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Things Our Mother Taught Us
My Mother taught me Logic
“Because I said so! That’s why!”
This has been a public service announcement from WRYL
The Voice of the Great Up North
The Wit And Wisdom Of Horace B Miesner
Happiness is just sadness that hasn’t happened yet.
WRYL – The Voice of the Great Up North
Ethan did go home, but only to gather his clothes and personal belongings. His father was at work, a small mercy, but his mother was there, and the hour that followed was a living hell. She insisted he stay, telling him he’d never make it in life, that he was living in a fantasy world. She reminded him he wasn’t good enough, and that when he failed, he shouldn’t come crying back. As he walked out the door, backpack slung over his shoulder, she cried out, “The police are going to call and say they found you dead one day in a back alley! You’ll be on a slab in the morgue!” Ethan turned, met her tear-streaked gaze, and simply said, “I’m going now, Mom. I love you.” With that, he backed Bessie out of the driveway and drove towards a new life.
College, liberated from the suffocating pressure of home, became a different experience entirely. Ethan’s grades soared. He found a part-time job at an off-campus college bookstore. Ethan was able to adjust his financial aid to help cover his share of the rent and food. He even managed to keep Bessie. Life, finally, felt good. Ethan was happy. Amy and Russel, captivated by his storytelling prowess, urged him to take creative writing classes. Peggy was his unwavering support, her love for him growing stronger each day, a mirroring reflection of his own deepening affection for her.
Ethan’s curiosity pulled him into the world of theater. He discovered a passion for set design, the magic of stage lighting, the transformative power of stage makeup, and the intricate art of sound design. He thrived behind the scenes, far from the spotlight he’d never craved. He also delved into filmmaking, captivated by the tactile nature of 8mm and 16mm film. He took a class in film processing and, with his roommates’ enthusiastic help, set up a darkroom in the duplex basement.
His creative writing continued to flourish. He’d spend hours at the kitchen table, filling notebook after notebook. Peggy would bring him tea, settling in to read his latest stories, offering thoughtful insights. When writer’s block struck, he’d bounce ideas off Peggy, Amy, and Russel, sometimes staying up most of the night, exploring multiple story scenarios. He even found an old cassette recorder at Goodwill and began taping these brainstorming sessions, a living archive of their shared creativity. Ethan was at peace. He was in love with Peggy, and she with him. He had, at last, found the happiness that had eluded him for so long.
One Saturday afternoon, while Ethan was shelving books at the college bookstore, he looked up and saw his grandfather standing there. A jolt of fear shot through him. His carefully constructed world, his newfound happiness, felt poised to shatter. His grandfather walked closer, a gentle smile on his face. “Relax, son,” he said, his voice soft. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell your parents where you’re working. I just wanted to talk.” He asked when Ethan’s shift ended.
Just then, Peggy walked in, a bag of groceries in her arms, waiting to walk home with Ethan. Ethan, still a little shaken, introduced her. His grandfather, sensing Ethan’s apprehension, quickly reassured Peggy. “Don’t worry, dear, I won’t say a word to his parents.” Ethan’s shift ended, and his grandfather offered them a ride home. Ethan glanced at Peggy, who was staring at his grandfather, a curious expression on her face. There was something familiar about him, as if she knew him from somewhere she couldn’t quite place. Yet, she felt an instant trust.
They drove to the duplex. Inside, Ethan introduced his grandfather to Amy and Russel. The flicker of apprehension that crossed the roommates’ faces, was quickly replaced by genuine warmth when Ethan’s grandfather cheerfully suggested they order some pizza. The evening flowed beautifully. Ethan’s grandfather regaled them with stories from his past, many of which Ethan had heard before, but still loved to hear again. Then, his gaze softened as he looked at Ethan. “Many years ago, Ethan, I made a promise not to talk about certain things I did in my life. They thought it might lead you down the wrong path. But your parents were wrong to ask that. You deserve to know these stories. You deserve to know who I was and why I changed my life.”
Peggy, Amy, and Russel began to rise, thinking this was a private moment between grandfather and grandson. But Ethan’s grandfather gestured for them to stay. “You four,” he said, his voice filled with admiration, “you are all amazing individuals. Your talents are incredible. Don’t let anyone take away your dreams and aspirations. I let someone take away mine, and I’ve regretted it for many years. Never stop dreaming. Never stop loving. ” he continued, his eyes sparkling, “Ethan, I have never seen you so happy. And it’s not just about you and Peggy, though I can see how much you two are in love. It’s much more than that. And this house… this house is amazing. It’s been a long time since…” He trailed off, a quiet sadness washing over him. Then, he looked at Russel, tossing him his car keys. “Would you mind going down to my Chevy Impala and bringing up the suitcase in the trunk?”
Russel, sensing the moment’s importance, did as he was asked, returning with what appeared to be an old suitcase. Ethan’s grandfather opened it, revealing a beautifully preserved accordion. He strapped it on, a nostalgic smile touching his lips. “It’s been a while,” he said to everyone, “and I might be a bit rusty.” He began to play.
The music filled the room, a cascade of notes, vibrant and alive. Amy, Russel, Peggy, and especially Ethan were mesmerized, watching Ethan’s grandfather, this quiet man, transform into a vibrant musician. The music was pure magic. “Ethan,” his grandfather urged, “get your violin and play along!” Ethan did, his fingers finding the familiar strings, joining the melody. It wasn’t perfect, but it was wonderful, a spontaneous symphony of generations. Amy, Peggy, and Russel began to sing along to the songs they knew, their voices blending with the accordion and violin. After several more songs, the music faded.
Ethan’s grandfather looked at them all, his eyes brimming. “My life is complete,” he said, his voice soft. “I’d like to play one last number. This is a waltz I wrote many years ago, when I was young, ambitious, imaginative, and in love. I would love it to be my last dance.” He began to play. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, a bittersweet embrace of joy and longing. Ethan put his violin down and took Peggy’s hand, twirling her into a gentle dance. Amy and Russel joined in, their happiness echoing through the old house. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire world was dancing to grandfather’s music.
And then, like all songs, it had to end. A quiet sadness settled, a profound awareness that this melody, in this way, might never be played again. Ethan’s grandfather carefully placed the accordion back in its case, closing it with a finality that suggested it was truly the last time. He glanced out the window; darkness had fallen. “I better head for home,” he said, “or else your grandmother is going to give me hell.”
Russel offered to carry the accordion down to the car. “No, that won’t be necessary,” Ethan’s grandfather replied. “I won’t be playing anymore. Ethan, I want you to have it.” Ethan’s eyes welled up. “No, Grandpa,” he whispered, “I could never accept something like this.” His grandfather looked lovingly into Ethan’s eyes. “I want you to have this, and I want you to always remember.” A tear traced a path down everyone’s cheek. Ethan hugged his grandfather tightly, whispering, “I will remember.”
Ethan’s grandfather, wiping away a tear, said, “Walk with me out to my car.” They walked in comfortable silence. At the car, his grandfather turned to Ethan. “Never let anyone take your imagination away from you. Your imagination is your life. I love you, Ethan. I love you more than you can possibly know. Let your imagination take you anywhere, anytime, or any place. Looking forward to seeing…” He paused, his gaze fixed on Ethan, then got into his car. He rolled down the window, looked at Ethan one last time, and said, “Looking forward.” With that, he drove off into the night.
A House Divided
Friends, family, and fellow travelers on this journey, I want to talk to you today about a simple but profound truth. It’s about working together. About finding common ground when the earth beneath us feels shaky. It’s about a concept we all understand in our hearts, but sometimes forget in our actions: compromise.
We live in a world that often feels divided. We see it in our homes, in our communities, and on the grand stage of our society. It’s easy to believe that there are only two paths: a right one and a wrong one. My way or the highway. But life, my friends, is rarely so clear-cut. It’s not always a choice between black and white. It’s often a choice to embrace the gray—to see that the best path forward might be a new one, a path we forge together.
Think about a mighty river. A single rock in its path can cause the water to swirl and eddy, but the river eventually finds its way around. But if you fill that river with a hundred stubborn rocks, all vying for the same space, the water becomes stagnant. It stops flowing. It becomes a marsh, not a river. Our communities can be like that. When we are stubborn and resistant to change, when we insist on doing things just because “that’s the way we’ve always done them,” we stop moving forward. We stagnate.
The Uncomfortable Grace of Change
Change is uncomfortable. It’s a fact. It stretches us. It forces us to reconsider old ideas and familiar routines. Our first instinct is often to fight it, to cling to what we know. But resisting change can create bitter divides. It turns neighbors into adversaries and turns a community into a collection of factions.
The beauty, the grace, and the strength of a community come not from a lack of conflict, but from the ability to overcome it. We are not called to fight and bicker and shout each other down. We are called to listen. To respect. To seek understanding. And yes, sometimes, we are called to give in a little. To make a compromise for the good of the whole.
This doesn’t mean you must abandon your beliefs. It means you must hold them with open hands, not with clenched fists. It means understanding that your truth is not the only truth, and that a different perspective can enrich our collective vision.
The Path of Togetherness
When we work together, even when we disagree, we are living out the truest expression of community. We are building a bridge where there was once a chasm. We are planting a seed of cooperation that will one day blossom into prosperity for everyone.
You may not get your way every time. That’s okay. That doesn’t mean you should condemn others or walk away from the table. It means you’ve had the courage to participate, to listen, and to contribute to something bigger than yourself. It means you’ve chosen the path of progress over the comfort of stagnation.
Let’s commit to being a people who work together. A people who are willing to compromise, not because we are weak, but because we are strong enough to change. A people who understand that true growth comes not from winning an argument, but from building a community where everyone feels heard, valued, and loved. Let’s be a river that flows, not a pond that stands still. Amen.
Dear Shirley,
I’m at my absolute wit’s end, and I fear my thoroughly modern kitchen will soon be the scene of a rather un-modern meltdown. My husband’s parents, bless their cotton socks, have decided that our humble abode is merely an extension of their own, and my life, a delightful little play in which they are the uncredited directors.
My mother-in-law, “Agnes,” is a veritable whirlwind of unsolicited advice. She critiques my perfectly adequate casserole dishes, suggests I “dust more thoroughly” (as if I were a mere slip of a girl who just learned to keep house!), and has even dared to rearrange my linen closet, claiming my towels were not “folded with proper respect.” And don’t even get me started on her “helpful” tips for raising our children – apparently, a good smack on the bottom is still the cure-all for everything from a scraped knee to a less-than-perfect report card.
Then there’s Father-in-law, “Clarence,” who insists on “stopping by” unannounced almost daily to “check on things.” He’ll march right into the garage to inspect my husband’s tools, offer booming opinions on our lawn care, and once, he even timed how long it took me to get dinner on the table. My husband, bless his dear heart, just chuckles and says, “That’s just Ma and Pa!” I love him, Abby, but I feel like I’m living in a fishbowl, constantly under the judgmental gaze of the ” elders.”
How can I politely, yet firmly, tell them to mind their own beeswax without causing a family ruckus that would surely be the talk of the Ladies’ Aid Society for weeks? I’m afraid I’ll lose my perfectly groomed temper!
Sincerely,
A Modern Homemaker on the Brink
Dear Modern Homemaker,
My, my, it sounds as if you’ve got yourself a classic case of what we call “over-cultivated family gardens.” Agnes and Clarence, it seems, believe your life is just another plot that requires their expert pruning and fertilizing, whether you asked for it or not!
Let’s address this delicate situation before you find yourself serving burnt toast and a side of bitter resentment at Sunday dinner.
The Gentle Art of Drawing Lines
First, your dear husband. While his “that’s just Ma and Pa!” attitude is sweet, it’s about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. Have a quiet word with him, perhaps over a perfectly brewed cup of coffee (made to your specifications, of course). Explain, gently but firmly, that while you adore his parents, a little less “help” would go a long way in preserving your sanity – and your marriage. He needs to understand that a united front is essential, even if it feels a tad disloyal. Remind him that a happy wife makes for a happy life, and frankly, a less critiqued casserole.
Now, for Agnes and Clarence. This requires the finesse of a debutante at a tea party, combined with the quiet determination of a well-behaved housewife who knows her own mind.
- For Agnes, the Domestic Dictator: When she offers a critique on your spotless home, a cheerful yet dismissive, “Oh, Agnes, isn’t that just darling? I find this way works perfectly for our family,” should do the trick. If she starts rearranging your towels again, a polite, “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, Agnes. I just tidied those!” delivered with a firm hand on the linen closet door, should send the message. Remember, a smile can hide a multitude of internal eye-rolls.
- For Clarence, the Unannounced Inspector: When he pops over uninvited, greet him at the door with a beaming smile and a slight hint of business. “Clarence, how lovely to see you! We were just in the middle of [insert any legitimate (or semi-legitimate) activity here – ‘polishing the silver,’ ‘sorting stamps,’ ‘balancing the checkbook’]. Do come in for a moment, but we’ll have to get back to it shortly.” Make it clear that while you are hospitable, your schedule dictates the visit. And perhaps “forget” to hear the doorbell once or twice. Accidents do happen, you know.
The Power of a Unified Front
The key, my dear, is consistency and a subtle, unyielding refusal to engage in debates. You are not asking for permission; you are politely stating facts about your home and your life. They may huff, they may puff, they may even try to garner sympathy from the bridge club, but eventually, they will learn that their unsolicited advice is bouncing off a perfectly polished, polite, but impenetrable shield.
Remember, a little distance often makes the heart grow fonder, especially when that distance involves a respectful understanding of personal boundaries. Now, go forth, reclaim your linen closet, and enjoy your perfectly adequate casserole. You’ve earned it!
Warmly (and with a wink),
Shirley
Setting: A cramped, cluttered dorm room at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, 1977. Posters of Ingmar Bergman and Bob Dylan compete for wall space.
(SCENE START)
JEFF (O.S.): The University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee served as an unlikely crucible for cinematic genius for five aspiring screenwriters crammed into a dorm room that perpetually smelled of lukewarm coffee and unfulfilled potential. This was the year that Stars Wars premiered, Elvis died and disillusionment simmered. And a group of students, united by their ambition and a shared fascination with a philosophical goldfish named Bartholomew, embarked on a creative journey that was as chaotic as it was compelling.
LEONARD: (Tapping a pen nervously) So, we were at the protagonist’s existential crisis, right? He’s just discovered that his pet goldfish, Bartholomew, believes himself to be Nietzsche reincarnated.
STANLEY: (Grandly) Leonard, darling, this is cinema! We need stakes! Bartholomew can’t just believe he’s Nietzsche. He has to act like Nietzsche! Imagine, a goldfish delivering pronouncements on the will to power! We’ll get Brando for the voiceover!
MARVIN: (Dryly) Brando’s probably busy arguing with his agent about the proper way to eat a sea cucumber.
DEBORAH: (Trying to sound positive) Okay, okay. Let’s not get sidetracked. The core of our story is about alienation in a post-industrial society, seen through the… unique… lens of a philosophical goldfish.
CYNTHIA: (Exhaling an imaginary plume of smoke) It’s all meaningless anyway. We’re all just fleeting moments in the vast, uncaring cosmos. Might as well have the goldfish join a punk rock band.
LEONARD: But the symbolism! The crushing weight of existence reflected in Bartholomew’s tiny, watery eyes!
STANLEY: Symbolism sells art-house tickets, Leonard. Explosions sell popcorn! We need a scene where Bartholomew, in a fit of nihilistic rage, blows up the fish tank!
MARVIN: How exactly does a goldfish blow up a fish tank? Does he swallow a tiny stick of dynamite?
DEBORAH: Maybe it’s a metaphor! For the protagonist’s inner turmoil!
CYNTHIA: Or maybe the goldfish just gets tired of the water. I know I am.
LEONARD: I was thinking more along the lines of Bartholomew having a profound dream sequence where he debates Schopenhauer.
STANLEY: Dream sequences are boring! Unless there are laser beams! Bartholomew could have laser eyes! He’s a super-Nietzsche-goldfish!
MARVIN: We’re supposed to be writing a serious screenplay, not a Saturday morning cartoon.
DEBORAH: Can we at least agree on the protagonist’s motivation? He’s… he’s feeling lost, right? Like he doesn’t fit in?
CYNTHIA: Join the club, sister.
LEONARD: Perhaps his alienation stems from the fact that he’s the only one who can understand Bartholomew’s philosophical pronouncements. He’s trapped in a world of philistines who just see a… fish.
STANLEY: That’s too subtle! What if he’s being chased by a shadowy organization that wants to weaponize Bartholomew’s intellect? Think James Bond meets… Jacques Cousteau!
MARVIN: I’m starting to think Bartholomew should just swim away. End of movie. Everyone goes home.
DEBORAH: No, no, we need a resolution! A moment of catharsis! Maybe the protagonist finally accepts Bartholomew for who he is, Nietzschean tendencies and all.
CYNTHIA: Or maybe Bartholomew realizes the futility of philosophy and just wants a bigger tank.
LEONARD: But the intellectual journey! The exploration of free will versus determinism!
STANLEY: We can have a car chase! With the protagonist and Bartholomew – in a little water-filled contraption – being pursued by black helicopters!
(SFX: Clatter of typewriter increases, then stops abruptly)
MARVIN: I’ve got it. The protagonist is making himself a bagel. He’s feeling particularly angst-ridden. He puts it in the toaster oven…
DEBORAH: Okay…
MARVIN: …but he forgets to take out the foil-wrapped cream cheese he’d stashed inside for later.
(SFX: A loud, unexpected POP followed by a splattering sound)
LEONARD: What was that?!
STANLEY: Did the goldfish finally achieve sentience and detonate?
CYNTHIA: Sounds like reality intruding on our pathetic little drama.
(SFX: Muffled groans)
DEBORAH: Marvin, what happened?
MARVIN: (Deadpan) The existential crisis just got a little… messy. Seems my bagel experienced its own form of explosive disillusionment.
LEONARD: (Sighs dramatically) Even inanimate objects are rebelling against the absurdity of existence.
STANLEY: This is brilliant! We can incorporate this! The exploding bagel is a metaphor for… for… the sudden, chaotic nature of truth!
CYNTHIA: Or maybe it just means Marvin shouldn’t try to toast cream cheese.
DEBORAH: (Wearily) Can we please just go back to Bartholomew?
LEONARD: Perhaps the exploding bagel is Bartholomew’s subconscious cry for help! He’s overwhelmed by the weight of Nietzsche’s philosophy!
STANLEY: We need slow-motion footage of the bagel exploding! With dramatic music!
MARVIN: I just need a sponge.
JEFF (O.S.): And so it went. Five college students, trapped in the amber of their own intellectual pretension, wrestling with grand ideas and exploding breakfast foods. The screenplay, much like their futures, remained a nebulous, slightly sticky mess. But in that cramped dorm room, amidst the angst and the bagel shrapnel, they were, for a brief, fleeting moment, artists. Or at least, they smelled like they were trying to be.
(SCENE END)
The Wit And Wisdom Of Horace B Miesner
The problem with reality is the lack of background music.
WRYL – The Voice of the Great Up North
I want you to think for a moment about your neighbor, the one who lives just down the road. Maybe you see him out in his garden. You might notice that he plants his tomatoes in a straight row, using a string and a ruler, just as his father taught him. Now, you, on the other hand, might prefer to plant yours in a more circular pattern, or maybe you use a different kind of fertilizer. And both of you will end up with a bountiful harvest, won’t you?
The Creator, in His infinite wisdom, has made each of us unique. He has given us all different talents, different strengths, and yes, different ways of doing things. He has not ordained one single, solitary way to live a good and honest life. The path to a well-tended garden is not carved in stone. The path to a well-kept home is not a single, narrow lane.
And yet, brothers and sisters, we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking our way is the only way. We see our neighbor building a fence and think, “Well, that’s not how I would do it.” We see a sister baking a pie and silently judge her methods, forgetting that the Creator is not concerned with the recipe, but with the love and care that goes into feeding a family.
I’m here to tell you today that it is more than alright for your neighbor to do things differently from you. The Creator’s grace is big enough for both your way and their way. Don’t let a small difference in method cause a large rift in your hearts. We are called not to judge, but to love. And we cannot truly love our neighbor if we are busy measuring their actions against our own.
In fact, I would encourage you to consider this: maybe your neighbor’s way is actually better than yours. Maybe their circular garden plot gets more sun. Maybe their new method of canning preserves is more efficient and saves time for their family. Maybe they have discovered a way to do something that is more cost-effective, allowing them to better provide for their loved ones or to give more generously to the church.
We shouldn’t see these differences as a challenge to our own methods, but as a gift. A gift from our community, a chance to learn and grow. The Creator has blessed us all with a bit of wisdom, and when we combine that wisdom, something truly wonderful can happen.
Think of it like building a new community hall. One man brings his strong hands for the framing. Another brings a knack for mixing the cement just right. A woman in the community knows the perfect way to make the curtains, while a young man has a new, efficient way to wire the lights. Each person’s different approach, when joined together with open hearts, creates a magnificent building that serves the whole community.
My friends, let us be like that. Let us appreciate the different ways we all do the same good work. Let us stop judging our neighbor and instead, look with curiosity and respect. For in embracing each other’s differences, we are not only honoring one another, but we are honoring the Creator who made us all. Amen.
College life hit Ethan like a discordant chord. After twelve years of familiar faces in public school, the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee was a lonely symphony. The first semester, he mostly kept to himself, a silent observer in a bustling hall. His refuge was the practice room, where he wrestled with private violin lessons and a beginner keyboard class. The rest of his schedule was filled with the mandatory core classes: Freshman English, College Algebra, Intro to Mass Communication, and even Folk Dancing – subjects he just wanted to get through.
A harsh truth soon emerged: Ethan wasn’t the violin virtuoso he’d imagined. The college music department was a different league, filled with talent that humbled him. He had a lot to learn and even more to practice.
Home, meanwhile, offered no respite. Though legally an adult in Wisconsin, Ethan was still treated like a child, his efforts at college met with a barrage of negativity. His father, in particular, dismissed his studies as “a waste of time and money.” UWM, a commuter school, meant Ethan drove to campus and back daily, his life resembling a joyless 9-to-5 grind. The crushing weight of loneliness and the constant barrage of disapproval at home began to take a severe toll on his mental health. Ethan was ready to quit.
One afternoon after Ethan’s classes, he was sitting on a couch in the student union trying to figure out what he could do. Staying at home was already a nightmare, and dropping out would only intensify the negative atmosphere. He had nowhere to go. An apartment was out of the question financially, and he didn’t know anyone well enough to find roommates. The stress mounted, anxiety twisting his thoughts and emotions into a suffocating knot. Tears welled up, blurring his vision.
Just then, a young woman walking by noticed his distress. She sat down beside him, a kind smile on her face. “Hi, I’m Peggy,” she offered, her voice soft and reassuring. “I’ve seen you with your violin and heard you pounding away on the piano in the practice rooms.”
Ethan, still teary, mumbled his name. Peggy asked if there was anything she could do to help. He almost said no, but something in her eyes, a genuine warmth, made him pause. He looked at her, feeling an unexpected ease, and then, the words tumbled out. He told her everything, the loneliness, the pressure, the suffocating expectations. Peggy listened, her attention unwavering, making him feel truly heard for the first time in a long time. When he finally finished, a wave of relief swept over him.
Peggy looked at him, a gentle smile returning to her face. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I make a great mac and cheese. I’ve got some tea and a little wine if you’re interested.” She paused, her gaze steady. “You can’t do this alone, Ethan. You need some friends.” She stood up, extending her hand.
Ethan took it, and they began to walk. Then, he stopped. “Bessie,” he blurted out.
Peggy looked at him, confused. “Who’s Bessie?”
“My car,” Ethan explained, feeling a blush creep up his neck. “I know it sounds silly, but I named my car Bessie.”
Peggy stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide with amazement. “You have a car!?”
Minutes later, they were at a small, family-owned grocery store. Pooling their meager funds, they debated dinner options. “We should have something special,” Peggy declared. “I know let’s do spaghetti and meatballs…and get a loaf of Italian bread and some cheese.”
“Sounds perfect!” said Ethan.
“Maybe some gelato for dessert,” Peggy added. “I think we have enough money.”
“Gelato?” Ethan’s eyes widened. “I’ve never tried it.”
“Everyone in the house loves gelato!” Peggy exclaimed.
“Everyone?” Ethan inquired.
“My roommates,” Peggy clarified. “You’ll really like them, and they’ll definitely like you.”
“Roommates, hmmm?” Ethan murmured to himself, a flicker of something new – anticipation? – stirring within him.
Ethan pulled Bessie in front of a grand, old Victorian house, subdivided into a duplex. Peggy directed him to drive around to the alley and park behind the house. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “this is our parking space, and now we have a reason to use it.” Peggy was in a remarkably good mood, humming a cheerful tune. Ethan watched her, captivated by her unburdened happiness, a feeling he yearned to experience.
They ascended the back steps to the upper duplex, laden with groceries, backpacks, and Ethan’s violin. At the door, they were greeted by Amy, a self-proclaimed “hippie wannabe” who dressed the part but possessed the suburban directness Ethan was accustomed to. She was polite, expressed her happiness to meet Ethan, and was visibly thrilled about Peggy bringing home dinner.
The third roommate, Russel, entered the living room. Ethan braced himself, expecting the typical jock persona he’d encountered throughout high school. But Russel, to Ethan’s surprise, was an artist. He enthusiastically showed Ethan sketches for a stage play, asking for his opinion on stage designs. Peggy, however, intervened, suggesting they give Ethan a chance to settle in first.
Amy led Ethan to the living room couch. He gazed around, marveling at the abundance of framed and unframed artwork adorning the walls – truly amazing pieces. Amy then asked about his musical preferences. When Ethan replied “most anything,” she seemed a little annoyed. “Everyone has their particular type of music that fits their personality,” she stated, “everyone is unique.” Amy stood up, studying Ethan intently. “You seem to be in pain,” she observed. She walked to a shelf filled with record albums, selected one, and placed it on the stereo. The melancholic strains of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” filled the room. She sat back down beside him. “This is how I see you now,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “but this isn’t the real you. The real you is buried under a whole mess of unnecessary bullshit. You need to toss the bullshit.”
Peggy, stepping in from the kitchen, gently chided Amy. “Cut him some slack, Amy, don’t scare him off. He’s a nice guy.” She smiled reassuringly at Ethan before returning to her cooking.
Russel joined them in the living room, settling into a chair opposite the couch. He began asking Ethan questions, seemingly genuinely interested in his answers. Amy, too, listened intently, clearly trying to piece together who Ethan truly was.
Dinner was fantastic, the spaghetti and meatballs surprisingly delicious. Russel opened a bottle of wine, and they shared it, a sense of camaraderie blooming around the table. After the meal, Ethan helped Peggy with the dishes. He thanked her for the wonderful dinner and the great time but said he should probably head home.
Peggy turned to him, her expression firm. “Nonsense, you’re not going anywhere. Why go home? Why go back to all that stress and negativity? You can stay here.”
“But my parents will wonder where I am,” Ethan protested weakly.
Peggy looked him directly in the eyes. “Do you really want to go home, Ethan? Think before you answer.”
Ethan closed his eyes, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. The stress he’d tried to suppress surged back, and he felt tears beginning to fall again. Peggy gripped his arms. “Ethan!” she exclaimed.
He opened his eyes. Everyone was in the kitchen now, all eyes on him. Ethan looked at Amy and Russel, then his gaze settled on Peggy. His voice, barely a whisper, was laced with raw desperation. “I never want to go back home.”
Dearest Shirley,
I’m writing to you today with a pickle that’s more sour than a lemon in a lime factory. I’m a strapping young lad of 25, and I’ve fallen head over heels for a woman, let’s call her “Doris,” who’s, shall we say, enjoying her golden years at a vivacious 60. She’s smart, funny, beautiful, and makes a mean hot dish. We’re madly in love, and our private life is, well, blissful.
The problem, Abby, is the public life. Every time Doris suggests we go out – to a restaurant, a movie, even just a walk in the park – my stomach does more flips than a professional gymnast. I start spouting excuses faster than a politician before an election: “Oh, my car’s making a funny noise,” “I suddenly have to reorganize my sock drawer,” “My pet rock needs emotional support.” You name it, I’ve used it.
I’m terrified people will stare. I’m convinced my friends will point and whisper, “Look, there’s, let’s call me Henry, dating his grandma!” I know it’s irrational, and Doris is amazing, but the thought of those judging eyes just paralyzes me. I’m worried she’s going to get fed up with my hermit-like tendencies and ditch me for someone who isn’t afraid of daylight. How can I get over this ridiculous embarrassment and proudly show off the incredible woman I love?
Sincerely,
Closeted Casanova
Dear Closeted Casanova,
Oh, honey, you’ve got it bad, but not in the way you think! Your heart is singing, but your brain is stuck in a middle school cafeteria. Let’s unpack this fear of yours, shall we?
First off, congratulations on finding love! It sounds like you and Doris have something truly special, and that’s worth more than all the whispered gossip in the world. Now, about those whispers…
Here’s a dose of reality: Most people are too wrapped up in their own lives (and their own embarrassments, believe me) to care all that much about your age-gap romance. And the ones who do stare or whisper? Bless their cotton socks, they’re probably just jealous! Jealous that you’ve found genuine happiness, jealous that Doris is still so vibrant, or maybe just jealous they didn’t think of reorganizing their sock drawer.
Your friends? If they’re truly your friends, they’ll be happy for you. Anyone who mocks you for loving someone wonderful, regardless of age, isn’t much of a friend anyway. You’re 25, not 15. It’s time to realize that your worth isn’t determined by the approval of a few snickering acquaintances.
Here’s your prescription for public confidence:
- Take baby steps: Start small. Instead of a fancy restaurant, try a quiet coffee shop or a walk in a less crowded park. Get comfortable being seen together in low-pressure situations.
- Own it! When you’re out, hold Doris’s hand, put your arm around her. Act like she’s the most wonderful woman in the world (because she is!). Your confidence will be contagious and will signal to others that your relationship is nothing to gawk at.
- Practice your comeback lines: If someone does make a rude comment (unlikely, but hey, be prepared!), have a few witty retorts ready. Something like, “Love doesn’t have an expiration date!” or “She’s got more life in her little finger than most people have in their whole bodies!”
- Focus on Doris: When you’re out, instead of scanning for judging eyes, focus on her. Look at her, listen to her, enjoy her company. When your attention is on the person you love, the rest of the world fades away.
- Talk to Doris: She knows you love her, but she’s probably feeling a little confused, maybe even hurt, by your constant excuses. Be honest with her about your fears. A supportive partner can do wonders for your confidence.
Closeted Casanova, life is too short to hide the love you’ve found. Doris deserves to be shown off, and you deserve to enjoy her company wherever you please. So, dust off your going-out shoes, take Doris by the hand, and stride out into the world. You’ll be surprised how quickly those imaginary stares disappear when you realize the only opinion that truly matters is your own (and Doris’s, of course!).
Go forth and be fabulous!
Warmly,
Shirley
Things Our Mother Taught Us
My Mother taught me about Time Travel
“If you don’t straighten up,
I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week!”
This has been a public service announcement from WRYL
The Voice of the Great Up North
The summer of ’77 had bled into fall, and still, Ethan remained a ghost. Three months had passed since his hurried departure from his parents’ suburban home, and the initial frenzy of the search had begun to wane. For the Milwaukee police, Ethan’s disappearance was still an open and active case, a file gathering dust on a perpetually busy desk. There had been a handful of reported Ethan sightings, each one a flicker of hope quickly extinguished by the cold reality of a false lead. News outlets, once ravenous for any scrap of information, had gradually shifted their focus to fresher tragedies and triumphs. The public, too, had moved on, their collective memory a fickle thing.
But in the meticulously kept suburban home that Ethan had fled, hope, however fragile, still flickered for his parents. The phone calls continued, the hushed inquiries to friends and acquaintances, the desperate scans of every crowd. Yet, beneath the veneer of parental concern, a bitter undercurrent of anger and resentment surged through the family. Fingers pointed, accusations flew, and much of the blame landed squarely on Ethan’s grandfather.
“He encouraged it,” his mother would lament, her voice laced with accusation. “All that talk of music and art. He filled Ethan’s head with nonsense.”
Indeed, Ethan had spent countless hours with his grandfather, lost in a world of shared melodies and profound conversations. His grandfather, a man whose own artistic spirit had been crushed by the relentless demands of survival, saw in Ethan a kindred soul. He recognized the spark, the sensitivity, the innate creativity that set Ethan apart from the pragmatic, money-driven worldview of the rest of the family. He understood, too, how Ethan was suffocating in an environment where the bottom line was the only line that mattered.
“Money equals happiness,” was the mantra drilled into Ethan’s father, a belief forged in the crucible of the Great Depression. Growing up, Ethan’s parents had known deprivation, and that experience had solidified their conviction that financial security was the sole path to contentment. His grandfather, too, had chased that security, moving from one soul-numbing job to another, but in the eyes of his wife, Ethan’s grandmother, it was never enough. The Depression had hardened her, leaving her with a cynical edge and a deep-seated distrust of anything that didn’t contribute to the household coffers. She would openly belittle her husband when he dared to take out his accordion, dismissing his music as a “waste of time” that should be spent finding another job. Eventually, the accordion, a silent casualty of her disdain, found its way to the dusty attic, where it would remain, a forgotten echo of a silenced dream.
Years later, after Ethan’s parents were married and Ethan was a young child, a family meeting was convened. It wasn’t a discussion, really, but more of an ambush. Ethan’s mother, father, and grandmother ganged up on his grandfather, extracting a solemn promise: he would not interfere in Ethan’s upbringing. No talk of his past as a musician, no tales of playing in a band and being a traveling musician, no mention of artistic expression or freedom. The past was to remain buried. The future, they decreed, was about growing up, getting a job, and making money. Happiness, they insisted, would only follow the acquisition of wealth. Money brought happiness. His grandfather, defeated, agreed.
For years, he kept his word. That was until Ethan picked up a violin. His parents, perhaps seeing it as a fleeting childhood phase, allowed it, expecting him to tire of it quickly. But Ethan didn’t quit. He excelled. He found other young musicians, and an instant camaraderie bloomed, a shared language spoken through notes and harmonies. Ethan’s grandfather, witnessing this burgeoning talent, struggled to keep his silence, the promise a heavy weight on his conscience.
As the years passed, Ethan’s passion for music deepened. He attended music camps, played in a youth orchestra, and yearned to do more. He begged his parents for piano lessons, but they flatly refused. His grandfather saw the sadness in Ethan’s eyes, the vibrant spirit dimming, but felt powerless to intervene. Ethan began to withdraw, retreating into himself, spending more time practicing his violin, reading, and dreaming. He built a vivid fantasy world, a sanctuary for his imagination, carefully guarded from the harsh realities of his home life. This was also when the lying began. So deeply did he immerse himself in his invented realities that sometimes, the line between truth and fiction blurred.
Ethan was a gifted writer, his creativity a vibrant force that spilled onto the page. Parent-teacher conferences often highlighted his exceptional talent, urging his parents to encourage his writing. But his parents, clinging to their rigid vision of a “real” career, actively repressed any artistic inclination. This repression, more than anything, fueled Ethan’s need to lie. It was his only way to rewrite the story of his life, to escape the suffocating narrative imposed upon him. This led to a cycle of yelling, lectures, and punishments. Ethan yearned to rebel, but he felt trapped, forced to endure the hostile family environment until the day he could finally escape after high school.
