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The View From Van's Hill

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The View from Van’s Hill (I Brought Lunch. They Brought the Silence) Yesterday was the four-year anniversary of Van taking up permanent residence on the hill... I always decorate Van’s grave, take his favorite food and sit for a while, reflecting on the good years.  From his spot, the pond below sparkles like it’s trying to show off. It’s peaceful, with trees and moving water, the kind of place where you can breathe in the cool February air and feel the world slow down. I have more people in that cemetery than I want to admit. The Roll Call at Van’s Hill Bob and Elvira — Van’s parents, who anchored this family and are the reason we have this beautiful place to gather. Elba and Inez — Van’s grandparents, resting right alongside them. Donna Chapman — My best friend from the very beginning. Lawana Chapman — Donna’s older sister, taken exactly nine months to the day after Donna. Leroy Chapman — The big brother I always had but never wanted, who kept all us girls safe. Randall and...
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Chaos with a Soundtrack

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  Stardew Valley Music Has Been Turned Into a Symphony Stardew Valley is this cozy little farming game where people willingly spend hundreds of hours watering pixelated turnips like they’re running a vegetable empire. They chop trees, smash rocks, attend festivals where everyone pretends to be normal, and try not to collapse from exhaustion before the sun sets at 6 p.m. Too stressful for me. I retired after my character nearly died because I was running late from a festival and forgot to check the time. And now someone—some visionary or possibly a madman—decided to turn this into a symphony. A full orchestra. Violins. Cellos. French horns. Suddenly my little pixel farm feels very serious. But the real question haunting me was: who exactly attends a Stardew Valley symphony? Gamers, presumably. Do they know symphonies traditionally involve formalwear, good posture, and pretending you understand what the conductor is doing with his little stick? Or do they arrive in pajama pants and h...
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How to Land in a Stranger's Lap (A Symphony Prequel)

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 Robin, my daughter-in-love, invited me to join them and her brothers for the Stardew Valley Symphony. I’ve never been to a symphony before. I had questions — lots of questions. In my mind, a symphony is pure elegance: white-gloved ushers guiding guests to velvet seats, soft golden lighting warming the room, formal gowns and tuxedos drifting through the aisles, and music that promises sophistication before the first note even plays. BUT — and I do mean a big but — these are gamers. Do they know what a real symphony is? Do I know what a real one is?   I’d seen symphonies on television and once attended a very proper choir performance in Cincinnati. We dressed nicely for that. Shoes were involved. So naturally, I wondered if we should shop. They arrived all the way from Hobbs, New Mexico, and we all met at their grandmother Shirley’s house. The kids didn’t even take time to unload at the motel — they were starving, we were starving, everybody was starving. “Just follow me to Hef...
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Frozen Pipes= Frozen Productivity

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Why is it that the moment pipes freeze or the electricity goes out, my entire body decides it has a broken arm? Or a broken leg. Possibly both. Suddenly I am incapable of doing anything. Cleaning mirrors? Absolutely not. Sweeping the floor? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have water. Well… I do have water. Just not in the bathroom. And the hot water is frozen solid, which feels personal. This whole saga began when a wild animal crawled under my house and tore out the insulation like it was auditioning for a home‑renovation show called Extreme Makeover: Rodent Edition. Then my washer sprang a leak. I didn’t notice until the carpet and the cheap particle‑board floor under the dresser had turned into oatmeal. When I pulled the carpet back, the floor had melted away. I could see the ground under my house. That is not a “feature.”  That is a horror movie. I called Rick, my handyman. He said he’d get to me soon. Not wanting a critter to stroll into my bedroom like it pays rent, I slapped a ...
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Rap Monster, the Temporary Pet

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  The Kitten Chronicles: How I Accidentally Became a Cat Landlord We have two darling little kittens — outdoor cats, feral cats, “don’t touch me, human” cats. Their older brothers survived last winter outside like tiny Viking warriors, so I figured these two would be fine. But I still bought them a heated cat house. A whole tiny Airbnb with a warming pad specifically designed for feral cats. Because apparently I’m running a luxury resort for animals who won’t even let me pet them. One morning I was playing with them through the glass window — my version of “interactive cat parenting.” Jimin looked over his shoulder, froze, and bolted. I stepped outside to see what scared him. Mama cat screamed — a sound that could summon demons — and she was standing over little Jimin’s body. No life left in him. A strange feral male cat stood there like he owned the place, challenging me. I grabbed a shovel and ran him off like a furious pioneer woman defending her homestead.. Well. “I am NOT havi...
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It's in My Belly

 My great niece Jana… bought three guppies for her three kids. Real cute, right? Three kids, three fish, everything balanced. We’re talking  Pinterest-level parenting . Day one: one fish dies. Okay, sad, but it happens. Now they’re down to two Jana walked by the tank one day and—wait a second—there is only  one  guppy swimming around. No floater. No funeral. Just… one. Jana asked her daughter Violet, “Honey, what happened to the other guppy?” And Violet, without missing a beat, goes:  “It’s in my belly.” Now—Jana was like, “I’m sorry… what did you say?” And Violet just doubled down. “It’s. In. My. Belly.” This girl has the confidence of a mafia hitman at age THREE. Horrified, Jana asked, “What did you DO?” And Violet? She doesn’t even flinch. She  demonstrated . Hand in the tank, scoop motion, shove in the mouth—  gobble gobble gobble.  “In my belly.” I mean, this is not some frat kid swallowing a goldfish on a dare. This is a toddler treating Pet...
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Christmas Letter and Mother-in-law

   I got a phone call from my dear ninety-year-old mother-in-law. “Jeanne, I’ve been praying for you every night.” Me: “Oh, that is so sweet of you. I can always use prayers.” Mom: “Has Pam lost her mind?” Me: “WHAT? No! She lost her husband… not her mind.” (I had completely forgotten about the Christmas letter I sent out this year. I added it below.) Mom: “But she is trying to kill you. I’ve really been praying for you—now I know why.” Me: “WHAT? NO! WHAT??” Mom: “We got your Christmas card…” Me: “Mom! It was a joke! She wasn’t really trying to kill me. It was meant to be funny.” (I didn’t mention that it was actually all true. She would never understand.) Mom: “Oh good. I’ve been really worried you’d go back and visit her… with her trying to kill you like that.” Me (banging my head on the table): “No, Mom! It’s all good. It was just a joke. She did NOT try to kill me…” Mom: “Okay, that’s good. I’m still praying for you.” Somebody needs to, for sure. Note to self...
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Really Just TWO?

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                          The exact moment I realized my breakfast consisted of exactly 32 calories."   Camping is the life—especially when I’m the guest and others are responsible for all the work. We woke up to the sound of high winds rocking the camper, then… a huge crash! The awning. Yes, the awning. We had left it up, because why be sensible when the night is warm and balmy? It had been so hot that we hated following the “no generators after eleven pm” rule. We suffered in… not silence exactly, more like an Olympic-level flopping competition, twisting and turning to find some relief, drenched in sweat, like human puddles. Finally, a bit of relief as the wind quickly cooled everything down. And then—the huge crash! Oh no! The awning pole was bent just a little. Not catastrophic… yet. Clint, Pam's #4 son swooped in like a tiny superhero and helped us get it down. By now, we were all soaked from the sudden rain, ...
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Pam's Secret Desire

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  I'm at  The World’s largest Tri-State-Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland Indiana with one of my best friends, Pam.   I did not know the woman had a secret desire toward me.... yeah... that's right... To KILL me.    First we go to the Dollar General all is well until I round a corner and have a giant spider dangled in front of my face!! I screamed and jumped back; my brain tried to reason with my heart... it's a fake spider!     She just had to buy it to go on the front of our golf cart. It is NOT FALL... it is NOT time for Spiders to be in season.  I didn't question her, she is my friend, it is her golf cart and now her spider.   She let me drive I think she likes having a chauffeur.    All is going well, until someone we passed said, "Hey did you know you have a spider on your windshield?"  I was looking to kill me a little spider on my windshield... ARGH. Then I realized he meant the big hairy one. Yeah, that one....
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The Mad Ironer (found at Tractor Show

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 World’s largest Tri-State-Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland Indiana. Forty acres (at least) of flea markets, tractors, and engine exhibits. If you don’t know you need it, you’ll find it here. I kept reminding myself: I need nothing. I am downsizing. I am only window shopping. See what treasures other people once thought they couldn’t live without… and are now hoping to unload on someone else. Then I found it. A child’s iron. An actual working one. I picked it up and showed Pam. “This is exactly like the one Dad brought home for JoDee. She was about three. I was the much more mature age of six.” That little iron plugged into the wall and got hot. Very hot. Mom warned us: “Do not plug it in. If you forget it in a pile of clothes it could catch on fire, and we’ll all die in our sleep.” One day, JoDee was suspiciously quiet. Mom sent me to check on her. I opened the bedroom door and there she was: ironing clothes, little iron plugged in. “Mom said you can’t plug it in!” I yelled...
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Baby Grand Piano

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Reality check: No cape, no paparazzi, and I'm pretty sure I heard the cat groan during the second verse of Yankee Doodle.  Who doesn’t dream of playing on a Baby Grand Piano? In my imagination, the paparazzi were snapping photos, fans were fainting in the aisles, and a spotlight followed me like I was a rock star. I imagined myself in a sleek black dress with a dramatic cape. I’d flip it back, glide to the bench, and sit down ever so gracefully. The audience would hold their breath, waiting for the first note like it was the unveiling of the Mona Lisa. What would I play? Mozart? Beethoven? Or the William Tell Overture —because nothing says “heroic entrance” like the Lone Ranger theme blasting through a recital hall. Heart racing, fingers poised, I prepared to unleash a symphony the world would never forget. My six childhood piano lessons—yes, six!—had finally prepared me for this moment. Then I struck the first note. ‘Yankee Doodle!’ Wait… what? Did I just… oh no. My fingers ha...
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Gagged Mannequin

 Pam’s adult kids always make me feel welcome when I visit Indiana. Really sweet. This last trip, her son Spencer—invited us to dinner at Texas Roadhouse. Which is already funny because Texas Roadhouse is where you go if you can’t afford therapy. Unlimited bread rolls? Yes please. I came for the cinnamon butter, but I stayed for the accidental kidnapping confession. Now, before dinner, Pam casually mentions, “Oh yeah, we stopped by your house earlier. Took a little self-guided tour.” Spencer dropped his fork. “ YOU went inside my house?” This man looked like the police had just asked him if he owned a shovel and a suspiciously large backyard. I quickly jump in, “No, no, no—we didn’t go in to see if you clean. We just looked around a little. I loved the Harley Davidson room with the two motorcycles in it.” Because nothing says bachelor pad like, ‘Forget a sofa—let’s just park the bikes indoors.’ But Spencer is still panicking. His girlfriend’s staring at him like, do you l...
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Mach1 and the Phone Call

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                                       "Last known photo of me before my organs moved to Ohio"  This year Pam invited me to Indiana for the World’s Largest Tri-State Gas Engine and Tractor Show. Yeah. Because nothing screams “bucket list” like antique carburetors and old men in overalls. Forget Paris, forget Rome. Portland, Indiana—baby, that’s the dream. I went up a few days early to hang out with Pam. She loves shopping… unless it’s Wal-Mart. Every time John and I said, “Let’s go to Wal-Mart,” she groaned like we’d suggested a colonoscopy. “NOT WAL-MART.” So, instead of shopping, Pam decided: “Let’s get Calvin to take you for a spin in his ultra-fast race car.” Now this car is a Mach 1. 480 horsepower. Six-speed. Rev-matching transmission. Posi-traction rear end. Basically, if a midlife crisis and a death wish had a baby—this is it.  And apparently, I'm the babysitter. I...
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The Plus -- That Won't Go Away

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"The Tybee Trio plus their tag-along. Proof that I survived the 'stranger' phase and actually got invited back for more chaos."    This year I’ve been invited to go with Pamela and her family to the World’s Largest Tri-State Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland, Indiana. Last June, Pamela had invited me along to Tybee Island, Georgia, with her husband John and their adult son Calvin. We’d only met a few times before, always with my husband by my side. That Tybee trip was my first time traveling with them after losing my husband in February 2022. I remember sitting in the backseat of their pickup with Pam, crossing state borders at ninety miles an hour, when she leaned over and said slowly: “You know we are basically strangers.” I hoped it was just a friendly reminder, not a threat. Should I ask her to drop me at the nearest bus station? Instead, I smiled and nodded. By day two of Tybee, Pamela had food poisoning. The bathroom became her best friend. She po...
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Grandsons Love Them!!

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  "The face you make when Mema shells out $65 and all you get is a shark's-eye view of your own misery." The long Covid really messed up my vacation plans this year. My grandsons were supposed to spend the entire summer with me. Instead, I got them for the last week of summer vacation. Better a little time together than none, right? I dragged them—kicking, screaming, and clutching their laptops like they were life support machines. “We’re going to do something FUN!” I announced. Their blank stares said, Yeah right, Mema. e got up early and headed to the aquarium. It was a Tuesday in July, which I thought was perfect. People should be busy working, or vacationing somewhere nice like Branson. Wrong. We pulled into the parking lot and were greeted by about ten school buses. Why? School isn’t even in session! And then I spotted the senior citizen buses. Great—kids wired on sugar and retirees running on coffee, all in the same building. What could possibly go wrong? At least ...
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Goat Heads & Dollar tree Remodeling

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   "My Dollar Tree masterpiece. Dexter would be proud. Martha Stewart? Not so much."  There are places where the wind whispers through the trees, and then there is Tahoka, Texas—where the wind tries to pin you against your own house like a common butterfly in a display case. It was my first clue that this 'family rescue mission' was going to be a bumpy ride.  Terry had a stroke, so the kids moved them to Tahoka Tx into her son’s little house. Six people already live there. SIX—and it’s under remodeling. That lasted two weeks before even the drywall started crying.".    So, they moved into this old house. Except… someone had left the back door open. For weeks. So, the hot Texas wind blew in nothing but sand and dirt.  Someone replaced the carpet and floors, and Valerie was like, “Good enough.” No. Trust me—NOT good enough. So, I went down to visit. And listen, I’m a low-maintenance guest. I roll in with an air mattress, bedding, and a camp chair. “...
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I helped Mema Take a Bath

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   A Bright Idea (That Wasn’t) Years ago, when my grandson Z was little, I wasn’t feeling well. Achy, tired. I thought: “Hot bath. That’ll fix me right up.” The problem? The bathroom was on the third floor . My daughter was in the basement doing… who knows. Exercising, watching TV, maybe using that Virtual Headset I’m not allowed to touch unless supervised. So naturally, my brain went here: “If I faint in the tub, no one’s gonna hear me.” And then came the bright idea. (Which, for the record, is always dangerous. My bright ideas never end well.) Enter Z, Age Four Z was lying on the floor, watching cartoons on an old phone. I said: “Hey buddy, Mema’s not feeling good. I’m not gonna lock the bathroom door. Could you sit outside, watch your cartoons, and if you hear me fall, run and get your mom? I’ll give you a dollar.” Now, he was four. Didn’t know the value of money yet. To him, a dollar might as well have been a winning lottery ticket.  I take my bath. Nothing happens...
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