Things I Learned in 2025

Happy New Year! Here are some random thoughts on 2025 .

Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, gaiety, and life to everything. It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good, just, and beautiful. - Plato

Plato nailed it.

The addition of Pips to the assortment of the daily NYTimes Games energizes my dominoes-loving inner child. 

I quickly morphed into being a Sporty Spice when tickets for Super Bowl LIX were purchased hours before the big game in NOLA. 

Being in the Superdome to witness the Birds eviscerate the Kansas City Chiefs in February defines bliss.

Can someone send word to Taylor and Travis that I am patiently waiting for the nod to be their officiant? (Pay no attention to my previous Super Bowl musings)

Despite the above sports entries, I am, as the kids say, sports adjacent.

Hospitals are stressful labyrinths. Hospital volunteers are stress-relieving angels.

It is unclear why anyone would move out of the state of Colorado – she is magnificent!

Choosing the wrong option when trying to transfer my Apple iphone photos to my Microsoft Surface laptop resulted in the loss of thousands of photos. It is a massive disappointment. It is also strangely liberating.

A muffuletta sandwich from New Orleans Central Grocery & Deli is the closest I will ever come to sandwich paradise. (I see you DiNics roast pork sandwich with broccoli rabe!)

I believe in magic when a couple marry at ages 73 and 74 and describe their delight this way: Sometimes love comes and gives you a fairytale!

Officiating is magical.

Combining vodka and many vanilla beans makes homemade vanilla extract. Leave the bottle sit in a cool, dry place for 6-12 months and voila! Best kitchen hack.  

Driving around Albuquerque, NM, visiting various filming locations used in Breaking Bad re-ignited my obsession with that show.

Having your kitchen knives professionally sharpened is a culinary imperative. (I'm embarrassed to say how infrequently I've had it done.)

Keeping a box of Band-Aids near said knives is also an imperative. 

What we run from pursues us. What we face transforms us.                        Author David Kessler on grief.

While taking a sheet of cookies out of the 400-degree oven, one of my earbuds fell into the crease between the door and oven. Fishing it out quickly while avoiding third-degree burns took unknown dexterity. 

Bonus: that earbud was unphased and is working properly.

Country singer Luke Combs was not on my list of ‘must-see’ artists until he closed Saturday’s performances at the Newport Folk Festival. His vulnerability and beautifully curated set turned me into a fan.

Big Bend National Park is, well, BIG! Texas is BIG. That’s right – my first visit in February confirmed what I’ve been told my entire life.

Regarding Texas politics - pfffft. 

Hospice workers elevate humanity when we are at our most vulnerable. 

Preparing your parents’ home of 47 years for sale is a bittersweet labor of love that also includes a strange exhale on settlement day.

MAGA is outsized white folk fear untethered. It worships a convicted felon. It terrorizes immigrants and defaces democracy. I am tired of re-learning this every darn day. Mid-term elections are coming.

Ken Burns’ “The American Revolution” is a respectful study of all aspects of how this country was colonized and the global impact – warts and all. It should be required viewing in every HS History class.

Author Wally Lamb taught creative writing at York Correctional Institution for Women for over 20 years, facilitating writing workshops that led to published anthologies. 

Thanks to the Merriam-Webster daily Instagram posts, these words are new to me:

Librocubicularist – (this is me) n. A person who reads in bed. From the Latin 'liber' (“book”) and 'cubiculum' (“bedroom”). The word was originally coined by Christopher Morley in his novel 'The Haunted Bookshop' (1919).

Psithurism – (glorious nature!) n. Greek. The sound of wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves.

Kakistocracy – (MAGA) n. government by the least suitable or competent citizens of a state. A state or society governed by its least suitable or competent citizens. 

This new-to-me bird is described perfectly by this humorous content creator:

                                                            

Taking us into 2026, glorious Patti Smith reminds us who has the power. I have this on repeat. 

***

Raul Malo’s voice may have been silenced this year, but it lives on in the ethers. Treat yourself to 6+ minutes of his soulful baritone and guitar licks singing Blue Moon with The Mavericks.  

***

Spoken word poet, Andrea Gibson, appropriately has the final say to close out this post. She died at age 49 in July. Please read any of her books or watch any of her performances via youtube videos.  

She is lightning. 

I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color

but I've seen flowers bloom at midnight

I've seen kites fly in gray skies

and they were real close to looking like the sunrise,

and sometimes it takes the most wounded wings

the most broken things

to notice how strong the breeze is,

how precious the flight.

***

Dear Reader ~ If you've made it this far into this annual vanity post, bless you! I am grateful and humbled to have your attention. Here's to a satisfying start to 2026. Let love and truth be our guide. 

Movin' On Up

The home's empty rooms inhale memories and exhale potential. Unshackled by the weight of furniture, rugs, and framed pictures on the walls, the sparseness is surprisingly liberating.

This is not my childhood home. It is my parents’ place, purchased when I was a young adult.

In 1978, this house checked off all the boxes on my parents’ wish list. This single brick and stone residence with a backyard, a separate two-car garage, a screened-in porch, a den, and 2 full bathrooms actually exceeded their real estate dreams.

They were movin’ on up, just three miles from the compact rowhome where they raised my three siblings and me.

My folks had arrived.

As with every arrival, a departure is imminent. My mom died in 2020, and my dad passed in April of this year. After 47 years under their care, it’s time for someone else to move on up.

The house is being sold.

I find myself switching between the nouns house and home when speaking about it. Saying the word house feels generic and common; saying home adds heart and soul.

Powerful memories reside here, but this house has neither my childhood heart nor soul. I've stored those with the home where I grew up. 

For my folks, however, this home was a cherished vault of family life. They became grandparents the year they moved in. Seeing them realize their American real estate dream left a mark on each of us as we ventured out into our future homes. 

This was the only home their grandchildren and great-grandchildren knew where to find their grandparents. It had generational heft.

Holidays, birthdays, barbecues in the backyard, gatherings with friends, and family Sunday dinners, all hosted here, gave breath to this inanimate structure. 

Life here encircled my parents with a satisfying tempo, similar to the pleasure they felt swaying on their porch glider on any given summer evening. Death eventually stopped the melody as they, each in their nineties, took their last quiet breath.

The Burt Bacharach/Hal David song - A House Is Not a Home - bubbles up as I hear Luther Vandross sing:

                A chair is still a chair even when there’s no one sitting there,                                    But a chair is not a house, and a house is not a home                      When there’s no one to hold you tight. 

While the song explores themes of broken-hearted loneliness, it also conveys a deeper message about the presence of Life within a home. I couldn’t agree more. 

I slept at my parents’ home the two nights before my wedding, as did one of my brothers and his family, who flew in from Maui. My sister lived with my folks for most of her life. My other brother and his family then lived two blocks away. We reveled in this rare time of togetherness and proximity. 

When I worked in Philadelphia, my parents cared for my daughters one day each week, making it my favorite workday. My mom would wait on the front steps with the girls to greet me as I drove up to the house after work. 

I can see that tableau like it was yesterday - the girls waving wildly at my approaching car. Any lingering work stress disintegrated under the sparkle of those smiles. It is a treasured memory that I grab when I seek extra joy.   

As my folks aged and my family grew, my home became the gathering place for holidays and celebrations. In December, my mom would regularly ask, “Come see my tree.” It wasn't hard for her to relinquish hosting around Christmas, but she disliked the unintended shift in her home's activity.  

Her mother, who lived around the corner from my childhood home, made the same request in the 1970s as she eventually passed the holiday hosting baton to my mom's care. I owe my Christmas hosting devotion to these two unsinkable, loving women.

Singer/songwriter Katie Gavin's lyrics from The Baton whisper:

      Go on girl, it's out of my hands ~ I can't come where you're going ~                 But time unfurls and you'll understand ~ The baton, it will be passed again.

While recently sorting through my mom's holiday decorations, "Come see my tree" slipped into my thoughts - a reminder of her passion for Christmas and her joy in sharing her decorated home. Since my daughters live out of state, I more fully appreciate her feelings.

The décor in my parents’ home eventually began to fray around the edges as they both aged into their late eighties and early nineties, but the home's bones were supported and updated. They both knew the value of staying on top of their most valued asset.

 …but a chair is not a house, and a house is not a home…

Once the house was emptied in the Spring, I felt myself inhaling and exhaling deeply. Seeing the newly painted interior and the floors restored to their golden oak splendor reignited what my folks must have seen in the late 1970s. 

Soon, (hopefully) the next lucky residents will be welcomed with a renewed, airy freshness as they launch into their own set of memories. 

This house rightly stands on the threshold of becoming a home once more. 

  

"Come see my tree."

Christmas at my parents' home

                                                                 "The Baton"

Things I Learned in 2024

-A book should grab you by the lapels and kiss you into tomorrow.                 (Author Kevin Ansbro)

-Death Valley National Park - a diverse wonder - defied its doomsday name when experienced in February's 70-degree temps. 

-Viewing a solar eclipse in the zone of totality became a life imperative. Visiting Vermont for the first time was a bonus. 

-Switching between two phones while using a laptop to track cloud cover percentages for total-eclipse-day fried almost every one of my brain cells. 

-Welcome back to Spotify Joni Mitchell. (and Neil Young)

-Watching my 5-year-old grandniece skip down the street as she blew kisses to the sun, the beach, the sand dunes, the flowers, and the sky informed my definition of seashore bliss.

-After 34 years, the deer have found our meager summer garden.  Curses! 

-Palmyra, Samm Henshaw, Molly Tuttle, Hermanos Guitierrez, and New Dangerfield were some of the 'new-to-me' performers at this year's Newport Folk Fest whose music now resides in my Spotify playlists. 

-The clean-up icon in the iPhone Photos app is a platinum-level addiction. 

-First visit to LasVegas + Super Bowl weekend = Wowza! 

-Never say never. Joni Mitchell's weekend concerts at the Hollywood Bowl were as far-fetched a dream as any. And yet, there we were in October listening both nights to a 27-song set that dove into her rich catalog.

-Sharing that weekend with my music-loving eldest child quenched all thirst.  

-Spoiler alert - we are lucky to live in the time of Joni Mitchell. 

-My reading skills met their match with 100 Years of Solitude.

-We could have had an intelligent woman and a competent Congress leading the country.  But, you know, the price of those darn eggs. 😐

-No matter where we go, sharing time away with my college friends fuels my soul and tickles my funny bone.

-The magic created when a couple chooses to marry on the 15th anniversary of their first date softens the toughest among us.

-My youngest daughter's varied travels in Southeast Asia have unlocked little-known wonders inside my Pennsylvania brain. 

-Attempting to sign into any accounts via phone or computer when I am away from home seems equal to trying to steal the nuclear codes.

-Visiting Christmas markets in Strasbourg, France, and Basel, Switzerland along with seeing the refurbished Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris amped up holiday magic. 

-Strolling out onto the Ocean City NJ Fishing Club's 635 ft. long pier this summer when it was open to the public for one night, almost made me want to fish.  

-When swarm, cluster, colony, or loveliness are the synonym options for naming a group of ladybugs - loveliness will always get my vote. 

-Giving a solo standing ovation at the end of the film, Wicked tracks for me. 

-My unscientific observations made while traveling in Europe this month confirmed that European footwear easily out-styles US footwear by a very wide margin. 

-Spotting W. Kamau Bell at an airport gate challenged my fan-girl sensibilities. I praised his work, lauded his activism, and asked for a selfie. No shame. 

W. Kamau Bell & a fan

Dearest Reader, 

Another spin around the sun - another reminder of the ticking clock. 

Thanks for taking your precious time to read this vanity project post. 

Peace and good health to you and to those in your heart. 

And now, a poem for you. 

a wish for the new year

by Megan Failey

 

 because I cannot wish anyone a year

where nothing hard happens, I wish

you a year where you meet what is 

hard with softness.  where you know

softness is an impeccable strength. I 

wish you a heart like a neon sign that

blinks: OPEN 24 HOURS. I wish you an

advent calendar of a year behind

the door of each day: a small gift,

a surprise sweetness, an unexpected

bliss.  I wish you a life like a crowbar,

prying your chest open, letting more

love in

Joni Mitchell - Hollywood Bowl -10/20/24

Below is the link to the December 2024 podcast by NYTimes critic-at-large Wesley Morris along with his editor Sasha Weiss as they share thoughts on attending Joni Mitchell's return to performance at the Hollywood Bowl concerts in October. 

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/12/25/podcasts/the-daily/joni-mitchell-blue.html

And lastly, I learned the word for this airborne ballet

 is murmuration. 

It's something  I could watch for a very long time! 

(seen in Ocean City NJ)

Choosing

                                              

This Election Eve, I find myself reminiscing.

I recall my eldest daughter's kindergarten teacher, Mrs. O'Shea, kindly offering some wisdom in that first 'official' school year. 

While I marveled at catching glimpses of my kid making friends and navigating so many necessary social hurdles, I let my parental insecurity spill over.  

Mrs. O'Shea shared this: Children find who and what they are looking for. So true. 

As parents we can guide, suggest, model, and encourage our kids as we see them choose their compadres, however, kids choose who they choose.  We are not the ship's captain on their journey - merely the tug boat alongside guiding them to safety if and when we are needed. 

Maddie's second piece of advice: Learn who your child is. True again.

The last bit of memorable parental guidance showed up a few years later when I read the following: prepare your child for the path, not the path for your child. 

In my opinion, this triad of advice is all that parents need. (I say this on the 'back nine' of parenting. and wish I did a little better on the 'front nine'. No do-overs; only learning.)

What does this have to do with tomorrow's election?

I think this wisdom also applies to being a good citizen. 

Tomorrow, we choose to vote on what we are looking for, on who we are, and on what path our country will take. 

I have already voted for a leader:

-who is positive; 

-whose work history has been formed in government service; 

-who fiercely supports women's reproductive rights and bodily autonomy so only women and their doctors choose what is best in health issues. This must be a federally protected right so women are not racing from state to state in some Hunger Games dystopia endangering their lives to find the medical care they need. 

-who loves and defends democracy; 

-whose inclusive, appropriate behavior is welcomed at my dinner table.

A bonus is this leader is female.  We've had 46 US Presidencies with men of all calibers. Men have had more than enough chances to lead this country.  Let's begin to balance the scale with a qualified female president on election day.  

I want a capable, sane, measured, compassionate, strong woman as US President, and have found her in Kamala Harris.

Keep Kalmala and carry-on-a-la.

                                                                                              

Watch This

Time. In the seconds it takes to type this sentence it has already moved on to this moment.

For better or worse, it persists. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time scrapes by slowly while we sit at red lights, or when our kids are babies, or when we are placed on hold making a phone call (which includes listening to the same voice on repeat noting how much our call is 'valued' - each iteration more insincere - but I digress.)

Time accelerates too quickly when we spend it with our favorite loved ones, or when we're on vacation, or during my youthful summers when the streetlights came on sadly signaling the end of playing outside. 

In the last several years, my December 31st "What I Learned..." blog posts have concluded with an observation about the passing of time because I am a woman of a certain age who is paying more attention.

When does time begin to become important in our lives? I can pinpoint exactly when this happened to me.

It was when I received a wristwatch as a gift from my parents for my First Communion. 

No matter where I have stored jewelry on my bureau over the years, this watch has been included in my messy collection, usually buried far below the jewelry du jour.  Even after many cleanouts, I cannot part with this cherished piece. 

It is a stainless steel, chrome-finished Timex watch with a partial elastic wristband. 

My 1962 Timex watch

My seven-year-old memory of opening that gift box is easily accessed. 

It was October, 1962. Special occasions burst forth with familial attention in our suburban rowhome back then. 

I can clearly see my siblings, parents, grandparents, godparents, and cousins all seated around the table after savoring a celebratory multi-course dinner prepared by my mom. 

She handed the unfamiliar-shaped box to me with pride. Most childhood gifts were normally inside Lit Brothers department store boxes. My mom worked at their 69th Street location in Upper Darby for most of my school years and she 'shopped locally' using her 20% employee discount.

But this box was different. I turned the odd-shaped plastic case over once and creaked open the lid unveiling the doorway to maturity - a wristwatch. 

It represented a portal to responsibility (at least in my second-grade brain.) 

It was singular, personal access to where I was in the 24-hour day; a portable, modern sundial just for me.

It was my first piece of 'good' jewelry. 

Everyone in my family wore wristwatches. I am the youngest so I longed to be part of the Timex 'club.' We wore Timex watches because their products were the middle-class timepieces of choice. 

The brand's tagline in the 1950s and 1960s - "It takes a licking and keeps on ticking" - imbued confidence and a whiff of snazzy-ness to this lucky owner. (Timex brought back the famous slogan in the 1990s to moderate reviews.)

I lifted it from my old jewelry box and immediately wound the stem piece wondering if the watch still kept time. The second hand clicked forward right away in its familiar staccato motion. 

I placed the wristwatch near my ear to double-check that it really worked and to hear that familiar ticking sound. So reassuring.

The next day it continued to display the correct time. 

Who could predict that this trinket from six decades ago would perform so seamlessly? I think the Timex marketing folks doubled down on this idea of durability and permanence in all of their ads back in the day but did they really believe it? 

They sure made me a believer. 

This little timepiece was my lone grade school jewelry until I had my ears pierced at age 13. While other watches came into my future world, I can't recall any notable replacements until much later when the plastic, colorful Swatch watches upended the fine watch industry in the early eighties. 

Swatches were welcomed wrist candy for a young demographic. Their bold colors and graphic designs to go with any outfit were seductive. I fell hard for them.

But my first Timex remained on my meager jewelry team. Swatch watches were eventually kicked off. 

While I outgrew my Timex by my early teens, I continued wearing watches repairing/replacing them as needed. My wrist felt abandoned without one. I think I was in the minority. 

Several years ago, a younger co-worker remarked upon noticing my watch, "It's cute that you still wear a watch!" 

Cute? It's essential! (or so I believed.)

Today, we are in an era where our phones have become the tellers of time. 

My current non-Timex watch has taken a licking and has stopped ticking. I am hoping it is a battery issue. However, should it be a mechanical problem I may, for the first time ever, succumb to using my phone as my lone timepiece. 

Sigh.

This concession will not dim my devotion to my little Timex beauty. She will remain with my declining collection of jewelry. I cannot part with her. 

She defined time eloquently. 

She elevated me into a responsible child. 

She made my little girl self feel fancy.

And she made me a lifelong watch wearer. 

I can't say if the Timex company knew that its durable timepieces were also carving equally lasting memories about time.

I can say the imprint was made on this girl. 

My first wristwatch memory will always keep on ticking. 

My current & not-so-current watches

                             1960s era TV ad with Timex spokesperon John Cameron Swayze

Timex updated its "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking" slogan in 2003 to "Life is ticking." .

https://www.nytimes.com/2003/08/26/business/media-business-advertising-takes-licking-keeps-ticking-way-timex-now-it-s-life.html

Timex Company marked its 170th anniversary in business in 2024. 

https://www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/timex-marks-a-significant-milestone-in-its-legacy-of-simply-great-watchmaking-302166103.html

Things I Learned in 2023

-A group of flamingos is called a flamboyance. Now that is a bullseye collective noun!

-Attending a wedding reception that has a 360-degree photo booth makes my crazy neighbors even more fun. 

-I am a newly minted US national park geek.

-For someone who hates long car rides, driving over 2200 breathtaking miles and visiting many national and state parks in Northern AZ and Southern UT in March taught me that I do have some car travel tolerance. 

-An October leaf-peeping car ride of 2000 miles through VA, NC, TN, and WVa had more unexpected vistas than I could have imagined. Thank you Shenandoah NP, Great Smokey Mts. NP, and New River Gorge NP.

-I believe I'm being groomed by a long-distance car travel endurance program.

-iPod earbuds can go through a full wash cycle and continue to work flawlessly one year later.

-Jim James of My Morning Jacket is my fantasy Kentucky BFF (he doesn't know it yet) Seeing MMJ twice this year fed my soul.

-"You can get the monkey off your back, but the circus never leaves town."          ~Author Anne Lamott

-I can hold my own standing in line with enthusiastic children also waiting to stamp their national park passports.

-Pink, a true rock star, is the goddess of stadium concerts. Sing with me now:   Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na-na-na.

-An unseen benefit of having family working abroad for the US State Department is the use of their car - thanks to Beth and Aaron!

-One big personal plus from touring the high desert is frizz-less hair - Every. Single. Day. Ladies, I know you hear me. 

-Wedding vows are usually solemn and sweet. When a bride’s vows noted one of the things she loved about her groom was his unrecognizable attempt to use a British accent and then goaded him into sharing it with their guests (which he did) I learned that wedding vows can also be very entertaining. 

-Staying one day/night in Pigeon Forge TN delighted me until I saw that Dollywood was closed on that one day/night. Next time Dolly!

-Sean Hayes' dramatic portrayal of a dour Oscar Levant in Good Night, Oscar was formidable with an equally formidable finale as he played Rhapsody in Blue.*

-The Smartless podcast guys – Jason, Sean, and Will – are this year’s additions to my fantasy dinner party. It will be a second seating with just those three delightful knuckleheads b/c their antics will definitely dominate the conversation.

-Author Abraham Verghese (The Covenant of Water) is also invited to my fantasy dinner party - first seating. 

-My car has a keyless entry.  I learned this after driving a friend’s car (with keyless entry) and wondering why my car didn’t have this feature. Alas, it did/does. Yes, it is disturbing to discover this 15 months after purchasing the car.

-Cars are complicated.

-I am more of a dilettante than a sports enthusiast except when a Philly team is in the championship hunt. Red October was an extremely joyful/painful time.

-I am shocked to write that I am a regular listener to the New Heights weekly podcast. Ahhright nah.  

-When James Taylor is a last-minute sub for Noah Kahan at the Newport Folk Fest, it makes me wonder who else is on Executive Director Jay Sweet's phone contact list. 

-Raised garden beds surrounded by chicken wire proved vital for a bombastic zinnia season. 

-A performance by Diana Ross, who is nearly 80 years old, is a marvel and a love fest.  

-Overheard while hiking in Zion National Park as a tired, exasperated youngster told her parent, “Mom, allllllll the rocks look the saaaaaame.” She’s not wrong. 

-The James Webb Space Telescope brings universal wonder into focus every day. I believe the images confirm we are playing a silly short game here on Earth.  https://webbtelescope.org/news/first-images/gallery

-Andrea Gibson’s poetry is relentlessly powerful. Please consider adding You Better Be Lightening to your list of “must-read” books in 2024.                                                                          

-I was reminded of Tommy Smothers' incredible talent. I love this clip.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oghxf-HS6go 

Thank you dear Reader for making it this far into this annual vanity project. Time becomes more precious and vexing each trip around the sun and I love the following advice from a favorite author. May time be a worthy companion for you and those you love.

How to stop time: kiss

How to travel in time: read

How to escape time: music

How to feel time: write

                                       How to release time: breathe                                       From the novel Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig 

*Sean Hayes as Oscar Levant in Good Night, Oscar playing Rhapsody in Blue. 

Dear Diary

This is a story about a young girl and her diary. 

Think for a moment of the book - Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. 

I've read that famed memoir several times, seen a local theater production twice, and watched a Netflix documentary. All of them display Anne's elegant gift for writing. Her words act as portals to her confined, unsettled world at war. Her memoirist skills belie her youth.  

Now set those thoughts aside because this blog post is most definitely not about Anne Frank's diary. 

It is about a set of diaries that are at the other end of the memoir spectrum (if there is a spectrum.) 

It is about my pre-pubescent diaries.

During the height of the pandemic in an attic cleanout, I found the small colorful booklets written when I was 11-13 years old. I flipped through them briefly and chuckled at the rudimentary thoughts, facts, and often angst-filled events recorded in them. I promptly returned them to my memorabilia bin. 

In another more recent attic cleanout (does it ever end?) I came upon them again. And this time I read each entry. 

                My three diaries                    

                              

While they are inelegant, they are mirrors. The entries show lockstep recollections of what any day held, including terse facts about my family, friendships, school happenings, and trying to figure out boys (and some pop culture references randomly tossed in.)

For example, here is a sampling from 4 different days:

Woke up at 9:00 AM.

Joe (my brother) left for college.

We went to the shore.

I watched the Ed Sullivan Show.

As a lover of storytelling, it's clear that my intense need to write is tempered by little craft.  It is a sizable slice of humble pie. 

The entries double down on the mundane sounding more like a fact sheet than a memoir. I loved a solid declarative sentence. 

For example, these are actual full entries written at age 11:  

April 19 - Dear Diary, Going to Washington DC on the 22nd. Bye, Dee

April 20 - Dear Diary, Going to Washington DC. Bye, Dee 

April 21 - Dear Diary, Going to Washington DC. Bye, Dee

April 22 - Dear Diary, Went to Washington DC! FUN I bought writing paper and I slept on the train home.  Everything fascinated me.  Bye, Dee

We'll never know the specifics of those fascinating things. At least the verb use is noticeably fancy. Or should I say fascinating?

Other entries have a different focus. Boys, and, I use this next term loosely - "relationships" (such as they were in grade school) dominated my thoughts.  Who likes whom - who is talking to whom - who isn't talking to whom - who is walking home from school with whom.  

Did any homework ever get done?

Reading through the litany of likes and dislikes about girls and boys is relentless, especially in my 12-13-year-old diary. And each time (and there are many in the arbitrary world of pre-teen coupling) that I move from the liked to unliked column, I repeatedly write, "I don't care - it's better to be free!"  

How I wish I subscribed to that in my late teens and early twenties!

It is reassuring to see how powerfully important my friendships were.  That has been a constant thread in this girl's life. I still see three of these daily mentioned grade school pals frequently - Marianne, Pat, and Joan - and their impact fills me up in ways that my tween self couldn't see coming. I love this so very much.

Some use of sixties lingo makes me smile. Good things are Boss! and clever things are Cool or Groovy. Flower Power doodles were also very popular. I also had an affinity for using the Italian-American slang Agita (heartburn, acid) when things were upsetting though I consistently spelled it Ojida which naturally gives me agita reading it!

                        

                                        Flower Power                            Groovy!

Predictably, the start of each school year always brought even more agita. 

The 9/7/68 entry (below left) has an especially angsty tone. It's the eve of my first day of 6th grade and I am hyper-focused on Sister Alma, a teacher I do not want to have. Alas, the 9/8/68 entry(right) tells the sad tale 😊 (FYI - "Bleach" is an attempt at "Bleah" as used by the then very popular Peanuts character Linus)

                                                    

                  

Note: The "+" at the top of each page represents my catholic school education. Every paper we touched in school started not with writing our name but rather making the + at the top. The cross came first. The + infiltrated this early diary but the next two were +less. Maybe I was showing some independence? 

I write to Diary as though she is a person and this delights me. She's that secret keeper who holds no judgment and is always ready to listen.  She's the perfect confidant. This feels on point.

Report card ribbons, movie ticket stubs, and newspaper clippings about CYO sports add to the diary heft. An August 4, 1969 ticket stub (from the old Charles movie theater on Atlantic Ave. in Atlantic City, NJ) for the film "Funny Girl" doubles down on my teen love of Barbra Streisand. It would take me 37 more years before I would see her concert performance in Philly. Fan-girling Barbra has deep roots for me.

An odd keepsake is a Gino's french fries wrapper tucked inside the July 29,1969 entry. My brother Joe worked at that fast food place for a time in high school. Gino's burgers and fries were what my friends and I ate at my 13th birthday party. 

It was a big deal to me that we ordered food from Gino's! (Remember the jingle "Everybody goes to Gino's, 'cause Gino's is the place to go!) In an Italian household where every meal was homemade, saving the wrapper was my way of signaling the importance that Gino's food came to my house for my party! 

We always want what we don't have even if what we have is exquisite. Thanks to my Mom for indulging this newly minted teen and her friends. 

                                             

One of my favorite entries is a test drive of my signatures in June of 1967. In the month where the Vietnam War raged on, the Six-Day War in the Middle East ended, and the Beatles released the Sgt. Pepper album, my 11-year-old brain was set on figuring out what would be the best way to sign my nickname. 

Priorities.  

I often say I wish I could revisit the everyday pieces of my childhood by discerning them as a detached observer. To see, hear, and smell them at this stage in my life from a third-person point of view - as a sort of time-traveling witness - would be rich. 

Reading these diary entries begins to answer that wish and will have to suffice as a small window to what everyday life was like for me in the late '60s/early '70s. What they lack in powerful content, they deliver as a reminder of how dear and uncomplicated life was for this tween/teen girl. 

Dear Diary...thanks for the memories. Bye. Dee