OK?” because seriously, these calls are rare enough that I assume someone’s in the hospital. But he said, “Everything’s fine. I just haven’t talked to you for a while.”

After the shock wore off, I grinned through the entire conversation. At first I wondered what on earth we’d talk about, but the words flowed as easily as water in a river. When we hung up, I felt joy. I felt thought of. I felt – dare I say it – needed. Maybe he called out of guilt, but I like to believe part of him just wanted to hear his mother’s voice.

Here’s the thing about mothers: we know our kids so well that we can hear everything in that very first HELLO. Panic. Worry. Exhaustion. Depression. Or the rarest of all – the casual, breezy “just calling to chat” tone. One word, and I know whether I need to talk them in off a ledge, patch a wound, or simply enjoy the gift of their voice. It’s a strange superpower, but it’s ours to behold.

Of course, that superpower comes with a downside: sometimes we react too quickly. A couple nights ago, my youngest called to tell me about a new job opportunity. He’d be commuting for a while and was thinking about getting a little beater car with good gas mileage. Instead of just listening, I jumped straight into Mom Mode and blurted, “Hold on – the last time you traded in a vehicle, you were sick with buyer’s remorse. And a beater will require you to spend money to keep it going.”

And then I heard it – that disappointed sigh. “Boy, I’m really glad I told you about my plan.”

Oof. That one hit me right in the heart.

I felt terrible. My reaction came from a place of wanting to protect him from feeling that same regret again. I was trying to save him from another heartache, but it came out wrong. It made him feel like he’d be damned if he ever told me an idea again. I still need to apologize – and I will, unless he reads this first and beats me to it.

Every Sunday night I tell myself – this week I’ll call one of the kids. I’ll pick a night and decide which one will be the lucky recipient of my rambling. But then I don’t. And so, my good intentions fail just as often as theirs do.

Now here comes the part that might tug at their hearts – but not because I want them to feel bad. Truly. I’d give anything to be able to pick up the phone and call my own mother. To hear her talk about the birds at her feeder, or how her flowering crab apple tree was loaded with buds and is going to be gorgeous this Spring. She’d tell me about a new recipe her niece gave her but didn’t want to make “for just one person,” and then she’d ask if she made it, would I stop over and eat it with her.

And now here I am, tears in my eyes, hearing her voice in my head. I’d give anything to hear it in my ears.

Mothers don’t stop being mothers when the kids leave the nest. We don’t stop thinking about you, worrying about you, cheering for you, praying for you. For nearly eighteen years, we occupied the same space – you were our entire world. We were mama bears, protectors, worriers, watchers. And yes – sometimes it would be nice to know you think of us too. Not in a burdensome way. Not in a “drop everything and panic” way. Just a flicker of thought kind of way. A moment of I should call my mom… just because way.

Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. But maybe – because the tiny part of you remembers that I washed your baseball uniforms three times a week, sometimes at 10 o’clock at night because you suddenly remembered you had a game the next day. And, because I kept you alive on Schwan’s chicken patties and Western dressing – the only things standing between you and full-blown hangry chaos when your tummy was grumbling loud enough to rattle the windows.

And maybe – your sister is still holding a grudge because I lost her blankie. Honey, I swear that is still a complete mystery. You’re such a Dateline fan, maybe you could get Keith Morrison to come investigate: The Case of the Missing Blankie.

I don’t want to add weight to your already busy lives. I don’t want you worrying about me. I don’t want you to feel guilty. But if this gently nudges you to pick up the phone and say, “Heh Mom, just thought I’d call to say hi,” – I’ll take it.

Because the sound of your voices light up the quiet corners of my heart.

A toast: Here’s to the years we survived together – the grass stains, the chicken patties, the missing blankey, and every “hello” that told me everything I needed to know in a single breath. Here’s to you calling me before you scroll through Recents, don’t see my name, assume I’ve died, and realize you were too busy to notice the obituary or attend the funeral – although Keith Morrison would absolutely call that suspicious.

Here’s to you finding humor in your mother’s latest blog post – and if it suddenly inspires you to call me, knock yourself out. You’ll find a very receptive receiver on the other end.

To Jill, Joey and Mark, the three humans who made me a mother, handed me a lifetime pass to worry and wonder, and then blessed me with grandchildren who made the whole ride even sweeter. You gave me the badge of Mom and the promotion to Grandma… not bad for someone you forget to call.

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. If you’re fortunate enough to still have your mother in your life, call her. The sound of your voice will mean more than any bouquet you could send.

Cheers and Happy Mother’s Day to mothers everywhere!

I didn’t expect to write a follow-up to Gracie’s last chapter so soon, but apparently, I have homework – and you’re involved.

Yes, homework. Cue the drumroll. I’ve enrolled in an Animal Communication course.

Some of you are rolling your eyes. Others – who know me well – are probably nodding and saying, “Of course she did.” My kids should be honestly grateful their mother keeps life interesting.

How I Got Here (Besides Following Breadcrumbs)

During the nearly 14 years I had with Gracie, I always sensed there was something bigger going on between us. Beyond the unconditional love, I felt a deeper purpose. I’d look at her and ask, “Gracie, what grand reason brought you into my life?”

I simply wasn’t a dog person. I liked other people’s dogs. Dogs lived outside. Dogs smelled. Dogs slobbered. That was my entire resume on the subject. So, when I went looking for a teddy bear pup and found one, I should’ve known the universe was up to something.

A week before Gracie’s passing, I had a moment in the shower – one of those soul-level moments where the water is running over you but you’re really not in the shower anymore. I said out loud, “Oh Gracie, I know there’s more meaning to your life than just being my companion.”

And instantly, I felt it: it would be in her passing that another, powerful reason would reveal itself. She would be my teacher, my partner, my spiritual guide – and the knowing of that hit me so hard I began absolutely wailing. Not crying. Wailing. Because that answer had everything to do with her death, and I was nowhere near ready for that truth. It was too big, too heavy, too soon… and yet it was unmistakably real.

Enter: Animal Communication

A few days before that shower moment, a reel popped up on my Facebook feed – an animal communicator. Not a subject I’d been searching, mind you. One of the animals Lori connected with, a cat, showed up wearing sunglasses, a top hat, and a pink boa. This cat was delivering deep, philosophical messages even she couldn’t quite comprehend. Another cat spoke of life being an illusion and time not being real. I was loving all of it!

There’s no question for me that animals communicate. My question was more, “Why wouldn’t they?”

Animals have souls. Animals have something to say. It’s our job to listen.

We talk to our pets constantly. We tell them where we’re going. We reassure them we’ll “be right back,” even when we know we’re lying. That’s connection. Often I’d lie to Gracie because I couldn’t bring myself to saying, “You may have to be in your bed for 4-5 hours.” That killed me, so I had to lie. I’d downplay it and say something like, “It’ll just be a little bit and I’ll be home before you know it.” I’m sure she was thinking, “Yeh right. I know better. But if it makes you feel better, go with it.”

As the days went on, I felt pulled towards this work. I downloaded books on Audible. I listened. I learned that humans are born with the ability to hear animals and spirits; we just forget. It’s a muscle. And I’ve had enough spiritual breadcrumbs in my life to know when something is calling my name. It’s a myth to think you have to have been born with this gift. That only special people can do it. We are all special.

My highest thought was this: If I could help people through the heartbreak of losing their animal, by sharing a message from their beloved pet, having just gone through it myself, what a gift that would be.

So, I signed up for the same program the FB lady trained with. In one of her videos she shared she was an accountant who wasn’t particularly happy doing what she was doing and trusted when she was told if she put in the time, she’d be successful. She swore she’d be the very first student to fail the class and disprove to the teacher just anybody can do it. News flash: She’s not only successful but quit her day job and has a wait list of thousands.

I had an interview and was enrolled in the program on a Monday. Little did I know… the very next day would be my last with Gracie.

Her First Messages

Not long after she passed, I sensed Gracie saying she needed to “get out of my way.” She knew I’d need time, space, and emotional bandwidth to learn this new skill. I asked her why she’d been such a needy dog – diabetes, Cushing’s disease, all of it. She told me by putting me in the caregiver role, it would bond us even stronger. Even though it was hard on both of us, she knew it was necessary.

She was right.

Animal communication requires quiet, stillness, and hours of focus. Currently, it involves hours and hours at my computer. If I’d still been juggling insulin schedules, potty breaks, and attending to her whines, it wouldn’t have been possible and to be honest, frustrating.

I shared a message I received from Gracie in my recent blog, the one where I asked if she was ready to go, and she replied, “I’m ready when you are, Mom.”

And no, that wasn’t just what I wanted to hear. I much would have preferred, “Nope – not yet, a few more days,” because I could have been easily talked out of it at that point. But she knew I had to be ready.

The Most Profound Moment

A few days after she passed, I found one of her insulin syringes on the counter. I popped the orange cap off a few times – because that little “pop” was oddly satisfying, and then I decided to reenact our whole routine.

I walked to the laundry room where I always fed her. Closing my eyes, I could see her in my mind, running in, spinning around, waiting. I placed the imaginary bowl down, rubbed the spot on her neck, felt the needle piercing her skin, pushed the insulin in slowly, giving it one last push to make sure all of the medicine had found its way into her, and withdrew the syringe.

I then stood up, opened my eyes – and that’s when I heard her:

“But Mom, you forgot the best part! You always took your hand and slid it down my back. I loved that part.”

That was an absolute OMG moment. That part was as much a part of the ritual as any of it. How could I not have remembered to do that? I did it twice a day – every day- for a year and a half. It started out to feel for any wetness, to be assured the insulin went where it was supposed to, but then became a sweet, sacred ending to the routine. I would ask Jesus to put His hand over mine as my hand slowly glided down her back. I forgot. She reminded me.

This was the clearest, most beautiful exchange we’ve had since she crossed over. However, while typing this morning, in my mind I saw her approaching the couch, wanting up. When I imagined pulling her body up, I heard her say, “You don’t have to do that anymore. I can jump now.” And so she did.

So Here I Am

I’ve started the course. I imagine Gracie curled beside me on the couch as I listen and learn. I had no idea how I was going to explain this new chapter to people, but honestly, I’ve done much harder things. Recently – one of the hardest. So saying I want to communicate with animals? That barely registers on the “Lisa has officially lost it” scale.

People who know me know I love this kind of work. Years ago, I practiced energy healing and I still believe in it wholeheartedly. This is simply an extension of that.

And now I need your help.

I Need Animals to Practice On

If you’re willing to share your pet with me I’d be so grateful. This is completely complimentary.

I’ll need from you a photo of your pet and just a few specifics that I’ve listed on my FB page. See link below.

I want to be transparent: I’m just starting. I may be 100% off. I may get nothing. This is a skill built on practice, patience, and trust. If I get one clear detail, one message that lands, that’s a win.

Please don’t feel bad if your feedback is, “Yeah… no. That wasn’t my pet you were connecting with. Honestly, you might be better off taking those breadcrumbs you think are signs and making meatloaf with them.”

I’ll dust myself off, thank you and your animal, and keep going.

Join Me

This program is so assured of our success, it has us creating new social media accounts early on, so I’m asking you to follow my new Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61574393920191

Follow the instructions on my page and post your pets pics. Help me grow this work.

And thank you – for reading, for supporting, and for loving Gracie right along with me.

Editor’s note: Just before Gracie passed, my husband took a quiet video of her resting in my arms. It was hard to watch later, but then I saw it – clear as day. She didn’t blink… she winked! And in that tiny, deliberate gesture, I felt her say, “This isn’t goodbye”. It felt more like a promise. That wink became the heartbeat of our next journey together.

Editor’s Note: I’m not special for loving my dog the way I did – every pet owner knows that kind of love. What’s different is that I have a place to share it, to process it, to honor it. Writing this is my way of surviving the grief that comes when we have to make the hardest decision love ever asks of us.

If you’ve walked that road – if you’ve held a pet close and whispered goodbye – then you’ll understand every word that follows. This post is for all of us who have had to send our beloved companions home.

At 5:03 this morning, the sadness hit me, exactly the way I knew it would. For the past year and a half, 5 am was sacred – the hour my sweet Gracie Lu got what she lived for: food.

Living with diabetes and cushing’s disease had given her an insatiable hunger. She was always starving, always pleading, always waiting for that next meal. It was extremely hard hearing her whine – sometimes for up to an hour. She wasn’t trying to wear me down, her body was simply begging for what it couldn’t have. It was a painful balance wanting to give her every comfort, knowing it would send her blood sugar spiraling. My husband wanted to spoil her with treats, but as her mom, I had to be the one who said no. It was tough love in every sense of that word. Truthfully, I think the hurt of holding back lived in me just as much as the hunger lived in her.

Cushing’s disease explained the hair loss we were seeing. Her big fluffy tail – the one we used to trim because it grew so long, slowly thinned until it resembled a little rat’s tail. Barely any hair hanging on. It was a stark reminder of what the illness was taking from her.

Our morning ritual started long before 5 am. It was routine to hear her cry around 3 am, from our bed where she slept – 4am if I was lucky. As she aged, she simply couldn’t wait as long to relieve herself. The moment I heard that first soft cry, I knew I had to move quickly. I’d scoop her up, carry her down the stairs, turn on the outside patio light, and help her down the 2 steps. Those early morning rituals – the ones I performed half-asleep, half-worried, squinting as I drew up the insulin into the syringe, praying I didn’t misread the numbers printed on the barrel – vanished overnight. The silence they left behind felt like a doorway I wasn’t prepared to enter.

Yesterday began like any other day. She ate at five. She shuffled over to the couch so I could lift her up beside me. Gracie always needed to be near me – or at least know where I was. Even if I slipped into the bathroom, I’d hear the pitter-patter of her claws walking across the floor edging closer, as she nudged the door open just enough to confirm I was there. That’s all she needed. Then she was content.

We had been watching her decline over the past year. At nearly 14 years of age, her legs were weakening. We were carrying her up the stairs – and now down them, too. The fear of seeing her tumble was real. She stumbled over thresholds, tripped on couch cushions, lost her balance on the bed – anything that wasn’t solid.

Two weeks ago, at her last glucose check, euthanasia became part of the conversation. It was a tearful visit. But then the vet suggested trying pain meds. I think I was in denial that she was in pain. I knew she had to be uncomfortable, but pain? Is there a difference? If that’s the case, this sounded like we were handed some hope. I couldn’t wait to get a day or two worth of pills in her.

To my delight, and Gracie’s – they worked. Within just a day or two, she was doing things I’d forgotten she used to do. She picked up a toy when she saw me, her way of saying she felt good and wanted to play tug-of-war. She hopped over thresholds again, her back legs moving in unison like a bunny hop instead of dragging. And even through her cataracts, her eyes had a sparkle again. It felt like she was coming back to me. I let myself believe we had more time. Possibly a lot more time. When we run out of pain pills, we’ll just get more.

People often talk about a loved one having a sudden surge of energy in the days before they pass. I believe that’s what happened with Gracie. Those pain pills gave her a few days of renewed life. But yesterday morning, everything changed.

I came home from an appointment around nine. I opened her kennel door, expecting her to grab her toy and hop out to greet me. Instead, she just looked at me. After a minute or two and some gentle coaxing, she stood up – but as she slowly attempted to exit her bed, her back legs couldn’t clear the one-inch lip of the kennel. My heart sank. What was happening? When she finally stepped onto the slippery vinyl floor, her legs gave out and she fell. Watching her struggle to get up broke something inside me and set the stage for the decision that would change everything that came after.

I sat in a chair, tears streaming down my face, and the thought came: She has a routine vet appointment in a couple of hours. Could today be the day – the day I’vedreaded since I brought her home nearly 14 years ago? OMG, was I actually entertaining this idea? I sat there and cried, shaking, knowing this decision was never going to get easier. But today? God no… I’m not ready!

Gene, our vet, told me at our last visit that he’d be willing to come to our home when the time came. I loved the idea of avoiding the 40-min. car ride she hated – the shaking, the fear. I wanted her to cross over while laying beside me on the couch, her favorite place that I lifted her up to nearly a dozen times a day. Up. Down. Up. Down.

But as I sat there yesterday morning, contemplating this grueling decision, I realized Gene most likely wouldn’t be able to come right away. In fact, I could be waiting several days for a day that worked for him. The thought of having an appointment for that dreaded day and having to count down the days… hours, until it fit into his schedule, seemed excruciating. And the part that stung the most was imagining him picking her up off our couch and carrying her lifeless body out of our home. Her home. Never to return.

I needed to talk to someone close to me. I called my daughter. Jill knew immediately something was wrong. When I told her what I was contemplating, we cried together. She assured me I was making the right decision and ended by saying through her own tears, “Please give her a hug from Lloyd and me. We loved that little girl so much. The kids will be so sad.”

Then I called my youngest, Mark. He was gentle and sympathetic, and he knew this pain all too well. He affirmed that this was the right decision. I was doing it out of love for her.

Next, I called my daughter-in-law, Briana. She and her family were still reeling from the loss of their love, Berkley. She got it. I asked a favor of her – something that I knew when once out of my mouth, was going to put everything in motion: “Would you call the vet and let them know?”

I couldn’t bring myself to saying those words. She would take care of it.

My husband had a heavy patient load in the clinic, but I messaged him, asking if he could call me between patients. He hadn’t seen the message yet, and my mind went to a dark place. Was he really not going to be there? Would I have to do this alone? Part of me thought maybe it would be easier just me alone with Gracie.  Another part of me was already fearing the resentment and loneliness I’d feel.

Then my phone rang. It was him. He asked what was going on, what time the appointment was, and then said he had one more patient to see. “Wait for me,” he said. “We’ll go together.” Things were falling into place.

While I was on the phone with him, I received a message from my son, Joey. “Heh mom, I know today is as hard as they come. I’d like to meet you at the vet at 11:45 to be there for you, if that’s OK.”

It was more than OK. When I told him Tan was going to be able to go after all, he said, “That’s OK. I will be there for both of you. It will be hard for him just the same.” There are no words to describe how much that meant to us.

Before any of that – before the calls, before the decision – I needed to talk to Gracie. She was lying on the couch, front paws stretched out, head low, eyes fixed on me. Not in a comfortable, relaxed position. I looked in her eyes and asked, “Gracie, are you ready to go?”

And what I felt – what I heard in that quiet way animals speak to us was: “I’m ready when you are, Mom.” Gracie knew the depth of my love for her and although she was ready, she knew I had to be too.

I had read something recently that stayed with me: when an animal reaches their last chapter, they are ready to go at any time. Our job – the hardest job – is to let them go before they reach the last page.

My husband was home now. It was time. I went to find her harness and then realized it wasn’t needed. I’d be holding her. Before we walked out that door, I had one more thing to do. I went to find Teddy, the cat – her unlikely soulmate. Their bond was something out of a storybook. Teddy adored her. He hugged her with his tail as they walked across the floor, crawled into her kennel to lie beside her, kneading her gently with his paws, and draped himself over her like a blanket of love. Even when she tried to wriggle away, he persisted until she surrendered to his affection. Animals have a way of knowing, and I believe he knew exactly what was transpiring.

When I sat Teddy down beside her to say goodbye, he looked at her briefly, then at me, and simply walked away as if to say, We’ve already said our goodbyes. I believe they had.

But last evening those cats felt the emptiness. Both he and Tilly would jump on the bed, stand there for a second, then just as quickly jump off. Today, this is where they are – one on each side of me, as if to say, “We’re here for you.”

At the vet, the first injection was administered. Within minutes, her rigid body – the one that never liked being held except at the vet – went limp. That was the moment I dreaded. A part of me screamed:  Stop. Let the anesthesia wear off. I need more time. But the other part whispered, You’re going home now, baby. No more pain. The door is open.

The second injection came. She was ready. It didn’t take long. I placed my hand underneath her body, desperately wanting to feel her last couple of heart beats but felt nothing. Gene listened with his stethoscope, then looked at me with soft eyes and his soft voice he’s known for, saying the words I dreaded to hear. “She’s gone.”

More tears. Endless tears. She passed peacefully.

I couldn’t stop smelling the top of her head. I knew I would never smell her like that again. Every evening when I carried her upstairs to go to bed, I’d kiss the top of her head a million times, absorbing her smell into my memory.

I needed a few minutes alone with her. I leaned down and whispered into her fur all the things a fur Mom would want to tell her fur baby. She knew how loved she was and I knew how lucky I was to have had her all those years. Walking away from her lifeless body was the deepest sadness I’ve ever known. I kept looking back. How could I leave her there?

Walking Gracie into the vet clinic, it looked like rain could come any minute. An hour later, walking out without her, the sun was shining ever so brightly. A had to smile.

Coming home was awful. Her dishes. Her kennel. Her treat container, the thawed Farmer’s Dog brick laying on the counter. Her insulin. Her meds. Every corner of the house screamed her absence.

This weekend we were going up to the cabin. We hadn’t been there all winter. I kept telling myself I wanted Gracie to sit in the sunshine on the deck and look out at the lake at least one more time. She loved it there. Chasing squirrels up a tree, going on a boat ride, and when my husband was up there, as soon as she saw the whites of his eyes in the morning, she was pouncing on him. Their routine was he’d grab a cup of coffee and they’d go for a walk. I was hoping – praying – there might even be many more of those times.

I’m prepared to walk in the cabin and every memory of her will rise up like a tide I’m not ready for. I’ve always loved spending alone time at the cabin. Alone time meant just the two of us. She was great company, especially sleeping alone. It was a comfort to see her next to me. We were in our happy place.

I needed to write this. I  needed to document the day my world shifted. Every pet owner knows this pain, this grief that feels like it has a heartbeat of its own. I’m not the first nor will I be the last to experience this deep of a loss. It’s a part of life. My older brother put it beautifully: It’s a pain that’s proportional to the love they’ve provided.

People often wondered how I, a cat lady found myself with a house dog to begin with. But I know the answer. The unconditional love a dog gives you is unlike anything else. I’ve had to say goodbye to many cats, each one its own heartbreak, but the bond Gracie and I shared was something rare, something sacred.

Over the years, caring for her meant not going on trips with my husband, for we didn’t have anybody comfortable taking care of a dog that needed injections. It meant always watching the clock, so she got her insulin when needed, many, many vet checks to check her blood sugar and this past year, it meant waking up at 3 am. But I told myself I would have no regrets when her final day arrived and I can proudly say, I fulfilled my promise.

I know in time, I’m going to feel a freedom I haven’t felt in a long while. I can come and go easily now, but my body is still wired for the ritual we shared. Reaching for my purse to walk out the door feels strange, almost disloyal, because when Gracie saw me put socks on or grab my bag, she’d quietly walk over to her bed. She always knew exactly what to do. And now, when I step outside without closing her kennel door behind me, it feels like I’ve forgotten something essential. The moment is unfinished, as if the world hasn’t quite caught up to the new shape of my life without her in it.

Now it’s time for me to “turn the page.” The next chapter may be void of her physical presence, but she’s whispering in my ear all the time. And what she’s whispering will be shared with all of you in a future writing. You read that right.

A toast to Gracie – to the little dog who taught me how big love can be. Who made 5 am feel like a sacred appointment, who taught me love can live in routines, in soft whines at 3am, in the sound of claws on hardwood, and in the way she always needed to know where I was.

To the girl who followed me room to room, not for attention, but for connection – her quiet way of saying, “I’m here, Mom.” To her bunny-hop legs, her toy-in-the-mouth greetings, her sparkle returning for one last beautiful week, and the way she trusted me completely as I walked her home, opening the door for her – with my heart bearing the weight.

To the dog who didn’t need courage to leave – because she knew where she was going and she knew my love would go with her.

May I feel her beside me still – in the early-morning quiet that had become our way of life.

Here’s to my Gracie, my shadow, who made me a dog person without even trying.