That feeling of confidence is not the case with the chemistry class I’ve been working on. I’ve mentioned here that I’m pursuing a midlife interest in science, and in this second semester of chemistry, I experience the exact opposite of the confidence I feel when I’m editing. I have absolutely NO sense of how I’m doing. I chug away at a problem until I can’t think of any more to do, then call it done — ” I’m going with “3.204 x 10^-6 grams, and that’s that!” I check the answer, clueless as to whether my answer will be confirmed or if I’ll see something totally unrelated, like “One dozen eggs,” or maybe just “No.”

Thus it happened that, after working through a multi-step problem on a take-home test, I looked at my two pages of calculations, turned to Mark, and said, ” I think it looks good, but I’m afraid it might be a Dick Whittington and His Cat thing.” This is family code for a particular type of unpleasant experience, when you complete what seems like an accomplishment only to find out that your work is way off target.

Our code name for this stems from an incident when I was a little girl, maybe four or five. My mother had read to us from an book of traditional British tales, and I decided to draw Dick Whittington and, of course, his cat. Picture me, then, clutching a crayon, working hard, probably with mouth open and tongue stuck out to one side, and then, Ta-Dah! It was finished. I showed it to my older brother, who laughed (though he denies this) and asked me which was Dick and which was the cat. I looked and I saw, with great dismay, that he was right. It didn’t look anything at all like Dick Whittington and his cat!

Back to the chem test: when I got it back, it turned out to be only half a Whittington. Though my answer was correct, I had revealed my uncertainty by wandering for two pages when only two lines of work had been necessary. But it doesn’t really matter, because this is the Summer of Essays, not the Summer Mom Becomes a Scientist! My role in Sam’s path to M.D. is a minor one, but I know I’ve done it well. I can take comfort in that success as I stumble through my new adventures. And next summer, who knows? I may become a scientist yet.

Hope you’re enjoying your Summer of Whatever — even if it’s just a Summer of Laziness! And as always, thanks for reading Our Town.

I was born impulsive, at least according to my family and long-time friends. I don’t have to look far for an example of this, just over toward Rosie the Mutt, who is snoozing nearby as I write. Rosie’s eyes met mine when I casually surfed the County Animal Control website last fall, wondering if we were ready to start looking for a new dog after the painful loss of our greyhound. On an impulse, I grabbed my car keys.

“I’m going out to visit a dog,” I told my son. He was shocked to have me return an hour later with said dog, a lumpy, 7-year-old of unknown lineage. “We’ll call her Rosie,” I said, though she looked like a Bowser or a Ruff. We all love Rosie, and boy, does she love us back, adding big joy to our days with her slurpy, wiggly affection.

I admit that this easily could have turned out badly. But it didn’t. And neither did most of the other impulsive things I’ve done in my life. In fact, when I compare my impulse moves with my more deliberate decisions, I see that the success rate of the flying leaps approach is pretty darned good!

My best example of this is something I’ve mentioned here before—our marriage. In an uncharacteristic (for him) impulsive move, Mark proposed to me just 20 days after our first date. Looking back, we’re both shocked that he moved so quickly! But my quick acceptance was totally in character. Three months later, we wed, and have been happily married nearly 22 years. So, a big win for impulse! And there are plenty more examples. Really, it’s been kind of my trademark for much of my life.

Now, here’s why this is on my mind. Whenever it’s time to write one of these columns, I ask myself, “So, what’s new?” More and more often, I don’t get an answer. The status around here has been quo, quo, and more quo. Okay, I got Rosie. But that’s about all. Why? I think it’s because I have grown much less impulsive as I get older. This may sound like a good thing, but for me, it’s not. Because if I don’t act on impulse, I don’t do anything new at all! Really. Nothing.

Well, my friends, this cannot stand. Jolted by fear that I’m sinking into a permanent rut, I’m hereby rousing my dormant Inner Imp of Impulsivity. I can’t tell you what I’m going to do, because a new impulse hasn’t hit me yet. But by gosh, when it does hit, I’m not taking time to aim. I’m going to fire first, ask questions later. Come on, Imp, wake up! I’m ready.

Have an impulse story? As always, I’d love to hear from you. And thanks for reading Our Town!

It’s been especially hot and humid recently in western Michigan, but that hasn’t stopped my Aunt Letha from canning this year’s peaches, out on the old stove in what they call the pole building. Now that she’s in her 80’s (hope she doesn’t mind me revealing that!), Letha recruits my Uncle Al for the project. “Can hardly believe I used to do all the canning alone,” she wrote in the letter that came last week, the latest in her notes that have arrived in my parents’ mailbox every few weeks for as long as I can recall.

Exhausting as the canning was for Letha (“I feel like I’ve been run over by an 18 wheeler, fully loaded…with chains!”), it didn’t stop her from writing a couple pages of her special kind of gentle news that makes you feel like you’ve just had a good chat over the back fence. Last week, oh, dear, she and Al were alarmed to find their house unlocked when they returned from a short vacation. Her nervous checking for missing items and hidden burglars was cut short when she realized that a last-minute refill of the hummingbird feeder had caused each to think that the other had locked up. Oh, well, no harm. Now, Uncle Al is buying cabbage for making sauerkraut with a buddy. And he’s been informally brokering car deals—he keeps meeting buyers and sellers, because he talks to everyone, everywhere. Letha is staying out of both the sauerkraut and the schmoozing. “I myself keep a low profile,” she wrote.

Blessed are those who keep a low profile but who write letters like Letha’s! It has become such a luxury to receive a real, paper letter that causes you to slow down, to settle someplace comfy (not at the danged computer!), to read of simple pleasures and minor tribulations, to take a breather from your own to-do list. So, in the spirit of my Aunt Letha, I’ve decided to continue writing this slice-of-our-life column. (If you’ve just joined us, I’ve been talking about writing feature articles instead.) Input from many nice people has convinced me to ignore a reader who recently disparaged my less-than-newsworthy essays. We’ll publish nonprofit news in our “Community Notes.” But in this space, expect the same old chat-over-the-back-fence, aimed at the people (like me) who like this sort of thing!

So, the news from our own Lake Wobegon? Well, we Liptens are doing okay, though it’s a struggle some days, with the loss of Mark’s mom still so fresh, and the business environment still so uncertain. I have a frozen shoulder, an ailment I’d barely thought was real. Wow, ouch, it’s real! Our youngest will turn 21 soon, and we feel so lucky to have him living at home while he attends UCF, though he’s such a dedicated student that we don’t see him much. Our daughter just started law school at Barry, here in town—not the Ivy League setting she once imagined, but plans change when a gal finds true love in Orlando. That happened to me, too, when I met and married Mark, 22 years ago, in a downtown church that we’ve recently started attending again. It’s fun to see people who remember us wrinkle-free!

And that’s the news from our side of the fence. Thanks, Letha, my dear aunt, for the inspiration. And thanks to YOU, my dear Our Town readers, especially those who got in touch to encourage me to continue writing. I’d love to hear some news from your side of the fence!

One morning about a hundred years ago, 54-year-old Agnes Bailey took a walk around the farm in search of her five-year-old son. She found him perched with the pigeons, way up in the tip-top of the soaring open rafters of the barn.

Agnes was my great-grandmother, and I wish I knew more of that story. I wish I knew more about her whole life…how it felt to bear a child at age 49 on a remote farm without plumbing or electricity…to boil diapers on a wood-burning stove and hang them to dry in an icy Michigan wind…to keep an eye on an inquisitive little one while doing things like catching and butchering chickens for a noontime dinner for family and migrant workers. (And I think just cooking seems hard some days!)

I wonder…did her hard life weigh her down? Or did she bear it lightly, humming as she churned butter, trading wisecracks with my great-grandpa as they stoked the fire, tapping her feet to the music of her life? I wonder how she got that little barn-climber down safely, and whether she squeezed him tight, slapped him silly, or both.

But there is no one alive who can tell me the rest of the story, or much else about what life was really like for Agnes.

Mother’s Day always brings to my mind the long line of mothers who preceded me, caring for children in circumstances almost unimaginably hard. I want to remember those women with gratitude, but who were they? It’s our loss, I think, how quickly and completely the details of their lives have vanished.

Do you have memories that no one else knows, stories of your mother, grandmother, or great-grandmother? Write them down! Or record them, or have someone videotape you talking about them. Some stories need to be told now or never! If someone had gotten my Grandpa Bailey to do more talking while he was still alive, I might know how his mother helped him get down safely from his barn-top perch, and maybe a whole lot of other things about a woman whose hard work and late-life child bearing were part of the series of miracles that brought me here to this moment, alive and enjoying this beautiful Florida spring.

So, let me encourage you as I encourage myself: Don’t just savor your memories — save them! If nothing else, write me an e-mail about your earliest memory of a grandmother or great-grandmother. Then you’ll at least have the e-mail to save for your own grandchildren! And I’d love to read the stories.

Happy Mothers Day to those who celebrate the day! And as always, thanks so much for reading Our Town.

And then there’s been such tragic stuff going on in the world! And, closer to home, some friends and family are having troubles. More and more, I’m finding comfort in simple pleasures. And, like Fraulein Maria in The Sound of Music, I find that naming them makes me less rattled by the rumbles and crashes of life’s storms. Call me Pollyanna, but any silly flower knows enough to turn toward the sun. So, raindrops on roses, anyone? Whick

Morning pleasures: A yawning dog, happy to see me. A freshly washed face. The pleasant scratch of my hairbrush massaging my scalp. Coffee!

Midday pleasures: Stopping computer work for a moment of stretching, rolling my neck, looking out at the trees and the sky. Walking out to the mailbox. Afternoon coffee!

Chilly weather pleasures: Chapstick. Sleeping with three blankets. Holding hands without sticking together. Men in pullover sweaters (a look I’ve always liked!).

Evening pleasures: A few good non-premium-cable TV shows, one of which our 20-year-old son will actually watch with us. Popcorn, popped on the stove instead of in a microwave bag, making that regular week night feel like a party. (Our kids always called this “popcorn-in-a-pan” when they were little. And it doesn’t have to be Orville Redenbacher’s pricey kernels. Brand X pops up just fine.)

Last weekend, Mark and I saw a first-run movie on Saturday night, thanks to a gift card we’d received. Good thing we had each other to lean on, because we almost fainted at the price of the popcorn. That $8 bucket inspired me to remind you of this old method, in case you’re in the same boat we are — adjusting to the new normal, but ready for some simple pleasures.

How to Make Popcorn-in-a-Pan (Eight dollars worth would fill a bathtub!)
1. Choose your pot. Find the lid before you start! Put the pot on the burner and turn the heat up high.
2. Pour a nice puddle of oil to cover the pan’s whole bottom. Don’t hold back. I actually don’t think you can over-oil.
3. Cover the pan bottom with a nice crowded layer of corn.
4. Put the lid on a little bit cock-eyed, so steam will escape but the popping kernels won’t.
5. When it starts popping, shake the pan so that the kernels on the bottom won’t stay in one place and burn.
6. Stop when the popping slows down or the pan is full. Dump it in a big bowl.
7. Salt, melted butter, cajun seasoning…it’s all good.

Have a simple pleasure that’s come in handy during lean times? Why not share it with us at MyOurTown.com? You might find some inspiration in the free events in our Community Notes. And, if you are going to spend money, our nice advertisers would love to hear from you.

As always, thanks for reading Our Town. And now, back to the popcorn!

But I kept hearing and reading that it was a good tool for small business. So, owning a business that caters to small businesses, I decided to try it for two weeks. At the very least, I’d get this column out of it! So, I created my account.

I didn’t see any Tweets at first, because I wasn’t following anybody. So, I went to some websites I like, and clicked that button I’ve always avoided: “Follow Us on Twitter.” I set up follows for a few friends, small business experts, and, okay, maybe a couple of woo-woo types who help women find their authentic empty-nest selves. I added members of an online business forum I’m part of, and I set up a follow for the main charity we support, Partners in Health.

So, I had myself a Twitter stream, with new tweets appearing at the top and the old tweets flowing down and out. My incoming stream was a blend of information, motivation, and “what I had for lunch” tweets, all filled with links, since everyone on Twitter is promoting their followers in a giant circle of backscratching. It all seemed harmless, mildly entertaining, potentially useful.

Then, the earthquake in Haiti happened. And because of my Partners in Health follow, my stream was peppered with PIH’s suddenly frequent tweets. Already at work in Haiti for 20+ years, the organization was on the scene from the first tremor, and their tweets were shocking, grave, horrible.

And yet, it was business as usual for the rest of the Twitter stream. Interspersed with PIH’s 140-character missives of suffering, death, and pleas for assistance was all the usual Twit-chat:

How to Mind Map Your Way Through Stuckness

People are kind, calm, generous to others even with hundreds lying on the ground, open fractures, massive injuries.

I love clever ideas. Get a variety of your own business cards – each with a unique graphic on them. A deck of cards!

Running low on antibiotics, anesthesia, narcotics, water. Need x-ray & anesthesia machines & medical supplies.

Haiti clinical director: “PaP is devastated… Temporary field hospital needs supplies… Please help us.”

The juxtaposition was unnerving. The threading of tragedy with cheerful commerce was enough to make me want to either unfollow Partners in Health, or unfollow everyone *but* PIH.

Then, my two-week Twitter test was over. And my trial left me with more questions than answers. My heart is heavy with Haiti, but by next month, this column will be as cheery as those silly tweets I quoted above. It will have to be, because that’s how we humans cope when disaster strikes elsewhere and we just don’t know what else we can do, other than donate what the budget allows. Unless you know something else we can do? If so, let us know.

And as always, thank you so much for reading Our Town.

Water Path by Bob Goldberg

“I went to one meeting,” she said. “But I walked out of there saying to myself, ‘These are not my people.’”

Do you ever find that certain phrases just stick with you, and you find yourself using them again and again? This one went platinum at our house. These are not my people. It’s the perfect way to describe that feeling of not fitting in. And we need a phrase to describe it, right? Because it’s a rare soul who can fit in just anywhere.

Of course, there are a few lucky people who can. My son knew a kid at Winter Park High who seemed to be friends with nearly every person in the school. I gave this boy a lift to a nearby destination one day and felt like he was my friend after the five-minute ride. This boy will rarely need the phrase, “These are not my people.” But I’ve needed it. Ever since I got it from Edna in 1992, back when our kids were 3 and 5, I’ve used it just often enough that both kids picked it up.

“These were not my people this summer,” said our son at age 9, when we collected him from his annual week at camp. “I just realized that these are not my people,” my daughter told me through tears at age 19, after she’d moved away for a summer job. It’s our official family phrase for new ventures that just don’t work out. (Mark has said it, too, but those are his stories to tell.)

Now, please don’t think I’m talking about judging people and rejecting them! The “not my people” notion is not about dividing people into worthy and unworthy, and it’s certainly not related to age, ethnicity, or any demographic factor. It’s just the presence or absence of that magical CLICK! that happens when someone “gets” you and you “get” them.

My personal theory about groups is this: to feel like you really belong in a group, you need a certain percentage of the people there to be…well, CLICK!-positive, if you will! Otherwise, you get that creepy, odd-duck sensation that makes you feel bad about yourself, or about the group. And when you consciously notice the mismatch, what else can you do but quote Edna? “These are not my people!”

If you’ve read all the way to here, I suspect that what I’ve written has caused a little CLICK! with you. I hope so. My best days at Our Town are when I hear from a reader who has recognized, through what I write, that I am one of their people. Thanks for reading – I’m so glad I have “my people” — even if it’s just through the mailbox!

Happy Holidays!
Sandy Bailey Lipten and Mark Lipten

P.S. Lucky me – a local artist sent me a print of the gorgeous piece of art shown above, in thanks for the CLICK! he got from reading a recent column of mine. You can’t tell much from this tiny version, so check out Bob Goldberg’s gorgeous “photopaintings” of wild Florida at bobbogoldberg.com.

Water Path by Bob Goldberg

Toby the Greyhound

But this column is not about our dog! No, instead I’m focused on that special thing we get from dogs, from other pets, and from good human beings: connection.

Connection is on my mind because I’ve just returned to editing the free listings in our Community Notes, after a few years of working on other things. I’m back to interacting with the nonprofits that submit announcements, and, wow, is it gratifying! Such varied groups look to Our Town for new connections—Guardian Ad Litem finds child advocates, EcoAction finds canoeing river-cleaners, Gift from God Computer Foundation finds computer donations for needy students, Central Church finds attendees for its free healthy cooking classes…the list goes on. The best part: many tell me Our Town is their best source for connecting with new people. Okay, I’m proud! Sorry. (Blush.)

We’ve always liked publishing these items as a little bonus content. But now, I’m starting to think our Community Notes section is actually…well, kind of important, in our own little way. Media habits are so individualized now, with thousands of TV channels, websites and blogs to choose from. Call it junk mail if you must (ouch!), but Our Town is one of very few information sources that everyone in your neighborhood encounters. Everyone.

Now, I’m not saying they all read it. Some never do, I know. But they know it’s coming. And when somebody wants to see if the Scouts are selling Christmas wreaths yet, or find out when the Widow and Widowers Support Group meets, or see if there’s free concert somewhere, or is suddenly ready to volunteer, they don’t have to sign on, log in, search or click. Every month, rain or shine, boom or bust, we’re in every mailbox, bringing opportunities for connection.

Of course, we also need people to use the services of our advertisers! That’s what keeps everybody in business, including us. But even if you have no money to spend, isn’t it good to just page through Our Town and see what’s going on? And when you are ready to spend again, will you grab your Our Town or go to MyOurTown.com, please, oh please? That way, our Community Notes can keep on coming! Ah, connection…it’s the best.

Thanks so much for reading!

P.S. If you are interested in what happened to Toby, you might want to read 5 Things I Wish I’d Done Before My Dog Got Sick.

We’re still guessing about exactly what went wrong with Toby. The most likely thing is that a bone in his spine, hip or pelvis was weakened from osteosarcoma, a common greyhound bone cancer, and that this bone suddenly fractured. (This kind of break is called a pathological fracture.)

Then, the drug that was supposed to anesthetize and sedate him turned out to be one that sometimes causes terrible agitation and seizures, particularly in greyhounds. The combination of his uncontrollable movement and his excruciating pain that was provoked by any movement – well, I never want to witness another creature suffering so. I’ll say no more, because you wouldn’t be able to forget it if I tell you.

Here’s what I wish I’d done before all this came to pass.

1. I wish I’d had a disaster evacuation plan — specifically, a plan for getting Toby out of the house if he couldn’t walk. When you live in a split-level house on a little hill, with stairs every which way, and you have an almost 90-pound dog…well, we should have planned ahead. In an emergency, it’s so hard to think about what can be a “stretcher” for a dog.

2. I wish we’d established a relationship with a vet who made house calls, who would take an emergency call in the middle of the night, and who would get to know us enough to trust that we wouldn’t call unless it was a true emergency. (I’m finding out, now that I am mentioning this to people, that there are such vets!)

3. I wish I’d educated myself, as Toby grew older, about common greyhound problems, both the sicknesses and the treatments with their possible ill effects. When the seizures started from the ACE Promezine, I would have known what they were. This knowledge would have allowed me to communicate more effectively with the all-night vet clinic. I never want to be silenced by ignorance again.

4. I wish I’d been more sensitive to what I now realize were signs of pain in Toby’s last few weeks. He’d always been a quirky and amusing dog, and honestly, I thought the changes in his behavior were just new quirks developing with age. I realize now that he was in pain. Darn it! Oh, I would have given him a softer bed, and not been annoyed when he wanted company in the middle of the night. I just didn’t get it. Next time, I will.

5. I wish I’d taken videos of this dog’s crazy antics. Oh, he was such a character! We don’t have anything on video. It seemed like we had a lot more years left to do that. We’ll always have the memories, but I know they’ll fade. Again, darn it!

Actually, there are six things, not five. I wish I’d taken him out to run free more often. Being a greyhound, Toby was literally born to run, but he hadn’t done it much in the last few years. He was badly bitten at the dog park once, so we avoided it. Now, I wish I’d worked harder to find a place where he could really open it up, all that greyhound joy and legginess and muscle, and revel in his full natural gift for speed.

I like to think that in some realm, somehow, Toby’s running now.

Thanks for reading.

But I try to redeem myself by working at the computer long past midnight, which is when I find myself visiting online forums populated by friendly young men. Now, please don’t stop reading there, because it’s truly not what it sounds like!

Website development is what I’ve been working on, stuff like XHTML, CSS, Javascript and CMS configuration. This is not actually programming, my son informs me, but it’s close enough for an old broad like me. It’s a real stretch for this middle-aged brain. Fortunately, when I get stuck, I can find help just a click away at any hour of day or night. It turns out that there’s a sort of “hive mind” always buzzing at online message boards on these topics, and all the bees are young men, giving each other helpful suggestions like, “Dude, in the index.php, try adding style = ‘position:relative’ to one of the divs in the hornav module.”

Sure, there’s an occasional young woman, or an old guy (my age, that is) on the board. But from my observations, it looks like that I am the only over-50 female on the planet doing late-night code wrangling. And that’s a shame, because I think a lot of empty-nested women with insomnia would love it. Fiddling around “under the hood” of a website is as compelling as a knotty crossword puzzle or Sudoku, plus it gives you something to show for your effort. The dearth of females in this area is as mystifying to me as our under-representation among finger-style guitarists, National Geography Bee contestants, and late night talk show hosts. I think it’s time for a change.

So, here’s to new interests at any age and time of day, and without preconceived notions of gender suitability. Maybe, when I get done with my current projects, I’ll pick up the guitar. (I am pretty sure it’s too late for the Geography Bee). Or maybe I’ll create a late-night workshop, something like “Wacky Women Weaving Websites.” Because this is just way too much fun to leave to the boys.

Thanks for reading, and hang in there, folks…summer’s almost over! I’ll let you know when the new Our Town website is up — I hope you’ll visit it and say, “Wow! An old broad did this?”

Well, it is up…you’re on it! It’s not perfect yet, but it’s on its way. Thanks for visiting!