Expressing versus exploding

As my journey on this planet continued and I gained confidence that I did indeed have a right to speak up for myself, and have a voice, wisdom and self-control has become my friend.

It’s never been my position that any of us ever have the right to be rude or belittle other people. Rather, it’s always been my position that if we are rooted in love and grounded from a sane estimate of ourselves, that our expressions will evolve from the sphere of dignity and grace. And, that speaking with a velvet voice truly becomes powerful. Sometimes, the quieter we speak, the more loudly we’re heard.

You ask, “Who am I kidding?” When the gal in the supermarket ahead of us is digging in her handbag for her debit card with two tired and cranky children wiggling around while a crying toddler straddled in the top of the shopping basket is trying to tear into a bag of chips, and all we want to do is just get through the line and head for home…the patron has the gall to ask if we mind waiting while they go fetch a jar of pickles they forgot, most of us aren’t thinking of finding our best velvet voice for our forthcoming verbiage.

No, we’re probably more than ready to give them a piece of our mind in our best screechy voice.

But, wait, where does that get us? And, how does it make us feel as we dash out to our car? Most of us will initially feel pompous for exercising our right to give that patron a piece of our mind for making us wait. But, as we drive home and calm down, we begin feeling like a heel and possibly even berate ourselves for our verbal explosion. A better way would be to express our thoughts about the scenario at hand from a position of personal power (adult dignity) and self-composure. We’d have a very different drive home!

Until next time…Top Blonde… speaking up!

I hope you’ll come back often to visit my site again.

A harvest of blessings

Sometimes life just gets so good I can hardly contain myself. That doesn’t happen very often because, like everyone, I too have my down times and have days that I wish would end almost the moment my feet hit the floor. But, for now, life is good, and I’ve been absorbing all the goodness bounding my way.

My harvest began September 30 while I checked my messages while sitting on a plane at Newark International Airport waiting to take flight. My final destination was the Fresno Yosemite International Airport, in California, and then an hour’s drive to my hometown of Visalia to attend my 45th class reunion. Upon checking messages, I discovered that my daughter Lesa, 9 months pregnant, was just beginning labor. About then, the captain announced it’s time to turn off all cell phones.

Two and a half hours later when we landed in Dallas Ft. Worth International Airport to change planes I couldn’t get my cell phone on fast enough to find out the latest development. The update on baby news was that Lesa was now about half way through her labor. It’s funny. When her baby passed his due date of September 24, I just knew she was going to have my first grandchild when I was up in the air! When I finally landed in Fresno a nerve wracking few hours later, she’d been a new mommy for almost two hours. Needless to say, everyone around me joined in my happiness with congratulations and smiles as we all disembarked.

From there, though my visit home wasn’t without its challenges as it was my first trip home since mom passed away last year, life goes on. I knew that mother would have been thrilled that I was able to make the reunion, reconnect with my past, and see family and friends. Dorothy was right in The Wizard of Oz when she said there is no place like home.
I’d arrived a couple days before the reunion to allow time for jet lag, catch my breath, and have my hair done. My trip home, true to form, kept me on the run…

Our reunion consisted of a Friday night social, the Saturday night dinner/dance, and a Sunday brunch. I went to everything. Forty-five years is a long time ago and most of us could hardly believe so much time had passed. We didn’t necessarily feel so different. We just looked older and better. I’ve been to previous reunions but missed the last one so reconnecting with my classmates, some of whom I started kindergarten with and went all the way through to high school graduation, was simply fantastic.

On past trips home, I’d reconnected with a nucleolus of girlfriends for lunching and this trip was no different. We met before the reunion to catch up and then again after to review that we saw, which we recognized, or didn’t, and discussed everything in between.
After the reunion, I spent most of the following week visiting with family until it was time for the next leg of my trip. I drove my rental car up into the hills of Oakhurst, about an hour’s drive below Yosemite National Park, to stay with my Aunt Betty, fondly called Aunt B., and Uncle Bert for my remaining two days in California.

Prior to my arrival in Oakhurst, Aunt B. had emailed some suggestions for our itinerary during my time with she and Uncle Bert. I really want to go to Yosemite to see the Redwoods, drink in the breathtaking beauty of nature, and take photographs of Half Dome. But, when Aunt B. invited me to her writing class on Friday morning, I decided that is what I should choose. It was a tug but visiting my aunt’s writing class was a unique opportunity I didn’t want to miss. While in the class I learned it’s a small world after all. I read my recent column about the County Store in River Vale where everyone knows your name. There was a lady in the class named Carolyn, who has a sister and a son who live in River Vale, New Jersey! I wonder if they are Community Life readers?

After a quick lunch Aunt B. and Uncle Bert surprised me by saying we were going to Yosemite after all. Snow was forecast that afternoon so we gathered up scarves, hats and gloves and set out up Highway 41 to see the most famously photographed rocks in the word, Half Dome and El Capitan. I was so excited I was about to levitate!

I had longed to smell the Redwoods and enjoy the awe-inspiring nature in the Yosemite Valley. And, now we were winding our way up the Sierra Nevada mountain range and would soon be viewing the grandeur of Yosemite that John Muri, a Scottish born American naturalist, loved and protected. We visited The Ahwahnee Hotel where my cousin Linda, had married many years ago. Ironically, we happened up a wedding party in the lobby just as the bride was about to say, “I do”. On my last visit to Yosemite fifteen years ago with my sister, Lezlie, we saw Michael Douglas. Aunt B., Uncle Bert and I had dinner at the Historic Wawona Hotel. By the late 1870’s the hotel had been transformed from a rustic inn into the “grandest hotel in the mountains of California”. If you go, be sure you check out the unique lampshades in the dining room dripping with pinecones.

Now that I’m back in the Pascack Valley I’ve come home renewed, encouraged, and inspired and am still soaking up my harvest of blessings.

Until next time… Top Blonde… taking the day!

A world class dad

Though it boggles my mind that it’s June already, this month has started out exactly the way Hallmark advertising depicts it will.  Many of us will be celebrating a graduation, an anniversary of sorts, or wedding, a birthday, a bat-mitzvah or bar mitzvah, and of course, Father’s Day is fast approaching.  

My niece, Ashley, graduated from high school and my nephew, Ryan, celebrated getting his GED.  Since my family lives on the west coast, I wasn’t able to be there.  Therefore, I’ve enjoyed most of these events vicariously and almost blow-by-blow through phone calls, text messaging, and digital camera uploads on the computer. 

The anniversary of sorts, I mentioned, is because a woman never forgets her wedding day.  In spite of divorce, or other unforeseen circumstances, that is a day in a woman’s life that is imprinted in her mind for all time.  This year, mixed up in the middle of the week of graduation celebrations, marks forty-two years that I would have been married had my life turned out differently.  That sounds like such a long time though, as I’m sure no one would believe I was that old.  Don’t they say that today being sixtish is more like being fortish?

I marvel at the adaptability of my ninety-four year-old stepfather, “Pop”.  I think of the example he has both set and consistently lived during the thirty-four years he was married to my mother before her elevation to Heaven, last summer.  As the patriarch of our family, I stand amazed at the hurdles he’s crossed over the span of his life.  He comes from a generation of strong stock with a seemingly unspoken silent code of no matter what happens you just keep going.

Over the course of my life with “Pop” I wasn’t the only one interested in his stories.   When my children were young they would gather round with their cousins and together we’d all listen as he shared his adventures of a young boy growing up in Missouri and then riding the rails out west.  He and his friends were regular Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn’s of the 1930’s.

The one story we all loved was hearing about his days of riding the rails and how he and his friends hoped on train cars whipping down the tracks.  We were awed by his life in the fast lane and the daring and dangerous habits of his gang of ruffians.  They weren’t bad; just young, naïve, and adventurous…and they wanted to get out of Missouri. 

They spent a spell in Wyoming working in Yellowstone, and though he liked it there, they were now hearing about work out in Santa Paula, California.  So, off they went again.

“Pop” settled in Visalia, right smack in the center of California in the San Joaquin Valley, known for growing fruits and vegetables.  A farmer, he built a ranch on property he bought and lived there for fifty years working his ranch while also raising a family, and working full time for the Edison Company.  As a widower, he met and married my mother, a widow.  They worked along side each other at the ranch irrigating doing other chores and still managed to travel the world and even went through the Panama Canal on one trip. 

In his eighty’s, prompted by the eternal inquiries about his life from the family, “Pop” wrote his life story on the computer making it into a binder book (with photos) for the family.  In his early 90’s he had knee surgery, first on one knee and then later on the other knee.  Though “Pop” isn’t jumping trains anymore and walks with a cane now, he continues to set an example of how to make it through the tough times in life. 

We all want “Pop” to live to be 100 so that we can contact Willard Scott on NBC and have his picture pasted on the Smucker’s Jelly Jar.  Regardless of what the days ahead bring, this Father’s Day my thoughts focus on my dad and his strength, determination to keep going, and his inspiring smile.

Like the grains of the sand that silently slip through the hourglass, “Pop” has taught me there is no time to linger on the past, but to keep celebrating today, and the future.

 

Meeting Jodi Picoult, New York Times Best Selling Author

March 10, 2008, was s a very special day.  The Junior Women’s Club of Ridgewood, NJ and Bookends Bookstore, also of Ridgewood, were sponsoring an author luncheon and benefit at Seasons Restaurant, Washington Township, featuring Jodi Picoult, to launch her next bestseller, “Change of Heart”, with the proceeds to benefit local women’s and children’s charities.

Since first being introduced to Jodi Picoult’s work through my suitor’s sister, Gail, and reading, “My Sister’s Keeper”, “The Pact”, Nineteen Minutes, and “The Tenth Circle”, I’ve been mesmerized by the riveting real life dramas Ms. Picoult writes about.  These are not sleeper books by any stretch of the imagination.  My experience has been that whether I agree or not about the topics at hand, or even understand the complexity of the human drama that unfolds across the pages of her books, I’ve been swept up by the dilemmas presented.  Those who know me personally know that once I’m caught in the throes of a good book it may be the wee hours of the morning before my lamp gets turned off.  And, so it is with Ms. Picoult’s books.  You can’t put them down.

As an author myself with only one book under my belt, so far, I marvel at Jodi Picoult’s literary proliferation.  Even though she writes fiction and I, non-fiction, I can still appreciate the writing process and her mastery at producing such compelling and provoking work.

When I drove up to Season’s, several car attendants were standing out in the street directing the incoming cars to an ancillary parking lot a quarter mile down the road.  This was because the event was sold out and the parking lot was full.

This little glitch thankfully went smoothly, and I still arrived with plenty of time to connect with Ms. Picoult’s publicist.  I’d arranged for a five-minute quick interview with Ms. Picoult at the end of the event and didn’t want to miss connecting for that.

After reading, “The Tenth Circle” last year about a young girl who was raped, I emailed Jodi Picoult and briefly shared my own story and recovery from being assaulted in my home in 1979 and that I’d written my experience in a book, “Nice Girl’s Don’t Get Rape”.  She emailed back with a very personable, touching, and encouraging response.  I was so grateful, thus when I learned she was coming to Ridgewood, NJ, and that it was her only appearance in NJ, I knew I wanted to be there and meet her in person, if possible. 

Upon walking into the large, event room I felt lucky at seeing that my table, #28 was just across from the podium and also near the exit for her departure.  Had I been in the back of the room, which was rows and rows of tables beyond me, I might not have had the immediate access to her I wanted. 

Seeing over five hundred women who were all Jodi Picoult fans filling the room to the gills was something to behold.  It made me wish I too were part of a group of friends as many women had come together and were making the day a real celebration.  One lady on the shuttle I spoke with received her ticket as a birthday gift.  Grace, the lady who sat next to me at the luncheon table, also received her ticket as a birthday gift from her daughter, Marie, who sat next to her. 

When Jodi Picoult got up to speak, all eyes were riveted on her.  She shared her life as a writer with a husband and three children, and talked about writing her various books.  She told us how she lived with an Amish family for a week while working on “Plain Truth”.  And how she came across privileged information at Columbine while doing her research on “Nineteen Minutes” about a school shooting.  She even shared how she sweet-talked her way into a prison in Arizona (most people are trying to sweet-talk themselves out of prison) for her research on “Change of Heart”, the book she was launching at the luncheon.

One highlight of the day was during the Q & A part and I got to ask a question.  I had read that it took Jodi longer to find an agent than it did to get her book published and since that is where I am in my process – finding an agent- I asked an agent question.  Her answer was yes, it’s challenging and that writing a book is even harder today than it used to be but to keep at it.

Most of my questions were answered during the question and answer period, so by the time I got to my interview with her, we mostly just did a photo.  But, it was during that time that I reminded Ms. Picoult that I was the one who had emailed about my experience and the book I’d written and that I was trying to finish work on my second book about women speaking up.  Ms. Picoult replied with an affirming nod and a smile, “stay with it – you can do it.”

Brimming with yes, I can do this enthusiasm and beaming ear to ear as I reflected on my charge from Ms. Picoult, I walked back out to the parking lot and joined a group of ladies standing and waiting for the next shuttle to drive us back to our vehicles.  Ms. Picoult’s limo was in front of us waiting to whisk her off to NYC.  Luckily, I just happened to be in position for a great photo when Ms. Picoult came out and snapped a departing photo of the accomplished New York Times Best-Selling author as she slipped into her limo.  Her parting wave and smile was like a shot of adrenalin and made me more determined than ever to find an agent and complete my book project. 

Indeed, March 10, an exciting, affirming, and inspiring pre-spring day that has set the stage for fulfilling a spring dream.

Until next time... Top Blonde taking the day.

"Oh, dear, I dropped a stitch"

Knit one, pearl two.  Oh, dear, I dropped a stitch.  What’ll I do? 

What made me think I could just pick up an unfinished knitting project that has languished in my knitting satchel for years and years?  Most of the time, my hand made by Aunt Margaret, knitting satchel was poked way in the back of my closet, out of sight and most definitely, out of mind.  I mused myself by saying, One of these days when I’ve nothing to do, I’ll get back to that and finish those half completed slippers that I began over a decade ago.  Oh, I would pull them out from time to time but never worked on them with any consistency. 

That is, until now.   

My special friend, Patricia, a knitter, has been dealing with ovarian cancer and receiving chemotherapy.  Oftentimes, when I arrived at noon to relieve her husband from the morning shift while she was undergoing daylong treatments, she’d ask, “Did you bring your knitting?”  Silly me, I hadn’t and therefore was missing a great opportunity.  If I dropped a stitch or ran into a problem, Patricia was a captive audience to help me out.

One night, a group of us, that included Patricia, met for dinner at the Emerson Hotel.  Afterward, several of us went back to Patricia’s house for desert…and knitting.  That’s right.  We were having an old fashioned knitting bee.  Patricia’s sister and niece, from New England, had come down for the weekend, and part of the plan was for her niece to hone her newly learned knitting skill her Aunt Patricia had recently taught her.

That night, I made sure to bring my kitting satchel with the unfinished slippers with double strands of yarn; one strand of pink yarn and one strand of lavender yarn.  After desert, Patricia, her sister Gail, and niece Brook, and myself, settled in our chairs in her living room and with a cup of tea close by, began the clack, clacking cacophony of knitting needles along with the chatter of our conversation.  Just being out of the kitchen made us feel like we were in heaven.

The scene stirred up a memory from over forty years ago when my family and I were visiting my great Uncle Claude and Aunt Dolly in Southern California.  Aunt Dolly was a tall, strong and full-bodied woman with a wide smile and thick pure white hair pulled neatly into a chignon.  Aunt Dolly could knit and crochet in her sleep and on this particular family visit, Aunt Dolly taught my mom, my sister, and me, to knit.

I am no master knitter by any stretch of the imagination as I’ve mostly only made the slippers that Aunt Dolly taught our family trio all those years ago.  But, I have made enough double strand slippers to keep the feet of my family and extended family, warm.  A new pair of slippers as my family’s feet grew always made for a happy surprise gift.  Everyone in the family looked forward to getting a new pair and to finding out what color scheme I had concocted.  They also made great gifts and it was a sheer delight seeing the smile on the recipient’s faces from the gift of love knit together in “Aunt Dolly’s” slippers. 

When Patricia’s sister, Gail, asked me about the pattern, I could only respond that I didn’t recall ever seeing a physical pattern.  The directions seemed to only be in Aunt Dolly’s head and she was long gone.  So was mom, so that only left my sister, Lezlie, in Boulder, Colorado.  I phoned to ask if she could help me out with a pattern, or directions, but it had been many years since she too had made a pair of “Aunt Dolly’s” slippers.   In the end, I had to depend on my own memory of how to continue with the project I’d begun so many years ago. 

But, isn’t knitting like reviving an old friendship?  You simply pick up where you left off without the span of years in between making any difference whatsoever.  So far, I’ve discovered it’s not exactly that easy but then not exactly too much of a stretch either for once the steel needles are in my hands, my fingers go into recall motion.

The other night when I was knitting, I realized that on several rows back, I had knit a stitch that should have been pearled.  What’ll I do?  Straight knitting is one thing.  Fixing a problem is a whole nether thing.  Years ago, I recalled, I was able to undo each consecutive stitch until I reached the mistaken stitch and then repair it.  Could I still do that?  I figured there was only one way to discover if my mind still worked.  Gingerly, I undid each stitch and worked my way down to the incorrect stitch.  Somehow, which I can’t intelligently explain how, I did it!  I successfully repaired the incorrect stitch. 

This time, thanks to the continuing friendship I’m knitting with Patricia, if I drop a stitch, I’ll know who to call.

             Until next time… Top Blonde… on the run.

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Blue Skies Ahead

Who would think that simply going out for brunch would turn out to be such an exhilarating jaunt?  Especially, when it was only the 6th day of the New Year (Epiphany), when some of us are still trying to locate our daybook to learn where we’re supposed to be or what we’re supposed to be doing.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

However, when my special guy, Rob, a true prince of a man, invited me to brunch at the Greenwood Lake Airport Cafe, Blue Skies (formerly the Crosswinds Café), I perked right up.  It only took me a D.C. second to accept his intriguing offer. 

Going to brunch was semi-routine for us, but going to The Blue Skies Café at the Greenwood Lake Airport, sounded completely fun.  The novelty of it all cemented my decision to say, “yes”. 

I eagerly darted out the door to whatever divine script God had in store for the day without even a glance over my shoulder at the left over holiday remnants that needed to be put away.  However, no second thought on this one.  Storing away Christmas decorations would have to wait for another day.

Turning into the entrance to the Greenwood Lake Airport, we passed big wooden beams that Rob told me were left over from Jungle Habitat, the Warner’s-owned theme park that closed in October of 1976.  We then came upon the main structure, which included the airport office as well as the café and the huge structure jutting out of the building believed to be the only surviving Air France L-049, originally bought in 1976, Frank Lembo Enterprises, to be used as a restaurant and lounge.

Upon entering the newly renovated café with aerial artifacts displayed on the wall, we seated ourselves at a table by a window with a spectacular view of the parked planes.  Our waiter, a clean-cut lad, greeted us while we settled into our seats.  Enjoying the new experience in a semi-Casa Blanca setting, I then began telling Rob about a man at my church who has a plane and flies out of Greenwood Lake Airport. 

I still find it had to believe myself, but in less than three minutes time, a familiar looking couple entered the restaurant.

Blinking in jaw-dropping disbelief, I simply couldn’t believe my eyes.  The couple who’d just entered the restaurant and who were approaching the table next to us was Hans, the pilot I’d just been speaking about, and his wife, Liliane!

I jumped up and after exchanging greetings and introductions; we ended up chatting back and forth between the tables like old friends.  After brunch, we all moseyed on out to Han’s aircraft on the aircraftapron, to take a look. 

While Rob, Liliane, and I continued chatting, Hans untied his plane, a Cessna, and did the pre-flight check before taking off for a short spin over the Warwick Valley.  Upon landing and circling back to the apron area, he motioned to Rob if he’d like to go up for a ride.  Instead, Rob asked me if I’d like to go up. 

What…me go up?  Whoa…. I don’t know about that…Yet, right before my very eyes a door was literally open for an incredible opportunity.  I hadn’t flown in a small plane in 32 years but the entire stage was set!  The propellers were spinning, the overcast morning had evolved into a beautiful day, the passenger door was open, and with no time to think too hard, or get scared, I found myself climbing into the passenger seat, getting buckled up, and with my heart pounding, I was soon jetting down Runway 6 for take off.

We flew over Greenwood Lake, Rt. 17, and the Warwick Valley with WestPoint to the East and Mohunk to the North.  Thankfully, there was no wind, which made for a totally smooth ride.  Otherwise, I’m sure I would have been frozen in my seat with white knuckles instead of snapping photos right and left. 

I’ve often heard it said through Bible study groups or from the minister on a Sunday morning, that God’s timing in our lives is always perfect. 

The timing and events of January 6th were especially perfect as it was my deceased mother’s first birthday that I would be recognizing without calling her and singing Happy Birthday (though I still did sing Happy Birthday to her anyway that morning while in the shower).  Yet, the day turned out to be anything but sad and truly became celebratory and honoring as we flew across the blue skies.  Even though a few tears spilled down my cheeks as I thought of mom, the thrill of flying closer to Heaven was comforting and gave me the assurance that she was at peace.  That she wanted me to be fully present in my life and embrace all the blue skies that the New Year held. 

Until next time...Top Blonde taking the day...

The Treasures of Tradition (Christmas 2007)

            Life continues to surprise me.  I was lamenting that with the recent passing of my mother, a welcomed tradition that she continued every year would no longer be a part of my holiday season.  And, then, this past week I had not just one, but two moments of glee that proved otherwise.

It seems everyone has a family tradition of some kind.  The other day while pushing my cart through the Shop Rite parking lot, I happened upon two ladies, Jodie and Linda, rearranging a box in the trunk of their car.  We got to chatting about their family traditions, and if they had any.  I learned that both of them had the tradition of going as a family to Christmas Eve church service, or mass, and then coming home and opening presents.

I remember the tradition my Grandmother Marie had of baking a mincemeat pie each year for the holidays.  Although, Grandma “Ree” only baked one, in the 11h Century, it was thought lucky to eat one mince pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas (ending with Epiphany, the 6th of January).  While I’ve never experienced that culinary indulgence, I have carried on my grandmother’s tradition with my own family.  However, that was one tradition I suspect they would not have missed had I let it slip bythe way side. 

Still, thinking you must have a mincemeat pie at some point during the holiday season, I offered to make one for the Christmas Day gathering of family and friends I’d been invited to.  The hostess wrinkled her nose up while simultaneously shaking her head and indicating an emphatic “no” on the mincemeat pie.  Cookies would be welcome, though, the hostess quipped. 

My mom’s passing signaled the end of her Christmas tradition of sending my sister and me a loaf of Stollen from Reimer's Candies, in Three Rivers California.  Each year, in late November, she would drive with Beverly Brown, her cousin, to the little red Gingerbread house candy store with white trim and old world charm located just miles from the gateway to Sequoia National Park, and order the sweet yeast German Christmas bread.  And then, in the early days of December, UPS would ring my doorbell with the delivery of a box with Reimer’s in red script on the side and a loaf of beautifully wrapped Stollen inside.

            And, now, the festivity of experiencing that delightful ritual and then phoning mom with my exuberant thanks would be no more. 

It’s a small thing, yes.  It’s only a loaf of German bread full of calories, but it was mom’s gesture of love that I knew I’d miss most.  My friend, Joan, mentioned she would also miss mom’s kindness.  Each year I would wait to open it until Joan could join me for our traditional cutting of the stolen and afternoon tea to steal away from the holiday stress.

Thus, I decided to start a new tradition.  I’d bake my own loaf of stolen.  Finding the rum was no problem but locating dried currants and ground cardamon proved more intense.  After several stops at different stores I located all the ingredients and placed them in a basket.  Finding a window of time to spend in the kitchen making and baking Stollen, which I’d never done before, became more challenging than anticipated. 

With the passing of the days, frustration set in.  I knew that typically, you make Stollen early in the season and now Christmas Eve was just a week away.  Where was I going to find the time?  That’s when kindness landed on my doorstep.

While dashing in from errands one afternoon, I came home to find the familiar Reimer’s box with the red script on the side, lying on my doorstep.  My heart leapt.  Had mom left a standing order at Reimer's, the candy store where she ordered the Stollen?  No, that’s ridiculous wishful thinking! 

Picking up the box and darting inside to rip it open, I discovered that Beverly, my mom's cousin, who knew about her tradition, sent the Stollen.  This Christmas season was turning out to be better than I thought it would be. 

Amazingly, the very next day, I found another Reimer’s box on my doorstep.  This time, the Stollen was sent from my daughter, Aimee, in Bozeman, Montana.  She knew about her grandmother’s tradition and how I’d ordered a loaf to be sent to my sister in Boulder, Colorado, as I knew she felt as I did about missing mom’s tradition.

This may not be the year for making my first loaf of Stollen but for sure, it is the year of treasured traditions and of rolling in Stollen.

            Wishing you and your family a happy holiday season and a happy and healthy new year!