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!

• Widow/Widowers: 1st/3rd Fridays, 407-948-9433

• Families Anonymous (people with loved one with alcohol or drug problem): Mondays, 407-869-0491

• NAMI of Greater Orlando (Mental illness, self or family member): NAMIGO.org, 407-253-1900

• Hospice of the Comforter: 407-682-0808

• Vitas Hospice Grief Support Groups: 407-691-4549

• Samaritan Care Hospice (Orange County): 407-514-1300

• Compassionate Friends (Grieving any age child): 407-321-3126