The sights, sounds and scents of fall are in full force right now. As I write this note to all of you, I am seated on my back porch. I can hear the hum of cicadas, the harbingers of cooler weather. I can look past my dormant raised garden beds to the woods beyond and see the blazing yellows, reds and oranges. And I can detect the dusty smell of freshly harvested soybeans and field corn as my farmer neighbors finish up their harvests.
Our December Issue
Making Spirits Bright
Four-Legged Friends
Our Cats and Dogs ... and More!
Those Colossal Catalogs
Page After Page of Wishes and Dreams
Dear Friends of the Good Old Days,
My mom could smell it as she got closer to the porch. She was walking home from her bank-teller job uptown, eager to have a quick lunch and get back to work on time. But I met her on the steps, a sheepish look on my 12-year-old face and a pitiful look in my hazel eyes. As the aroma of charred meat wafted around us, I confessed to Mom that I had burned the liver and onions we were to have for...
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Every Thanksgiving from the time I was 6 years old until I graduated from high school, my Opa (German for “grandfather”) Henry shared with me his “true as my overalls are blue” remarkable life-changing story. The events of Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 26, 1932, forever changed the Swartz family Thanksgiving Day celebrations and their daily lives. I remember how the tears flowed down Opa’s cheeks as he...
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