I’m surrounded by ghosts.

My dad’s ashes in my living room, secured in a wooden urn. The pictures of Dane, my husband Bill’s cousin, on our fridge.

These two may be gone but they aren’t forgotten. As painful as it can sometimes be, I think about and talk to them often.

When I do, I talk about the “whole” of them, for better or worse. Humans are, of course, fallible, and I believe that doesn’t end when they pass.

It is common practice to not speak ill of the dead. While I agree it isn’t necessary to totally rip into beloved and good people who have left us, I think their idiosyncrasies made them who they were.

My dad loved driving, loved to be in charge behind the wheel. My mom, brother, and I went on several road trips as we kids were growing up. Beloved and vivid memories of what made them memorable was mostly due to my dad, as when he’d begrudgingly stop at rest areas only if we pleaded with him, our bladders on the verge of bursting. Decades later he kept up the practice, waiting impatiently with the car running for my mother to take a quick leak at a grungy gas station in the middle of nowhere.

In his later years, my dad, ever the speeder in the past, never went above the speed limit. Instead, and quite dangerously, the opposite, priding himself on going five miles under the speed limit on 70 mph-designated freeways, oblivious to the accidents left in his path.

As such, my husband and kids often laugh fondly at Grandpa Larry’s driving habits. It was part of who he was, and continues to be…

But I also think of him every time I begin a biography or book on history, his two favorite genres. And when I open the box of a fresh new puzzle, as he was an avid puzzler right up to the end.

As for Dane, there were several years in our 20s when my husband, me, Dane, and Dane’s brother and sister-in-law were inseparable. Though technically family, we were more like friends. We did everything together, most of which involved around bars and parties.

I’ll never forget the time we all floated down a local river on inner tubes, coolers of beer securely strapped between us. Dane quickly became inebriated – as was the norm – and slyly slid off his tube and began swimming, ever so slowly. It took me a minute to comprehend that he was barfing into the thick, murky water.

Dane loved to play old country songs – Johnny Cash and Conway Twitty, to name a couple of favorites – long into the night, often in a drunken stupor, as the rest of us were trying to get some sleep. To this day, a tune will come on the radio and Bill and I will debate whether it’s one of Dane’s midnight or 2 am songs…

But there was also the time Bill and I showed up at a family event of Dane’s unexpectedly. Dane rushed to me, took hold of my hands, and said, beaming, that his best friend is here.

So I ask others to speak of me when I’m gone. Talk of me. Laugh about me. Get mad at things you didn’t like about me or what I said or did. Have a drink for me and say a joke I might make – the more sarcastic and inappropriate the better.

I was flawed. And I, more than anyone else on earth, knew it.

I want my loved ones – especially my children – to know life can go on. Laugh, attend a party, and by all means don’t feel bad. In fact, bring me to that party. Think of me while you’re there.

The gift I want to leave them is a guilt-free life. The freedom to live and to carry me with them along the way – the good and the bad.

And even the ugly.

My friend and I often talk about elementary school. We met when we were in 3^rd grade and love to laugh about things we said and did, most of which aren’t funny to anyone else.

Recently she mentioned how I and our other friends were in the highest reading group while she was in a lower one. She’d will her lips, she told me, to read faster and her brain to comprehend quicker so she could move up a level. She said the teachers shouldn’t have separated students so obviously.

“It didn’t make kids feel good about themselves,” she said ruefully.

I nodded, and then paused.

She was – is – an athlete. She was always chosen first out of the girls for teams in gym class (as in pre-1990s when kids chose teams, not teachers). Me? I fell somewhere in the bottom middle, shuffling my feet in embarrassment as I waited for my name to be called.

And she, I reminded her, could climb up that damn rope that hung from the gym ceiling like Tarzan. While for someone like me that rope loomed large, taunting my soft hands, weak biceps, and even weaker stamina.

Then there was dodgeball, where she’d launch balls – at both girls and boys – like grenades with Randy Johnson precision. Meanwhile, I sat down even if I wasn’t hit, unable to bear another targeted attack by Chris Newberg.

And so it goes – One child’s book is another one’s rope.

I’m good at purging. Leafing through old papers and tossing what isn’t necessary.

But I’m also a bit of a sentimentalist, particularly when it comes to saving things from my youth – old dolls, toys, knickknacks.

After my family helped my parents move out of their home and into a senior apartment a few years ago, I swore I wouldn’t hang on to everything I ever owned. My folks weren’t hoarders but the amount of stuff they kept was considerate.

Everything had been kept clean, neat, and orderly, as my dad always wanted his things to go to a “good home,” which by all intents meant me and my brother…

I suppose much like my parents I’ve always had an attachment to things. It’s one reason I loved my childhood room so much – I would sit for hours in it, content to be surrounded by my things.

And if I ever had to throw something meaningful away, for whatever reason, I got sad. I would think about the item lying in a garbage can, discarded and forgotten. Unloved. Oddly enough I’d sometimes feel bad for a partially eaten sandwich I threw away, as if it had feelings and a soul.

So I understood my folks’ attachment to items, especially those of the past with sentimental value.

Yet I didn’t want to put my kids through the hassle of going through all my shit when the time comes.

So recently, I decided to take action and parse through roughly 25 bins of stuff in my basement.

My first target of consolidation was boxes containing decades of papers, art projects, medals, and awards from my two adult children.

It was hard but I kept what truly mattered. For instance: My then-3^rd grade son’s description of his 3-year-old sister (she is small and her hands are rough and she’s totally addicted to TV!). And my then-1^st grade daughter’s lists and little pictures of her wants and needs (dolls, cake, “choklit”).

Then I sat looking at the remaining items, the projects that were half destroyed or too bulky to keep, including a Styrofoam molecule my son had made in 7^th grade. The paint was flaking off and the atom inside was crushed. His little hands had held this and I imagined his brow furrowed as he gently dabbed his paintbrush on the ball… And I kissed it.  

Then, through tears, I kissed more projects and more papers. I thanked God out loud for the two beautiful children I bore. I thanked Him that I’ve been blessed to have seen their little handwriting and spelling mistakes and that I could run my fingers over the paper mâché they touched. I was thankful that I had the opportunity to be home when they ran into the house, eager to show me their latest creation.

Then I stuffed it all in garbage bags.

So now I kiss and whisper thank you to items I discard, whether they’re going to be donated or sent off to the big garbage can in the sky.

Just the other day I put a perfectly intact set of dishes – Southwestern, colorful – my husband and I got as a wedding present on Facebook Marketplace (since then we’ve gone neutral – boring to some but comfortable to me).

The gal that purchased the set came to our house and gushed over every dish. She said the motif would fit perfectly in her house. The smile on her face melted my heart. It felt good to pass on something I loved so much.

But before she came to my house I took time to say goodbye to the set. I reflected on and thanked the dishes for being there for my family. So many family dinners were eaten off them (some of which those beautiful children fought all the way through, but whatever).

I know inanimate objects don’t have souls and humans and pets and animals are infinitely more important in life. But I also feel many objects have meaning. Importance. They enhance our lives and are often the backdrop to the memories we make with family and friends.   Thanking them not only seems appropriate, but appropriate…  

I’ve often believed that adults should apologize to children when they do something wrong that affects them. It shows kids that adults are fallible, that we aren’t perfect – we’re human. To dismiss an indiscretion or even simple mistake is to further kids’ likely assumptions that they are less than adults and therefore aren’t worthy of an apology from one.

Many times when I’m working at school, I’ll hear an adult tell a kid to tell another kid they are sorry for whatever wrong they caused them. Rarely do I do that. Instead, I’ll confront the kids, explain that their action was wrong and why. If an apology comes, then great. But forcing someone to say they are sorry cheapens the word. Besides, kids are smart – they know they know if someone isn’t sincere.

Why start kids off viewing an apology as a weakness, as something one needs to be coerced into saying?

So when I recently mistook a recess situation – long story short, I yelled at a student who I thought was keeping a school basketball; turns out it was his own. I felt bad. Later, I found him in the hallway as he was on his way to lunch and pulled him aside. I apologized and admitted my mistake. His eyes got wide and he nodded his head without saying a word and quickly walked away.

As I watched him go, I smiled to myself. I mean, maybe he was hungry, or he could have been embarrassed that the weird recess lady was talking to him. Or he could have been baffled that an adult – one who wasn’t a parent or such – apologized.

Unpopular opinion here – I like Mondays.

Though there were a couple of decades when I, like countless other 9-5ers, dreaded the upcoming week and the long, traffic-ridden drive to work as well as all the running to after-school activities, daily emptying of backpacks, laundry, and meal planning.  

I mean, Sundays – when a mere 48 hours earlier I was ensconced in revelry and hijinks.

I often thought, even after I had kids, that there was a weekday me and a weekend me – each of which found me hanging by the proverbial thread – but only one which I truly valued.

Then, 15 years ago and quite unexpectedly, a dream of mine presented itself and I had the opportunity to work part time from home.

It was the best gift I’ve ever been given.

I was still busy, but a different kind of busy. I woke my kids up in the mornings without yelling at them to hurry up and was able to drive them to and from school, spending precious one-on-one time with them that I’ll never forget. I started dinner early and packed hockey and softball bags hours in advance, tasks that were usually rushed and many times resulted in forgotten gear.

With my part time job, I was finally the stay-at-home mom I always wanted to be while still contributing to the family expenses.

And now that my kids have moved out?

Well, Mondays are even sweeter. It’s when, after a weekend usually spent with my husband, I get a few hours of complete quiet to myself when I can gather my thoughts and plan for the coming week. I rarely have the TV or music on, preferring to tackle a crossword puzzle, read, or work in complete silence.

I realize I’m lucky. Sure I don’t make a million dollars, but this gift ensures that I don’t have to dread the Scary Sundays. And it’s a delicious payoff.

I don’t engage in facebook much. I use it to follow a few friends who live out of town and to troll a few groups. I’m part of a jigsaw puzzle page and my city and neighborhood ones (How are the roads? Anyone receive my package?). One of my favorite’s is dedicated to hygge, a Danish lifestyle movement evoking warmth, serenity, and good company. Think warm candles, thick blankets, and a cozy fire.

It was on that site someone mentioned the Norwegian phenomenon of slow TV, a concept on YouTube that showcases seemingly mundane, every day events in peoples lives.

Think the Yule log on steroids.

Over Christmas, the husband and I watched our first one. It was called All Aboard: The Sleigh Ride and shows two people trekking through Karasjok, Norway, which is 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle, with sleds pulled by reindeer. For almost two hours, there’s hardly a word uttered; the only sound being boots and hooves crunching over a snowy path.

At one point, they pass a guy (I assume it’s a guy but who knows, as the person is bundled up) ice fishing. It’s only then I realize the two are trekking across a lake. As their journey goes on, for almost two hours, intermittent fun facts are discretely shown about the reindeer and the land they are traversing.

We were mesmerized, and proceeded to watch the same video with family two more times.

After that, we checked out other videos. There are several of Danish or Norwegian natives baking bread and making something resembling applesauce outside their small but immaculate looking wood house. Their humble abode is surrounding by flowers, free-roaming roosters, ducks, dogs, and cats. One showed a man chopping wood, who then used it to build a wood and stone house. The rhythmic sound of the man’s axe splitting wood was like having a friend work alongside you, each in quiet contentment.

Slow TV. I’m finding it a perfect way to ease into the new year during these dark and frigid months.

Ornament exchanges. Secret Santa. All well and fun til you get the crap end of it.

Most of these pesky exchanges are voluntary and I always go in with high hopes. As it is, I enjoy picking out small gifts for people, taking into account their likes and tastes (if known) and universal usefulness.

A friend of mine, who is always creative and thoughtful in her gift giving, recently shared her Secret Santa horror story.

The rules were clearly laid out, she said. There was a minimum daily limit and everyone filled out a sheet listing their interests. My friend mentioned on hers – didn’t say she was obsessed, just mentioned – she has a cat.

What happened next? My friend was inundated – but only for three of the five days – with cat things. Cheap cat things.

When it came to reveal time, her SS sheepishly admitted she didn’t have much money, blah blah.

I get that. The holidays are hard – heck, for a lot of people, money is always tight. But this was, again, strictly a voluntary activity. However, this gal was willing to accept the chance HER SS had the money and drive to participate fully (and correctly, if I may add).

The last time I participated in a sister of the SS event – an ornament exchange – I was the recipient of a purple moon. A large, shiny half moon with a contorted face. I threw it in the trash when I got home.

Group gift exchanges are meant to be fun, but they aren’t required (or shouldn’t be!). What is expected (or should be!) is that all involved must spend the correct amount, give at the set intervals, and above all, be creative.

Basically, don’t give crap gifts.

The fires in California – devastating. I cannot imagine the loss, the helplessness..

I overheard a couple people talking about the fires today. One said something to the effect that she doesn’t feel bad for the rich people who lost their homes.

How sad, I thought. Homes are a deeply personal space for everyone who is lucky to have one, including those who can afford to live in mansions. Beloved family members and pets reside in them. It’s often where irreplaceable prized possessions are kept and where one can (hopefully) be their true self.

Even if one doesn’t feel too sorry for rich homeowners – after all, it may be one of their many homes – there are people who work in and businesses that serve those homes.    

However, I am a cynic by trade and could easily fall into apathy for the Hollywood types I detest.

Instead, I’m choosing compassion and empathy – as a dog and cat owner, a mother, daughter, wife, and friend.

And, as a homeowner.

I could sit on my front porch – as I am right now – all summer and look at rain clouds pass by. I should be writing, I tell myself. Or throwing another load of laundry in the washer. Or, or…

Instead, the impending storm brings me back to memories of my youth, when the neighbor kids would pile into my mother’s station wagon and head to the lake. We’d swim and play on the beach for hours, no one worried about the differences in ages or the cliques we belonged to during the school year.   

My mom always packed chips, popcorn, and a thermos full of Kool-Aid, which she’d pour into wax Dixie cups.  When it was time to leave, we’d shake out our beach towels (mine: paper thin with some 70s cartoon theme printed on it) and head to the car, all of us jockeying for a seat in the “way in the back”.

Many afternoons we’d be chased by storm clouds all the way home, where we’d race to our own homes as the rain came pouring down.

It was those times I felt the most comfortable – and comforted – in my house. My brother and I would turn on afternoon TV (Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island). I’d bring out my dolls and my brother would play with his Millenium Falcon, our mother in the kitchen or reading on the couch.

I was content with feeling secluded and safe, with the rain allowing me to just – be.