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Confession: I Fell… into a Mountain of Cookies

Some of my readers may remember a long string of posts I had written a few years back when my blog was relatively new, under the theme “Stronger Than the Cookie.” It was something my daughter had said to encourage me and the series chronicled my 55-pound weight loss journey. I maintained that loss for at least three years and felt really good. I had a good plan that I followed and still will not name for reasons I had previously listed in that series. But those of us of a certain age know that even without trying it weight just finds us as we age. In my case, added weight came calling with stress and yes, cookies.

Once again, though I decided to beat the proverbial wake up call and admit that I was not succeeding in controlling the beast on my own and decided to go back on my program that had been so helpful. I have heard it said, at least in years past that if one was going to begin a new regimen, or habit of some sort, best to keep it to ones’self. I suppose that was so, if one “fell into a mountain of cookies” it would be less embarrassing. That the fewer people who knew you were trying the fewer people would be aware of your embarrassing failure. Something like that. One should probably get stronger in that new discipline on their own before baring their soul to others.

I have decided not to do that, not to keep it to myself. Because when I began my weight loss journey in 2020, to my healthiest weight and healthiest body, confession was good for my soul, being brutally honest about my struggle with food, somehow helped me and as always it was my hope that being so honest about my weight problems, dare I say not sugar-coating them, might encourage others with similar struggles.

The weight has come back gradually, 2 years ago I was only about 7 pounds above my goal weight, then a few more pounds slipped in to join them. Then vacation. Then sorrows and struggles that I mistakenly fed with bread (yes, I admit it) and cookies because I love carbs. It seems I can’t go on vacation without a five-pound gain and while those five pounds come on rather quickly, it takes longer to lose them. Also, I am now 75, and metabolism and weight gain have minds of their own, or at least they function differently with age. And seeing the same numbers on the scale going up, that I had previously celebrated on the way down, well, it has been demoralizing, that is for sure.

All has not been lost. First, I have gained back a little more than half of what I lost, but not all of it. I have maintained a few of the good and helpful habits that I had learned. Although there are some days that I cannot bear it or bare it, I generally get on the scale most mornings before getting dressed.

I don’t go back for seconds, I still fill our plates next to the stove and only bring our filled plates to the table. The rest are leftovers for the next meal or another meal, not for refilling my plate.

There is a full-length mirror in the hallway, and I look at myself there every day, front view and side view, even on days that I don’t get on the scale. The mirror in the hall is unavoidable. But I have finally gotten to the point where I have to admit, I do not like what I see or how I feel in my clothes. I had to bite the proverbial bullet and buy some larger size clothes, from size 10 to 12 and then 14’s. I draw the line at needing size 16, and so that brings me here.

So far as I know, I am not diabetic yet, but that mystery will be solved with a visit to my family doctor soon. I have known what to do all along, but besides maintaining the disciplines I mentioned here, I still slice and weigh my bread and measure the food I put on my plate. but once I have tasted something sweet, even a low carb cookie, that is all that she wrote.

The program that helped me the first time was good and healthy and taught me a lot and I am sure that it will again. I am also sure that humble pie has no calories or carbs to set me on a cookie bender. I started the first few sentences of this post on the first day of my new journey and finishing the post on day 3 of week 2, down 4 pounds, and walking 1.5 mile a day, hoping to get to 2 miles a day.

I don’t feel as though I need to stop making bread or eating bread but have always known that every slice counts. I give away as much as I can, and slice and freeze anything I make for myself. As you can see from the picture below, this journey is nothing new. But I am determined and invite you to join me and see how it goes.

I am a woman of hope and faith. I can do this but am glad to have company for the journey.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2023-2028 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Community of Bakers ~ Part II

A Baker’s Guild

When I began to deepen my journey into baking and especially bread making, I found myself wishing to be part of a community of bakers, bread bakers especially, perhaps a guild if such a thing exists. I live in a small town, and there are many people who bake who live here. But one of the realities of small-town life, and small-town retired life is actually getting together in person with people of similar interests is not as easy as one might think.

One way I have benefited from my small-town life is being able to engage friends and neighbors in tasting my baking. So, I have even put out requests on Facebook or called friends to ask if they would sample something and give me an opinion. I am grateful for each of those people who were willing to trust me enough to try my “bakes” and provide some feedback and critiquing. They were kind and encouraging. For my part I have persisted and pushed myself to do better, to strive for excellence. Every now and then I send out the invitation for another round of samples. For instance, I have some recipes for some chocolate goodies I am eager to make, but I have to have willing participants because well, chocolate…and too much of a good thing.

While a guild has not materialized, or my personal invitation to be part of a guild has not arrived at my doorstep, I have found a gradual sense of a community of bakers that has grown over the last two years. That community has developed in surprising ways; and thankfully, I think my ability as a baker of breads has grown too.

Kendall Vanderslice and The Edible Theology Project, Kendall writes about the intersection of food and faith, especially feeding bodies and souls at the table. She has authored books and curriculum and I found her quite by accident on social media. In some ways, participating in various projects through Edible Theology was my “Guild Experience.” I took the online Lenten Sourdough Class that Kendall offered in 2022. There was a small group of us and on Wednesday evening during Lent instead of attending a service somewhere we met in a zoom meeting with our computers in our kitchens and made the recipe of the week ‘Together” I enjoyed the experience, it was something I had never done, taken my laptop in the kitchen and connected with people I did not know. Most weeks there were not as many as ten, so it was online but a small group. I was not very confident or competent, but it was a good learning experience on which to build.

The next year, in Lent of 2023, I taught a class at church that she had coauthored. it was as hands on version of a class called “Bake with the Bible” Teaching Bible Study and helping people connect with the stories and people has been a major emphasis of my pastoral ministry. Although I am still serving a small church in retirement part time, teaching that class felt like my Swan Song. We all baked, and laughed, and ate together. Members of the class helped one another and at the end of the experience, we celebrated with a delicious meal provided by one of the members. In addition, we did two special projects that were suggested in the curriculum and each week we gathered in the kitchen and the dining room to sample each other’s work, to ooh and ahh and laugh too. They did not want to stop yet and neither did I, so I added 2 additional sessions; one for making pizza and one for making bagels.

Hot Cross Buns

Shortly after leading that class, I volunteered to be a recipe tester for Kendall’s newest book (Bake and Pray), and that stretched me. I am not always the most confident thing on two feet. I made each recipe that was assigned, and very much felt like I was in over my head. For one thing, they were all recipes for foods I had never known existed. And then there was the one with rum; that is a story in itself!

I was determined. So, I pushed myself, to complete the task, to keep up with other baking, which at that point meant I was now baking twice a week along with everyday tasks of living and sermon preparation. Persistence was rewarding. I delivered some of the bakes to local friends and took others with me to church. One of my summertime parishioners told me, “Don’t stop baking!” Here is a link to her book, that will be released in October 2024: Bake & Pray: Liturgies and Recipes for Baking Bread as a Spiritual Practice. And you can also order her book at her website and learn more about Kendall’s work at her new website: https://www.kendallvanderslice.com. So much of what I have learned from her reinforces my own passion for connecting the Lord’s Table to the dining room table. I am blessed at this juncture in my retirement to both bake bread for Communion for the church I serve part time, and also to serve that bread.

St. Jude Children’s Hospital Baking Challenge

Even though I had felt stretched and perhaps stressed, trying to keep up with regular life, baking and testing recipes, at the end of the testing period I felt a little lost, like something was missing. So, when I saw a challenge on social media to participate in a virtual baking challenge for a fundraiser for St. Jude Children’s Hospital, I got on board. The fundraiser was virtual, but some participants sold their items to friends and neighbors or took them to work and asked for donations in addition to the money that was raised directly. Group participants connected through a private Facebook page, so it was just the bakers and participants. Each week had a different focus, breads, cakes, pies and cookies.

Bread Week! For Pie week I posted a picture of a pizza (pie).

We shared pictures and sometimes recipes, offered words of encouragement, cheering each other on. And being cheered on, we pushed ourselves to do more. Some of us began the challenge before Thanksgiving but it is a four-week challenge that starts December 1st. It was a confection connection. I taught my children how to cook at an early age (they are all in their late 40’s now). This experience also pushed me in terms of personal baking goals and commitments but the best thing of all, besides knowing that I was helping to raise money for a good cause, was the interaction with other bakers.

We oohed, and awed over pictures of the baked goods, and cheered each other on, spurred each other on in some cases. It made me braver. And I loved the comradery of the group. One of the most inspiring things to me in that process was seeing the number of families baking together. And the sense of accomplishment on the faces of the kiddos. It was meant to be short term. We talked about keeping some connection going, but I think without the impetus of the fundraiser it would not have been the same. And then it was Christmas, you know, a “pastor’s busy season.”

Heidi Marie Priest’s Easy Sourdough for Beginners

In late January I took another online sourdough seminar and finally felt that I had a better understanding of the process. I was ready to begin my sourdough journey again. And after pushing myself with extra baking through the recipe testing and then the Baking Challenge, adding extra baking days did not seem nearly as stressful as the rest of my life and in the process of baking I began to find solace and direction. But I missed that sense of Community that had begun to form in the baking challenge. And when you are new at something, it can help to have a cheering section as well as advice from those who have been there.

I found one group for recipes, and another sourdough group for beginners. That first site had so many members that it felt impersonal. I had I visited Heidi’s site, and it was a much smaller group, so I went back. At the time I joined the group in late January, I think there were less than 500 members, although I do not remember the exact number. For whatever reason interest in working with sourdough and making sourdough bread has increased so dramatically that there are several sites with thousands of members. Not exaggerating. Since I joined Heidi’s Easy Sourdough for Beginners site, the membership has grown from under 1,000 to over 40,000 members and counting. Heidi is a woman of many talents and teaching basic sourdough skills is just one of them. She developed a method and built a community and continues to work hard.

Still practicing ~ My 17th sourdough loaf since February 2024

Whether you have 500 members in a group or 5,000 or more, there will be just as many opinions on the best methods, practices. But I was fortunate enough to get on board earlier and was able to connect with several team members, admins and others, so while it is a big group, I feel as though I have found my niche, “my people” with whom I can have a personal, albeit social media connection. I have watched the site grow, and I have grown in the process. Although I generally apply self-deprecating adjectives to my penchant for baking bread (Addicted/compulsive/driven), that is not really how I see myself as a baker. I may be an amateur, or hobby baker, although I am not sure those adjectives are any better. I am a baker of breads who enjoys and appreciates being part of a community of bakers who can encourage and inspired each other. I am a baker of breads with a longing to feed both souls and bodies. Still learning, still growing, still stretching and still,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Community of Cooks and Bakers~ Part I

My mother was my first cooking teacher. Although I was a student in the time when public schools still had “home economics” classes, I was in Catholic School, and we did not have that benefit. Now, until we moved to the Union Villa, (the hotel, bar and restaurant my parents bought) I was never invited, or required to help with anything in the kitchen. Mom did at all, and I don’t remember even wanting to get involved. Come to think of it she even did the dishes.

But when my parents bought the Union Villa, helping was a way of being together, and I got to help do everything, as long as I did not touch anything with alcohol or that had had alcohol in it (like empty beer glasses or shot glasses, for instance). Other than that, almost everything in the kitchen was fair game. I did wash dishes there, but also folded pizza boxes, cut 40-pound blocks of mozzarella cheese, and ran them through the grinder. Occasionally I made pizza dough, squeeze(d) large quantities of canned whole tomatoes to get the pulp out for both pizza sauce and spaghetti sauce. I never understood why they didn’t use puree. Sometimes I made pizzas, to say nothing of sweeping floors, emptying ash trays and washing them.

Picture of a pizza with pepper, pepperoni, mushrooms and cheese, sitting on a wooden cutting board

Mom did cook regular family meals for us to eat, which we ate at a booth in the bar, though seldom together. Besides the regular ‘home cooked meals, pizza and spaghetti were often on the menu, and occasionally meatball subs as well. I was fascinated and proud of the special buffets she put on twice a year to thank their customers. The food was good, but she also made the table look inviting. She was my first inspiration for cooking.

In high school, my friend Diane and I had fun baking together, making cookies and cranberry bread for the guys we were dating. It was a joy. We did the baking at her house, and I remember it being companionable, and a great memory. Even now when I make cranberry bread, which has continued to be an annual tradition, I remember those days.

picture of a loaf of cranberry bread, with one slice cut to reveal the bread.

My second teacher was Betty Crocker and ‘the red cookbook’ I got for a wedding present. Betty made me adventurous. if I saw a picture that I liked and thought I could do, I went for it. There was a near disaster of a chocolate chip cake that was featured that I made to take to a church event. But I didn’t realize I should have used mini chips or done something to coat the chips to keep them from sinking to the bottom, so I made a second one. It was pretty. When I got compliments, I learned to bake for compliments.

I cooked and baked for years, feeding my family and baking gifts of cakes mostly. I shied away from breads, although I have been making my own pizza dough since my mid-20’s and dinner rolls since my 30’s. When I became a pastor, one of the churches I served had a monthly potluck meal after church. It was the third church and third church service in the morning, so it was almost impossible to make anything fresh. I did not want to beg off from contributing because I was the pastor so, I made homemade rolls. I had some good recipes that I could mix up the night before. Looking back now I am not sure how I had the energy to get up, roll and bake the dinner rolls before church, drop them off at the site for the dinner before beginning my morning rounds, but that is what I did. It worked out really well, I was able to contribute to the meal and folks enjoyed the rolls.

During those years however, I was a full-time student, first at college and then seminary and my husband did most of the cooking. Making rolls was the most cooking I did, except for cooking during Buck Season. I joked that I did not want him to miss the “buck of a lifetime” because he had to leave the woods early to cook my dinner. I was grateful for all he did and happy to cook during those few weeks. But Buck Season was also “study for final exams and write final papers season,” so the meals I made were ‘nothing to write home about.’

When I graduated from seminary in 2004, we renegotiated the deal, more or less and I cooked two nights a week and he still did most of it. Once I was no longer a student, I was a full-time pastor, so all the cooking and cleaning he did, really made the difference in what I was able to do ministry wise.

When I retired it was not so much negotiated as anticipated. He is still a good cook. And we both have our specialties. It wasn’t until after COVID that I began to experiment with bread. I didn’t think I could make bread, I had many failures in the early years, which is one reason why making rolls was so attractive. I knew I could do them. Just as in my earlier years, cooking for compliments, when one loaf turned out well, I was inspired to try again. So many recipes so little time.

two loaves of white homemade bread sitting on a cooling rack on a kitchen counter, other spices and jars are behind them.

There are three special cooks in my life I want to give a nod to, because they have inspired me and continued to do so. It took me almost eight years as a full-time student, serving three churches to complete both my bachelor’s degree and my master’s degree. During those years my husband did the lion’s share of the cooking. We did not starve by any stretch. He kept us well fed. Again, I could not have done the ministry that I did without his unfailing support and care for everything around the house, including but not limited to cooking. I could say more, but he would get annoyed at me and accuse me of ruining his well-honed reputation.

Then there is my friend and former parishioner, Deb. She has been able to be a stay-at-home mom, with her three growing young people, while her husband works outside the home. I cannot tell you how much I admire her and especially the love and care she puts into feeding her family. She is creative, dedicated and willing to work around her family’s likes and dislikes, preparing a variety of dishes, taking advantage of sales, using leftovers and what she has on hand. She is the one who inspired me indirectly to take and post pictures of my bread. I am an outsider, we are not BFF’s, but I hold her in high regard and often hope that her family sees the love she puts into meal preparation that I see as an observer.

A special acknowledgment of my friend (and writing partner) Donna, who inspires me on a regular basis with her gardening, caring for chickens, canning, cooking, baking as well as writing, art and photography. A woman of many talents, I am happy to call friend and creative partner in areas where our writing overlaps. I have learned so much from her and she is definitely someone I leaned on last summer and fall when I was trying to relearn canning.

If I had a wall of photographs of people who have inspired me in the kitchen, it would be Mom (and Dad), Diane (all that cranberry bread), Betty Crocker, my husband, Deb and Donna. And truth be told, others too numerous to mention. A veritable community of cooks and bakers. What about you? If you had pictures in your kitchen of people who inspired and taught you, whose pictures would be there?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Marking (the passage) of Time ~ A Monday morning re-set story

I often note special anniversaries and important personal and family dates on my calendar. I don’t know how many others do this, but besides family birthdays and anniversaries, I remember my parents’ birthdays and wedding anniversary, even though they are no longer with us. I also mark and remember the dates they died. In my father’s case I also remember the date of his funeral, simply because it was on St. Patrick’s Day. In the case of those who have gone on before, there are different ways I might mark that date. For instance, when I still worked in a regular office, on the anniversary of my parents’ deaths I would bring in a picture of them to prop up in a corner in my cubicle.

Old picture of a man and woman behind a b ar. The picture has many cracks. Next to a picture of customers at the bar.

There are other ways of remembering them. For instance, I started this blog as a memoir blog, which it still is, as a vehicle for telling stories about my parents, and life as a teenager growing up in a bar. Sharing memories has become really important because as it turns out, we really were not much of a picture taking family and now I realize that I only have 3 pictures of my dad, and mom and dad together that span the years 1962-1969. The pictures are in my heart, in my memories, and so in my stories. When I get home to Massachusetts, I generally make one stop at the cemetery, but that is not something I grew up doing.

Picture of a woman at a cemetary, there re trees and bushes, the woman is leaning forward and sh e is wearing a sweater with gray, light green and dark green stripes.

Although I do put special dates and events on my calendar, I am not one to do countdowns, like the number of days until Christmas, or the number of days until a vacation. Likewise, although I make lists and circle dates, I do not “x” out dates on a calendar. When I was a girl though, my mom would use countdowns to help me visualize how many days had to pass until we went to visit family in Baltimore, or how many days until Dad’s Ship came in and he would be home. (He was in the Merchant Marine) Even then, those were not so much countdowns, more like a “you are here” on the calendar and these are the days in between now and then.

There is one particular anniversary date that has come up in conversation a lot recently in my husband’s medical appointments, and that is the fact that in April 2024, he will have been on insulin for 30 years. Considering that the insulin helps him, that is not a bad anniversary, but it is a bit staggering to realize that it has been that long. We both always remember the exact date he got his first insulin shot because it was coincidentally the day that my mother died.

It is hard to believe that it has been that long, staggering. I could not miss her more than I do now. And yet, she is never far from my mind, my heart, my storytelling and writing. And sometimes, perhaps because of those things, I would say she feels present. That could be because I do not let the poor woman rest in peace with all those stories. That sense of presence is often stronger when I am at home in Massachusetts, perhaps because those memories are so strong. That is where I grew up, that is where we lived. Lately, as I have delved deeper into making bread, I would say that my kitchen is another place I think of her, that she seems present.

A slightly blurry picture of a teenage girl (the author) and an older woman, her mother. They are standing outside on a sidewalk with t he main street behind them, a park in the background and beyond that the blue water of the bay.

It will be April when this post is published and so with the nearness of the significant “my husband starting on insulin/my mother’s passing” I remembered that there are also some other very significant 30-year anniversaries that loom large in my life. After spending time with my brother’s family, at my mom’s funeral and especially his cousin, my son announced his intention to move to California in July. He was already living on his own, with a friend, already out of high school and earning a living. He was moving in with his cousin, my brother’s daughter.

About seven weeks later, my youngest daughter graduated from high school. She was already in the process of making plans to move to Florida, to live with a special aunt and uncle while going to college and getting a job at Seaworld in Orlando. But that graduation night. I remember feeling not only bereft when we got out of the car in our driveway, but I had a momentary feeling that my life and life’s purpose was over. It was brief but very real. My oldest daughter was already out on her own, and so with the upcoming graduation we were in the process of packing, downsizing and moving from our large rental house to a 2-bedroom apartment. That summer I cried in two different airports, in July as my son moved to California, and in August as my daughter moved to Florida.

I know that my son still marks that date as a special date of independence, and I am pretty sure that my daughter does too. They did not look back and have both done well. So those dates too, are in in the list of events in my life that happened 30 years ago. Wow. And then there was this.

Picture of a woman pastor wearing a white robe and a red stole with gold embossed decorations.

One Sunday in late September that year, I was in church, minding my own business, praying, being present and participating, when in a particular moment in time, I felt God calling me to pastoral ministry. I had never heard a woman preach, although my denomination, The United Methodist Church had been ordaining women for many years at that point. I did not have a college education, but I had many questions. It is a long story but suffice it to say that it was another life changing moment in a year of life changing moments. Thirty years ago. I remember much of it like it was yesterday. And I hold it in my heart.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Pastor Without a Pulpit ~Taking the Fine Print Seriously, Part 2 You Can Make a Difference

I had my first hip surgery when I was ten years old. I don’t remember having any pain, or complaining to my parents that my hip hurt. But one, day as I was walking up the driveway to get my newspapers for my paper route, my father saw my strange gait and said to my mother, “She is walking like a drunken sailor, and one of those in the family is enough.” It turned out that my hip bone was slipping out of the socket. It is called a “slipped epiphysis” and the solution was to put a pin in it, like they did for older people.

After the surgery I was in the hospital for several days and then on crutches for several months. I remember minor details about my experience in the hospital except that by the time I was discharged I was sure that I wanted to be a nurse; wanted to “help people.” After that, I read all of the nursing school fiction books I could get my hands on, like the ‘Kathy Martin” series, or “Cherry Ames” and maintained that goal throughout school. When anyone would ask me what I wanted to “be” I would say a “nurse” or a home economics teacher. When it came time to apply for schools, I applied for one of each, a “teacher’s College” (It was 1968) and a nursing school. I was accepted in both,but opted for the nursing school.

The nursing school had a required reading list for summer that added a necessary depth to my understanding of the nursing profession. But the truth is I was not ready for school, and not ready for nursing. My grades had been up and down in high school, I lacked the discipline I needed to keep up with my studies in nursing school. I did not have the maturity for nursing and although I did not stick around long enough to find out, I am pretty sure I did not have the stomach for it either.

In the years since I have told people that I was a ‘nursing school dropout’ and although I did not have what it took to be a nurse, I felt or hoped that the compassion that had led me to be interested in nursing translated well to pastoral ministry.

Fast forward to the recent past. On March 4th my husband had a cardiac procedure, that was quickly followed by emergency surgery, landing him in the intensive care unit of our hospital. The original procedure already warranted some time in the intensive care unit, but with the emergency surgery he was there for eight full days. I had a lot of opportunity to observe the nurses and care teams as they got him through danger to the road to recovery.

In intensive care units, ours at least, the primary care givers are registered nurses, but there are also some licensed practical nurses and patient care technicians. All the uniforms are color coded so patients, families and others can tell at a glance who they are connecting with.

I was almost entranced by the combination I witnessed of professionalism, compassion, knowledge, expertise, and kindness, to name only a few qualities. They listened to him, insured his dignity, and treated each other with respect as well. It is a team approach, and they work under stressful situations. They are surrounded by, serious illness, injury, death and long hours. Sometimes they are short staffed too.

Although it is part of hospital policy, they consistently looked out for me as well, always asking if I needed anything, or if they could get me anything. I was almost embarrassed by this. My needs were the least of their concerns, and I did not want to take them away from anything else to get me coffee.

As I watched them work and listened to their conversations with my husband and others, I could not help but think about what COVID must have been like for them. Unimaginable.

As the week progressed, two diverging thoughts preoccupied my mind, in addition of course to how my husband was feeling, and responding to treatment. I found myself remembering my brief days as a student nurse and wondered if things had been different, had I been more experienced, more mature if I could have done what they were doing? I wondered if I had missed my calling? Or if my earlier assumption was right that the compassion I felt that led me to consider a nursing career translated well into pastoral ministry? And if we have more than one vocation, or if we do not hear the calling the first time, does it get altered?

The other thought that occupied my mind was a desire to do something to thank them. Traditionally, people have brought boxes of chocolates or other goodies to nurses’ stations. I did not want to do that. But I have a fair amount of confidence in my baking and my ingredients. I asked the floor manager if I could bring homemade baked goods to the floor and she enthusiastically agreed.

So, I went home and made 3 kinds of muffins: glazed lemon poppy seed, cranberry orange, and double chocolate chip muffins. It was a late night but the very least that I could do. I got a bakery box with a framed clear cover and wrote around the top of the box, “I cannot find enough words to thank you for your wonderful care of my husband, so I decided to say it with flours.”

There is another side of this story in the care and love that I received during my husband’s hospitalization that came from friends, neighbors and church family. People called, texted, prayed, sent or delivered food (I haven’t had to cook all week), one group gave us a gift of cash that went a long way to cover kennel costs for Sheba and help with keeping my gas tank full and lunches and coffee for me at the hospital. Love in action.

So let me connect a few dots between part one, “Taking the Fine Print Seriously,” and this post. Remember these words from the wedding benediction, “Go to serve God and your neighbor in all that you do.” I have served small country, rural, small-town churches my entire ministry. Sometimes members of small churches and even pastors of small churches feel dwarfed by the things that larger groups can do. We can feel impotent or helpless or too poor to make a difference.

We might feel that we have nothing to offer, cannot compete, and cannot compare. But small churches have an advantage over large churches, city churches or mega churches. We know people, by name. We know who is hurting, who is battling cancer, who is in the hospital, who has recently lost a loved one. Who is lonely. If you don’t believe me, visit a church that includes “joys and concerns” as part of their Sunday Worship.

And there is that “golden rule thing” Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” It might take some work on our communication skills. If saying to someone you know, “If there is anything I can do for you please feel free to reach out…don’t hesitate to ask” is not getting a response, reframe the statement to something more specific. It can be very difficult to ask for help, or to know what to ask for. One of the gifts I received two weeks ago was a handwritten note from a friend who knowing how stubborn I can be wrote “Please, please ask for help.” So I thought about some specific things I could ask them to do ~ I asked, and they did.

Sometimes when we are offering help, we need to be specific about what we are offering or can offer. Say, “Can I …bring you a meal, sweep your floors, drive you to the hospital and pick you up when you are ready, take the dog for a walk…” You know your friends and neighbors and you know your own strengths. Just priming the pump here. Or, maybe, just listen. offer a listening, confidential ear. I had two friends, three, who were very kind to let me just talk. Listening is a valuable commodity.

Back to the hospital, I value the team approach and though I have talked mostly about the nurses, it is the entire staff, many people who one never sees, cooks, chefs, dishwashers, maintenance crews, tech support, laundry workers, etc. All those clean sheets, pillow cases, johnnies, blankets have to come from somewhere. Maybe home baked goods would not work or be appropriate in every situation but why not remember these folks year-round? Talk to the personnel office of your local nursing home or hospital and ask what kind of appropriate thing your group could do. Maybe pick a different department each month so that they are not just thanked or recognized at Christmas but shown love and appreciation all year through.

At its best ministry is relational and outreach builds relationships. It is not about getting people into your church, believe it or not. It is about unleashing God’s love in you and tangible practical ways. Letting God’s love shine through you.

Just thinking here. May your home be a haven of blessing and peace. Go to serve God and your neighbor in all that you do.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Pastor Without a Pulpit ~ Taking the “Fine Print” Seriously

(OR, my Monday morning re-set on Wednesday)

Since I have not been writing regularly and some of you may be new to me, let me restate some information from my about page. Although my blog is primarily memoir and not religious, I am a retired Ordained Elder in the United Methodist Church. Sometimes the Pastor likes to share the spotlight with the Beach Girl:).

Whenever I am working with couples who are preparing for marriage, I have them focus on their vows, especially the traditional vows. For instance, what does it mean to love, honor, cherish, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health until they are parted by death? What might that look like in everyday life? I ask them to think about each of those things and try to put in writing concrete ways they will do each of them. And I make the vows the center of my wedding homily.

I also ask them what the most difficult or challenging thing they have been through together. Often with young couples it might be the death of a grandparent, sometimes there are many things. That is not a small thing, but how couples negotiate those sorrows together or not together can be telling.

Another important conversation is “why a church wedding?” I ask that even of couples who are active in the church, though for them the answer might be more obvious. But I have done many weddings for couples who are not part of a church but still want a church wedding. So that “Why” question is important. A related question and it is on the form they fill out for me, is whether or not they are baptized. Taken together, both of those questions can open the door to a wider conversation about faith, belief and doubt. If they are unsure about whether or not they have been baptized I have them find out, if at all possible, “Ask your mom.”

Before I became a pastor, I was not sure if I would like to do weddings or not. it comes with the territory, but it is not a requirement; I have the freedom to turn down a wedding. Some clergy will only officiate at a wedding or allow one in their church if the couple are active members in that church. Whether or not I like to do weddings is moot, really, but there are things about weddings that I do like. I like the liturgy, the format, the prayers, rituals and readings, being able to pronounce a couple husband and wife “in the Name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit” is a moment in the service that I often find profound and powerful.

A Church wedding is about much more than location, it is about God, and the service is filled with references to God, the promises are Covenant vows made “in the name of God”. There are more references to God in the service, and prayers, but here is the “fine print” the unexpected words in the service that underlies the whole thing: In the Blessing of the couple, one finds these words, “Send your blessing…..that they may grow in love and godliness together and that their home may be a haven of blessing and peace through Jesus Christ, our Lord. ” And in the Dismissal, one finds these wonderful words “May God the Eternal keep you in love with each other, so that the peace of Christ may abide in your home. Go to serve God and your neighbor in all that you do.” (those words can be found in the United Methodist Book of Worship, Service of Christian Marriage Rite 1 The United Methodist Publishing House, Nashville, TN).

I could be wrong about this but both creating a haven of blessing and peace, and going to serve God and one’s neighbor in all that a couple does, probably are not things that fit most peoples’ definitions of marriage. But there it is: the Fine Print. The wedding industry holds that the wedding is all about the couple. That is the primary view of society too, it is all about you. The church holds that Christian Marriage is about the couple in relationship to God, and with God and in Service to God. Secularly one might say that “marriage promotes public policy” I heard an attorney say that once, not sure what codes or other things where those words are located. But I will say that is so much less than what God offers us in marriage.

Now I don’t know many people who don’t want their homes and lives to be filled with blessing and peace. However, the language in that prayer, and the use of the word “haven” suggests that a home might be a welcome and shelter for others, not just the couple.

“Disconcerting Hearts”

There is another bit of “fine print” that I came across last week, in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Maybe this has happened to you. You have read a portion of scripture many times in your life and never noticed a particular phrase or verse or statement. That was what I experienced when I read these words. This is the last verse in a section, certainly taken out of context, but nonetheless a whole and surprising thought. “For we are what he has made us created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.” Ephesians 2:10 (Ephesians, chapter 2, verse 10).

Now we know that we cannot earn our salvation, it is a free gift (Read more of Ephesians). For years Sunday School Teachers, preachers and others have offered the advice/adage “God has a plan for your life!” For me this verse begs the question, is this the plan God has for my life? it certainly is a part of it. But it is also, in my opinion, the “fine print.” The expectation that good works are meant to characterize our lives.

I want to continue this thought in my next post, connect some dots, and offer some possible ways for living them out. But let me offer this thought to close. Although the words, the other” fine print” words that I quoted above are from a wedding service, I believe they are words to live by for all people, single or married, friends or family, strangers or neighbors.

May your home be a haven of blessing and peace. Go to serve God in all that you do.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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My New Favorite Prayer ~ A Pastor Without a Pulpit (more or less)

(Or, my Monday Morning Re-set, delivered on Thursday)

Picture of a female pastor wearing a white robe and a red stole

Well, first I should explain why I am only ‘more or less” without a pulpit. After a year of retirement in which I did pulpit supply, filling the pulpits of other pastors once a month, I did come out of retirement to take a very part time, two Sundays a month, assignment, that includes everything, preaching, leading worship, sacraments, nursing home visits, teaching, administration, and other duties as needed. So, I cannot really claim to be a Pastor without a Pulpit, except for one or two Sundays a month. But I like the name, and even retired United Methodist pastors are only assigned one year at a time.

If you have been around churches for a while no doubt you have heard this prayer uttered before sermons. it is from Psalm 19 and the words are “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, my rock and my redeemer.” Sometimes preachers adopt the words to say, “…the meditation of our hearts.” Perhaps covering the possibility that the congregation is listening and paying attention right along with you. What happens, I think, for clergy and congregations alike is when you use a passage of scripture like that, it becomes “what it means” so that we fail to see it in any other light.

This evening, I was chatting with someone who is in a different profession, who made some observations about a colleague of theirs who did some things differently than they would have done, had they been the one to be doing the doing. Wanting to offer a companionable response I commented on my frustrations with a colleague of my own, and my struggle of conscience about whether or not I even had a right to assess their ability and behavior and comment on it at all? is there a line between critique and criticism, or constructive criticism and gossip, between evaluation and judgment, between knowing when to stay in your lane, and knowing when to sound an alarm or point out red flags?

It turns out that the assigned scripture reading from the Revised Common Lectionary for today, February 28, 2024, is Psalm 19. When I got to the last verse and saw these words, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, my rock and my redeemer.” All of a sudden, I was not thinking about sermons at all, but conversations. The chat I had just completed. The words of my mouth. Things I said, wrote, and thought that might not be the most flattering, uplifting and helpful comments. Things that might not build a person up or encourage them to be their better selves. “Lord, may the words of my mouth be acceptable…”

picture of three small white lambs sitting on top of a computer

We inhabit a culture that thinks nothing of verbal cruelty, bullying, and nasty speech. And in an election year that once again promises to be toxic, people justify their behavior and their speech in the same way they did as children.” Everybody is doing it. ” But no, with the Psalmist we need to pray, “Lord, may the words of my mouth be acceptable in your sight.” What if that prayer became the standard for our speech?

“…Lord, may the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, my rock and my redeemer.” What if the “meditation” is not a sermon, but simply the things we think about, dwell on, fret over, fantasize about, daydream about, long for, plot, scheme, and plan for, or hope will or will not happen. What if the meditation of our heart, that we hope will be acceptable to God is not a sermon at all but our thought life? The things that we think about that we are glad that no one can really read our mind? But God is the searcher of hearts. And if we really want the meditation(s) of our hearts to be acceptable in God’s sight, well, all of us have some work to do.

Picture of a colorful cross leaning against a wooden door with various stuffed animals at the foot of the cross.

It is more than a little daunting. yes? But not impossible. It takes intentionality. Choosing to consider our words before we speak them, deciding to be people who will uplift souls with our words and not put them down. It is an act of will that depends on grace, shuns intimidation, and shuns the toxicity of the current culture.

As a pastor, I try to never ask a parishioner to do something that I am unwilling to do as well. I try to live by example. This week, and hopefully longer, this will be part of my morning prayer. “Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, my rock and redeemer.” (Psalm 19:14) trusting God to make it so and I won’t be thinking about sermons. I hope you will join me in this prayer.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Monday Morning Re-set

To be honest, I am starting to write this post on Friday evening, to give myself a head start. I have heard it said that if you are starting a new practice, discipline or tradition, like a diet, or quitting smoking, that you should not tell people that you are doing it, at least not for several weeks. The reason behind that is if you fail you are less likely to be embarrassed. At least I think that is the reason, or you are less likely to have a lot of people who mean well challenging you about your failure to change. That said, I won’t reveal what prompted this re-start. At least not at the outset.

The fourth anniversary of my blog came and went Christmas week without so much as a shout, a celebration, a whimper or a whine from me, because I have not been writing enough to celebrate. At best, all I could say was that I do write and have a really neglected blog. I suppose you can say that it is complicated. I wondered if I should just stop, give it up and call it quits, knowing that I would want to blog again at some point. But I decided not to stop, not to end it, not to say goodby.

What I have been up to; if a picture is worth a thousand words, here are a few “thousand words” showing how I have been spending my “free” time, that is not otherwise committed. or ‘what I have been doing instead of writing.’

Picture of a loaf of white sandwich bread. buttered on top and just out of the oven,

White sandwich bread made with sourdough starter discard. 2/17/24

A pan of orange rolls, waiting for the icing.

Orange Rolls, before Icing, made for Bible Study 1/2024 (recipe from Southern Cast Iron Magazine)

A braided bread sprinkled with sesame seeds.

Practicing braiding bread 1/2024

A pan of dinner rolls

Amish Dinnner Rolls (King Arthur Flour Company recipe) made for a funeral dinner. 1/2024

Okay, you get the idea. I am hooked, addicted and driven to make bread. Technically if those pictures each represent a thousand words, I am over four thousand words for this post, that must be a new record. My favorite Bible Story is from 1 Kings, about the woman who took in the Prophet Elijah during a famine and never ran out of flour. (You can find that story at 1 Kings 17:8-16 – if you are not used to reading that type of designation, it is the 1st book of Kings, chapter 17, verses 8-16, in the Old Testament.)

It’s About Time

Last fall I contacted a local contractor to check on something for us. He had to reschedule, and when he was offering appointment times he said, “I always think that it will be easy to schedule appointments with retirees, but it isn’t. I figure they aren’t working but…”. I just laughed. As a retiree, I thought I would have more time to do things too. It is all about choices and I recognize that much of my time is taken up in baking. Plus, as close friends and family point out, I am only partly retired. My daughter is sure that I don’t get the concept. I am serving a church again, very part time but two Sundays a month. The assignment is more than preaching though and everything takes time. Then my husband and I are of an age where doctor appointments take up space in our schedules too. It happens. And neither time management nor organization have ever been my strong suits.

All of which to say, I am here, to strike a balance, to show up on Mondays, do some selective reading and writing, to make time instead of excuses. Over the last weeks and months when I haven’t been writing, it is not because I haven’t had ideas or thoughts. Just that they came when I was doing other things, like baking or driving or a dozen other things that did not lend themselves to fully formed blog posts. For now, I plan to just keep it simple and hope that my friends will be glad to see me here, and that my blogging friends will be glad to see evidence of my presence on their sites as well. And I am still

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Short True Story from My Recent Trip Home (you can’t make this stuff up!)

It was a simple thing really, but when I shared this story with a 96 year old former parishioner, who could not stop laughing she said, “Pastor Michele, you should write this down. ” Now, in quoting her, I am not telling you that this is funny, or that you will laugh, I am just following instructions.

If you have read any of my posts about making bread in the last year, you know that I have become somewhat addicted to the task. I continue to push myself to learn, to try new kinds and forms of breads; English muffins, bagels, braids, sourdough, to name a few. When I started baking bread it was a once-a-week adventure. I have progressed, or digressed so that two or three days a week is more normal. 

Here is what happened. As I was preparing to attend my high school reunion in September, I had word that two of my classmates were going through a rough patch, each one different, and I wanted to do something to lift their spirits. So, when I was packing all the necessities of my trip, I also packed flour, my favorite bowl for making bread, my mat that i use for kneading and shaping and other appropriate items. I do not normally take flour on vacation! Wait. Um, well, I guess I do. But this was different. My intention was to simply make a batch of dough that would make two challah loaves, braided bread, said with prayers of blessing with the intention of blessing my classmates in the midst of their individual situations.

I had it all planned. I arrived in town Thursday late afternoon. Bought food that I would need to supplement my dinners out, the reunion dinner and food that I had brought with me from Pennsylvania. Then, after getting the car unloaded and settled into the cottage i had rented for the week, I took myself out to dinner. A delicious seafood dinner in one of my favorite low-frills, close to the beach, restaurants. Noisy, friendly, wonderful aromas and fun atmosphere. One can order pizza, all kinds of Italian or Syrian food, or my personal favorite when visiting my hometown – fried seafood. I love their pizza, but I went for the seafood. 

When I arrived back at the cottage, I set up my computer so I could do some writing. Then I set about the work of gathering the ingredients for the bread. I weighed the flour, prepared the yeast mixture to proof the yeast and then began stirring the water and yeast into the flour and watching the transformation. When the dough had come together, it was time to let it rest while I went back to writing. I usually like background noise, music or television or something, at least I used to. But that week I made friends with silence and just wrote. I would like to say I was lost in the rhythm of creating prose, but I was really plodding my way through some needed revisions. Nevertheless, the time had passed quickly. I realized that it was probably time to turn on the oven and punch the dough and shape it into the braid.

That is when I realized my mistake. It wasn’t the bread dough, it was about as perfect as I could have wanted. it wasn’t the writing, I was on a roll (No, not a bread joke) . It was the oven – it did not work! Either the pilot light was out, or something was drastically wrong. The stove top worked, and I like cooking with gas. I could not get down onto all fours to relight the pilot light. I wasn’t sure I could get back up if I did.

It was 8:30 at night and that is when I learned that the owner of the house did not live in town. I am not sure he lived in the state, although I think he did. But he was not anywhere near. I had hoped that it was a simple fix, that admitting I could not get down on the floor to check the pilot light, that he or someone would come running over to the house and rescue me from bread failure. So much for my perfect plan. I had thought I could bake the bread Thursday evening and deliver it as a surprise to my two classmates to their individual homes on Friday morning, on my way to meet my cousins for lunch. Now I had no choice but to cover the dough and put it in the refrigerator while I tied to f figure out how I was going to make bread.

The homeowner was friendly but not terribly helpful. When I spoke to him on the phone he said he contacted his plumber who advised him to buy a new oven. “But I am making bread!” I whined. I pushed him a little bit and he agreed to call a contractor to come to the house to see if the oven was reparable, if it was indeed just the pilot light or something else. The stove was nice, but it wasn’t new. But when the contractor called the next morning, he could not be there until after the time I was due to be gone to meet my cousins. This was a reunion and vacation. He did not seem to understand that I was not living in the house, was not the homeowner, was on vacation and could not skip my once-a-year cousin meet up.

When I returned from lunch with my cousins, the only thing I could think to do was call one of the classmates for whom the bread was intended and confess my plan, giving up the joy of a surprise in favor of actually being able to bake the dough, and give her the bread. When I called my classmate, told her my plan and asked if I could come to her home and bake her gift, she surprised me. That wasn’t the idea. She said, “I have been in this trailer for five years and have never used my oven.” She did suggest the name of a classmate that i knew, and suggested i ask her if I could bake it at her home.

Now, I had another problem. I generally mix dough and bake it the same day. i had heard that you could refrigerate bread dough and bake it another day, but I had never done that, so was unsure. Especially because this was supposed to be a gift and a surprise, I did not want to hand over two loaves of bread that were, well, questionable. So, I did the only thing I could reasonably do. I mixed up another batch of dough.

Now I had enough dough for 4 loaves of bread. My other friend and classmate who was willing to let me come to her home and bake the bread was happy to let me do it. But now it was Saturday, the day of the reunion, so I needed to be in and out of her home by noon, so she could leave to help decorate the hall. It was really fun. There can be something really joyful about baking with a friend and since it was her kitchen, I was happy to have her help. I rolled the dough into rope strands, and she did the braiding. We talked the whole time. Now, keep in mind, these were all people I barely knew. They were high school classmates that I had not seen for the most part in 50 years, save for the last 4 trips home. 

Anyway, now I had four loaves of challah bread. Two for the original two classmates that I had wanted to give a special gift to, and two more loaves made from the first dough. I reasoned that I would keep one for myself and give one to my friend who generously shared her kitchen. She politely refused. Not because she did not trust my cooking, but said that she liked bread so much, if I left it there she might be tempted to eat it all. Now, I still had an extra loaf of bread. I left her house and delivered the first loaf to my classmate who does not bake. She was in the shower so I had to leave her bread, wrapped of course, in a bag on her deck, then drove to deliver the other loaf of bread to a classmate who had recently moved. 

I had a hard time finding her house, but she talked me through it and finally came out to the end of her driveway so that I could see where to turn. I was sure her neighbors thought I was scoping the neighborhood, because I kept going back and forth, trying to see the forest for the trees. Now, this classmate is an excellent baker from all the evidence I can see on social media, so it was a bold endeavor for me to make bread for her. but I wanted to do something nice for her and she was gracious. 

I still had the third loaf. My closest childhood friend and his wife live not far from the classmate I had just left .We had plans to meet for dinner two days hence, but I was literally in the neighborhood so I called to see if I could drop off the bread. But I got voice mail and time was marching on. I was not signed up to help decorate, but after baking, I needed to get back to the cottage and get cleaned up and ready for the reunion Ach! “The best laid plans…” I put the loaf in the freezer with the intention of offering it to them after our dinner, the night before I left town to return home. If I got up the nerve.

I mean the bread was no longer fresh, it was from the first batch, it wasn’t made for them, and offering it to them felt a little like, oh, i don’t know, asking someone to the prom and telling them that they were your third choice, not your first. And the corsage, er, bread, was in the freezer! But once again, I had gracious friends and they were happy to receive the bread, along with other items from my frig that would not travel well, so cottage cheese, milk, butter, eggs, and the bread.

You might wonder why I didn’t just keep the bread and made such a big deal out of finding a good home for it where it would be appreciated. But I already had two loaves of homemade bread. before leaving Pennsylvania to travel to my hometown in Massachusetts i made one of my favorite loaves of oatmeal bread and told friends I made it for somebody special. I just didn’t say that I made it for myself. That was to be my bread for the week for breakfasts or sandwiches or snacks. So, I had one loaf, ended up with a second, thanks to my double batch of challah bread and did not want the temptation of a third loaf.

My husband and I already had reservations to stay in another house in Pennsylvania for his annual hunting trip the month after my reunion. This time I was going to go along with him, but not to hunt. unlike my reunion trip, I not only planned to bring flour, but more than one kind and everything from my kitchen I might need to delight myself baking while he was hunting. When I returned home from my reunion vacation, I wrote to the owner of the house we had booked for the week in October and said, “This might seem like an unusual question, but ‘does your oven work?’ ”

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Home Again and Grateful

I just returned home from my sixth trip to my hometown, six years in a row, after an almost fifty-year absence. Every year since 2018, I have had the opportunity to travel to there once a year. In many ways each trip has proven to be an unexpected blessing, and every time it seems there are tears that show up unbidden. I have written about those other trips in several posts, and I have listed them in tags at the end of this post.

Every trip had some similarities and some differences. on these trips I try to maintain an attitude, filled with hope but not setting the bar impossibly high. There are always people and places I hope to see; there are plans, but no guarantees. And when I leave to return to my home in Pennsylvania, I always hope that I will be able to return, one more time, and then maybe another, but I try to not assume. I do my best to be a sponge and soak it up, take it all in.

Picture of a yellow house with a car pared next to it.

Classmates and a reunion.

The house in the picture above was my home for the first twelve years of my life. When my parents bought the bar, The Union Villa in 1962, we moved from this house to an apartment on the first floor of the hotel. Our apartment covered such noisy sections of the bar as the pool room, the kitchen and the juke box in the bar. Moving to the Union Villa changed my bus route, but so much more. I was in the middle of sixth grade and living above the bar where my parents worked very long hours. If I wanted to be with them, it had to be in the bar or the kitchen downstairs. Family meals when they could be eaten together, were eaten in the bar.

At the end of that school year, I had chance to travel with my Uncle Jim to visit family in Baltimore. I enjoyed the visit with aunts, uncles and cousins. It gave me a break from the bar, and truthfully gave my parents time to get used to running the business without worrying about me. When I returned a few weeks later, my mom told me that I was changing schools. I would be going to Catholic Boarding School in the fall, ‘wouldn’t’ that be fun?’ So, I went to boarding school from seventh grade through tenth grade.

Picture of an old postcard of The Union Villa, a Hotel, Bar and restaurant, dating back to the late 1890s.

Postcard of the Union Villa Hotel, Bar and Restaurant circa 1948?

Except for my best friend Peter, who had been part of my childhood for as long as I could remember, I did not have any contact with classmates from public school. By the time I transferred back to public school for my last two years of high school, I think I missed something important. Relationships were cemented, and the transition was hard. If it were not for the choir programs and one new friend, I think I would have felt lost. I got married two years after graduation and moved away. Again, no contact with classmates, no forwarding address.

Wareham High School Class of 1968 celebrates their 50th Reunion

I got this information quite by accident when my husband and I were making that short visit in 2018. We were in town about two weeks before the reunion and returning was not an option. Having failed to track me down to deliver the information, (my failure to leave forwarding addresses) some of my classmates thought I had died. To quote the great author, “Rumors of my death…” Not only was returning for the reunion impossible, but it would also have been superficial on my part. The best it would have been was polite conversation with people I had not seen in fifty years.

So Then What Changed? Why This Reunion?

It started with my return trip home in 2019. I contacted a classmate with my dates and itinerary and she gathered a group of classmates for dinner. I made the effort to reach out and they made a place at the table for me. I thought it would be polite, ‘nice to see you, goodby forever’ kind of experience. I really got a chuckle when the event was posted on the class Facebook page. The poster said, “Michele is coming…’ and a classmate who is now good friend wrote, “Michele Who?” But at the end of the dinner, I knew I wanted to go back.

Picture of some people sitting at a long table in a restuarant.

Lunch with Classmates, October 2022, Photo by Nancy Cushman-Rice

Each year I have shared my itinerary with classmates, who have organized a get together; they have continued to make a space for me at the table. Over dinners, lunches, Facebook connections and other events, I have gotten to know my classmates and they have gotten to know me. Besides participating in table talk in restaurants and homes, and social media posts, I have had lots of opportunity to observe them in action, thanks to our class Facebook page. The planning team worked especially hard to put the reunion events together. I have found them to be consistently caring and compassionate with a high level of comradery. I have come to admire and enjoy them; and I appreciate the ways they have included me.

So, this happened, my first ever high school reunion and our 55th reunion.

Picture of the write, sitting at a table r wearing a blue dress with yellow flowers

Photo courtesy of Nancy Cushman-Rice

In addition to spending some quality time with a few classmates, and the reunion dinner, there was a Sunday morning brunch with more time to connect with classmates and have conversations without the background of music. One of the things I learned, after the fact that there were several more classmates than I had realized, whose parents had restaurants. i don’t know if any of them were bars, but that is a conversation I would still like to have. I am curious about what that was like for them. I can only speak for myself. And my truth remains that in addition to the Union Villa, I grew up in many bars. So, I wonder about their experiences too.

What was different this trip

My previous five trips had been “off season” that is mid-October when the “summer people” were gone back home, the beaches relatively quiet, and the traffic calm and no paid parking. But this time I arrived near the end of the summer season. Schools were still in session but so was a heat wave. The beach was packed, and parking was at a premium. Over the years, dating back to my mother’s funeral in 1994, and my previous five trips to Onset, I have been very intentional about beginning and ending each visit home with a few quality minutes on the Onset pier, looking out over the water. My “Hello/Goodbye” to home.

This time because of the crowd at the beach there was no parking available. So I had to make my hello from a different vantage point. You always know things will be different but between this and the heavy traffic, I was thrown off a bit. I am happy for my hometown and the town folks that business has increased, many improvements have been made, which one certainly hopes would happen over a 50-year span. But I live in a small town in Pennsylvania, and do not have to deal with a lot of traffic. I admit I had to adjust my attitude just a little bit.

Photo courtesy of Onset Bay Association

What was the same about this trip

I made a long trip and some effort to be home, but I am so grateful for the friends and family who made the effort to have time with me. Two of my cousins are quite busy but they set aside the time for us to gather. we had a wonderful seafood lunch and ice cream dessert and shared memories, questions and hopes.

Cousins on a hot and windy day!

I have been blessed to meet with classmates and my childhood/teenage friend and his wife each year. So blessed.

But I wonder why

Why is six years not enough? Why this pull that tugs on my heart and calls me home? What is it about this ordinary beach town that has this effect on me? Maybe a picture is worth a thousand words. Every journey home is like a visit with mom and dad. Not in a ghostly sense, or some seance-y thing. But still something deeper than memory and it is stronger here than anywhere. And I miss them so much; like many of you who miss your long-gone parents, or other loved ones. Time does not diminish love.

And there is this too, not only Onset Beach but this particular body of water draws me, as do the bridges that cross it. Lump in my throat, draws, calls, beckons.

Herring Run Recreation Area Just above the Sagamore Bridge

I am not looking for my childhood in all these trips, but I am like a homing pigeon, stubbornly, relentlessly going north, heading home. I have discovered in all of these journeys that when I left with no forwarding address, I left something behind, an intrinsic part of myself. And so, I go back; again and again, and it is still never enough.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Heading home, October 2022, Photo by Donna Lynne Vaux

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I Can Can, Can You?

Just to be clear, I am not talking about the famous French dance of time gone by. If I tried to do that, I would fall on my, well, you know. No, what I am referring to is the art and science of food preservation. A year a half ago I was going to write a similar post, but that title would have been, “I Can Can, but I choose not to (can)” But procrastination, coupled with writer’s block held sway and that post never happened.

Where to start. Over ten years ago we had a good size garden, and I promised to can the produce. I had taken a one session class at an outdoor event. I was interested in both having fresh vegetables and being able to preserve them. I did what many folks suggested, I got a Ball canning guide which is loaded with instructions, hints and recipes of all kinds. But then life got busier; we didn’t have another garden and did not can again. I had bought a 20-quart pressure canner with a dial gauge, and when that season was over, I happily sold it as being too heavy for me.

From time to time, I would think about how fresh and delicious the food tasted when the jars were opened. But I always struggled with whether or not I did it right. Fear held me back. But almost two years ago I took a more detailed canning class, online with someone I consider an excellent teacher and I decided to try again. We no longer have a garden, I knew if I was going to can, I would have to purchase produce, preferably at a farmers’ market or produce stand, not the grocery store. I still have my Ball book, and access to several videos and printouts of recipes and charts. So armed with newfound knowledge and enthusiasm, I bought a new pressure canner, this one is 16 quarts, which is more manageable. I found a shelf for it and there it sat in the bottom of my closet.

Last fall I managed to can a few pints of applesauce and also some tomato sauce. I was so anxious and frustrated through the whole time I swore, okay, I try not to swear. I said, no more. ‘I can can, but I choose not to…’ However, the reasons for my wanting to preserve my own food are serious and realistic. COVID shortages for one. Freshness, quality, preserving locally produced food, versus shipping costs for another. And convenience that is not packaged, shipped and requiring trips to the store. I had a goal, but fear and frustration were close behind.

Canning fears and frustrations.

From my Facebook post on August 2nd

I have only done a little canning and that in recent years. I wish it was something I had learned much younger, at the side of someone who knew what they were doing. I tried canning something 2 years ago and swore I would never do it again. Then in December I made and canned applesauce, lots of mistakes, but some of the jars sealed. Yesterday I made my first ever peach jam. The jars all sealed, although I don’t know if I got the jelling part right. I am determined to press on, but tonight my left shoulder is not appreciating the effort. I tried lifting the water bath canner with water in it off the stove, before I realized that was not a great idea.

The fact that there are no pictures of the peach jam is an indication of my lack of confidence that I had done it right. Just working with fresh peaches gave me some determination to keep going. I have discovered that I like peaches, at least peaches in things (Pies for instance) so canning some peaches was the next step in the progression of learning the hard way. (Did I say that out loud?) You will see some gaps in some of the jars, indicating I did not pack them as tightly as I could have, because I did not think I was supposed to. I read that or misread that somewhere.

August 3rd If you can can, and have children who are old enough to learn, please teach them, pass on your knowledge of this still vital practice. Teach your sons and daughters. And if you can “can can” maybe start a class at the library???

At this stage, I was this close to giving up. I thought “I tried, I just can’t do this, I do not know what I am doing, whine, whine, whine. If only I had the advantage of learning side by side with someone who could show me the ropes. Several of my friends’ response to this was to say, “Get a book.” They did not mean to be callous. But they were missing my point. Books cannot answer questions. I also probably said, ad nauseum, if my mother canned, I might have learned from her, but she did not, so I did not. She had a restaurant, so I learned how to make pizza dough and fold pizza boxes and empty ash trays and sweep floors. See what I mean? Whine! But I thought. If I could push past sore shoulders, push through the tiredness and the fear and keep asking question and keep practicing. I can do this. I will do this.

Another issue was that the way I was doing it was labor intensive. I wanted to reduce tomato seeds in my canned goods. I doubt they can be totally eliminated. So, I bought a plastic juicer, with a hand crank. A handy kitchen tool that when you put the tomatoes or cut tomatoes in, turn the crank, juice comes out of one shoot and skins and seeds come out of another. It takes a long time, but it was a better food product. I wasn’t sure how well I would do or how long I would want to do it, so purchasing a relatively inexpensive juicer was a good idea. But tiring.

I had a similar experience with making applesauce. Different tool but same principle, it peeled and sliced and spit out the seeds and skin, but tedious to be sure. Each respective kitchen tool made the process more doable; the end result closer to what I preferred, but tiring and discouraging. At the same time, I did not want to replace those items with more expensive, electric versions until I was sure I would continue to use them. The jury was still out.

August 26th made my first ever homemade tomato soup, using my leftover Roma tomatoes. 4 pints in the canner, one will go in the freezer. Thank you to my friend who gave me the recipe. We both like it. My prayer for canning is similar to my prayer for making bread, “Dear God, don’t let me mess this up.” Besides not wanting to mess up the soup, I don’t worry about bread exploding, but having carefully followed the directions, I am keeping a respectful distance from the pressure canner. Also, in regard to the soup, by now I had a few other canned items that were also “red sauce.” I went to the local “box” store that sells canning supplies to get some nifty canning labels, but I was too late. So, use what you’ve got, right?

August 28th Sauce is simmering. Thankful for practical suggestions and encouragement from friends who are more experienced than I. Taking a few minutes to re-rinse the tomatoes and pre-slice them it only 15 minutes to run the through the new juicer. Stopped to make stuffed peppers for supper. Still going to make peach pie (s) tonight, if I can spend some quality time off my feet.

Step 2

Logistics:

One of my canning frustrations earlier last fall was the realization that my stove top is really only apartment sized. So basically, nothing fits on top of the stove top with the canner. There is a sauce pan next to the canner in this picture, but it is not centered on the burner. And my kitchen is fairly small. A friend helped me see that I just needed to visualize how I could make things fit. She didn’t tell me how to do it, just suggested it. It took a bit, but when I gave it some thought, this is what I did. Moved the coffee maker, the toaster and most of the spices out of the kitchen, set up the electric roaster where the coffee maker and toaster were so I could use that for keeping jars hot.

Organization is not my strong suit. But this worked, so maybe there is hope.

Small batches

Because of space issues, both working and storing, I know that I need to can in small batches. Just trying to figure out how much I need to accomplish a batch that will fill a canner so that I have more than 3 jars of something. The last picture shows most but not all of what I managed to can in the last month. It is less than what I have seen some friends and acquaintances produce in a single day. But through this meandering of posts, whines, trials and errors, I am getting some place. I am starting to feel as if I know what I am doing. The tote is under the card table in the kitchen where I store my clean jars ready for action. There are jars of peaches, low sugar peach jam, green beans, marinara sauce, and tomato soup. In addition, there are freezer containers with more marinara sauce and beets.

Baby steps; five pints here, three pints there. Getting really comfortable with my pressure canner and canning in general. As with other pursuits, the more I do it the more confident and hopefully competent I become. I have canning goals. I want to make and can spaghetti sauce with meat, some soups and eventually straight meat, chicken and venison at least.

The biggest challenge has been pushing through my own fear and negativity and persistently asking questions of friends and acquaintances who are good at this. Pushing through and simply doing it. Setting goals, and instead of thinking and saying that I cannot do this, knowing that I can can. What about you?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Most of the Time, but not Always #strongerthanthecookie

I have rooted my Stronger Than the Cookie posts in absolute honesty so, I have to admit in the last year, I have gained some weight. My goal weight was 145 pounds. From May 2021 through October 2022 I did pretty well. There was always some variety on vacations and Christmas time, but right now my weight is fluctuating between 150-152. I had knee replacement surgery in early March and was 149 on surgery day. So, while none of that is extreme, it does have me headed in the wrong direction. Some of that has been cookies. Not more than one a day, but vacations and the Christmas season have traditionally been a 5-pound weight gain in a few days and weeks, maybe as many as 3 weeks to lose the additional weight and get back to my goal weight.

While I am in a confessional frame of mind, let me tell you about the chocolate chip pancakes I had on vacation. I wisely ordered two and not three pancakes. Especially wise when I saw how much of the platter they took up. My big question to the waitress was, “are the chips in the batter or just on top of the pancakes?” When she said they were in the batter, I thought, okay. I could have an egg sandwich or scrambled eggs, but I will have the chocolate chip pancakes.

I discounted two things. The heavy hand of the cook, who might have stock in a chocolate factory. He could have used half the amount of chips in the batter and they would have still been good. And I forgot about syrup. At home I use real maple syrup, but I only use two tablespoons, and use it for dipping. Two tablespoons of any kind of syrup poured on top of pancakes, is like a drop in the bucket. I looked at my plate when it was delivered and thought it probably added up to more than ten out of the oven warm chocolate chip cookies that I would never have downed in one day, let alone one sitting. I ate every mouthful. I am pretty sure I am still carrying those pancakes, metaphorically speaking, around my middle. This was all a choice.

Once I realized how far off goal I was, I started weighing myself every morning, though I am still not logging my food. Often, from personal experience and having friends with weight issues, when we reach goal, it is back to normal eating. I have tried to eat healthier, but not think in terms of “being on a diet.” That is the way I want to continue, but I do need to be more mindful about what I am eating. For me that means daily weighing myself and measuring, counting or weighing my food. I do not find that to be a hassle, and it has helped me long term be healthier.

I still like how I look in the mirror, how I feel in my clothes but i do not want to lose the health benefits netted by my weight loss, better blood pressure, cholesterol numbers and similar things. Those are important too. How I have lived this long through my struggle with food and not become diabetic I do not know. But that is something I want to continue, to not be diabetic.

Some specifics about food and changes. It seems my palate has changed and that has been a very good thing. Always a fussy eater, I have found that I really do like some foods that I never thought I would. For instance, although I am not likely to pick up a peach and eat it like I would a Macintosh apple, I have bought more peaches in the last two years than I ever thought I would in a lifetime. Fresh peaches. I have canned peaches, made low sugar peach jam, peach cobblers and who knew, I really like peach pie.

I made this last night, partly because I was feeling too lazy to can a small batch of peaches, but also because we had a church picnic today. A picnic or “carry in dinner” is a great way to have your pie and eat it too. (Isn’t that the old saying???) I did have a slice but was happy to bring home an empty pie plate, empty of pie and empty of temptation. I did cheat a little bit and used only half of the sugar the recipe called for. If I was making it for us at home I would have used Splenda or cut the sugar down to one fourth. But I did not want to make a sugar free pie for a picnic, even though I am the former pastor, I might not be welcomed back:) So, peaches. Who knew?

Another surprise in my palate has been spicier foods. I am not a spicy girl. I often joke that i heard the call of the mild at birth, not the call of the wild. But I will eat foods that are on the mild spicey side. For instance, much to my surprise the thought of grilled kielbasa makes my mouth water. And another surprise is Linguicia. Have you ever heard of Linguicia? (Ling-gwee-sa) It is a Portuguese sausage, red, greasy and spicy. It was a staple when my father was home, but I was sure it was awful. I had my first ever linguicia last fall at a lunch with some friends when I was visiting my hometown. Much to my surprise I like it, it makes a good breakfast sandwich, and is pretty good on pizza. Now you could say, um “beach girl” those are not healthy foods. But you know what is healthy: moderation, savoring, tasting and not wolfing food down, not using it as a coping mechanism for depression or grief. That is my big goal.

I still like, will probably always like sugar icing on cake, and you know, I want the corner piece with the frosting flower, and a little cake with that. I try not to do that very often. I did it twice in 2022, no regrets. but I can’t live like that and be healthy. Moderation is important when it comes to frosting too, but I would rather have one chocolate chip cookie and walk away than give into the lure of frosting laden cakes or cookies. And what I know for myself is, one piece of that cake, ramps up my desire for more of the same. Conversely, the more added sugar I inhale, er, consume, the less I want the fruits and vegetables with natural sugars.

It is all about choices for me and the foods I chose to enjoy over the foods that used to hold sway over me. One thing that I have avoided in this journey that is different from any other time I have tried diets and weight loss plans is I have put new foods into my plan, but not gone to low calorie substitutes. For instance, I will enjoy a dixie cup of ice cream, rather than sugar free pudding. I am embarrassed to admit I do not trust myself to scoop only a half cup of ice cream out of a carton of ice cream.

I have not given up bread. Well, I have given up store bought manufactured bread to the best of my ability. But I have not stopped eating bread. I make my own bread, so I control the ingredients, calories, size, etc. And like everything else I eat, it gets weighed and measured. And making bread has admittedly become something of an obsession, but I think really part of a calling and a creative outlet.

My Best Challah

You might wonder why I bare my soul and my stumbling in such a public place. None of my #Strongerthanthecookie posts have been instruction in how one should lose weight, but a sharing of a journey that some folks might find relatable. So, this post too may be important in that regard. Weight loss programs and gurus do a lot of business simply because we lose, we gain, we lose we gain, ad nauseum. If nothing else perhaps baring my soul in this way will help others with their struggle and normalize the reality that maintaining weight loss and a healthy weight takes persistence, consistency, determination and grace. You can do this. I can do this. I do not want to go back to here:

Christmas 2014

I want to stay here:

Lent March 2022

Choosing life and,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Where I Have Been, Why I Have Not Posted and What in the World I Have Been Doing

Hello Friends, I have been away a long time. Statistically it looks as though people are visiting my blog and reading, but since I have not written a post since April, I am not sure what they are reading. I want to try to get back in the swing of things, but as I have said in previous posts, bewailing my tardiness, I feel honor bound to read others’ writing if I am going to post my own and that is something I have not managed to do lately. But I thought I would put something here, read a little, clean up the spam and try to relearn the craft. There have been some changes, including no more Twitter, from what I understand.

It’s not “Writers’ Block” exactly. For that to be the case I would have to actually sit in my chair, turn on my computer to something other than social media and stare at a blank screen. with the intention of writing. No, it is more like procastination, distraction, and a new knee in March that followed the new shoulder last August, other family health issues, then there were celebrations, a grandson graduating from College, his sister graduating from high school the next month, a brother-in-law retiring a few weeks later, all of which provided some lovely family time and long weekend trips away from home.

And then there is this: My best Challah Yet

And her friends:

And this one: A delicious peach cake, recipe from Southern Cast Iron Magazine.

And this pleasant distraction: My favorite honey Whole Wheat bread with a hint of cinnamon (recipe from King Arthur Flour)

One more for good measure: There is always room for pizza, and a pizza story to close.

Having grown up in a bar, which I have shared multiple times, one of the staples was pizza. Pizza dough was the first thing I learned to make, to help out in the kitchen at the restaurant. I don’t have my mother’s recipe for crust, but I have been making homemade pizza for 50 years (Ouch! ) Last fall I learned that my son makes homemade pizza too and the short version of this personal story is that we have been texting each other our pizza pictures and/or posting them on Instagram and it has been quite lovely actually.

So that is a sampling that answers the question where I have been, what I have been doing and why I haven’t been posting. I am going to try to remedy that, one hour at a time. If I can read an hour, write an hour, weave an hour it will be quite a victory. And I am not giving up making bread, which obviously takes more than an hour.

Well friends, this is me dipping my toes back in the water of my blog. It is the unvarnished, unmitigated, undeniably true story of my absence and I am still

Not holding back the tide,


Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Baking while Recovering

I am not ready to give up my blog, but I admit I have been feeling a little uninspired, or uninspiring, beyond opportunities to preach once a month. Fitting in physical therapy exercises, preparing meals, and throwing myself into baking, partly for us and partly for cause. So here, in a few pictures, is what I have been up to.

A loaf of white sandwhich bread for us and a loaf for communion for the service I did last week.

Amish Dinner Rolls for a funeral luncheon. Confession, for years I have made a one bowl chocolate cake with chocolate icing for funeral dinners. I have always tried to provide a cake as a way of supporting the hard work of putting on funeral dinners by the church, and cake was the easiest. In fact, I did this so consistently for over twenty years, that it did not take my husband long to nickname the cake my “funeral cake.” But my motives were not entirely altruistic. That cake recipe has a delicious, sweet frosting or icing and if I made the cake, I could usually help myself to a few tablespoons of icing that didn’t fit on the cake. So, I am much safer making rolls as a donation than cake:)

Home made whole wheat English Muffins. I made these for myself. I think I still have about half the batch in the freezer. All in a week’s worth of fun.

I had a conversation with a former parishioner at a recent funeral and he asked me an interesting question. Having seen my bread pictures on Facebook, he asked if I had any specific baking goals, things I wanted to focus on or try or perfect. I thought that was a great question, and there are a few things. It will be a while before they are picture worthy, and I may not even do any of them this week. But here are my baking goals. Learn how to make braided bread. I have made one loaf that was not bad and was delicious, but I would like this to be something I could do with ease.

I want to get back into doing sourdough. One reason I stopped is that if I was making sourdough bread and was only baking once a week, it didn’t leave me room to experiment or make other things. But I try to bake twice a week when I can and sometimes three days, so that may happen in time. But first the braids.

The other big goal is for simple crusty, artisan breads baked in a Dutch oven. Note the intentional plural – breads!

And then….I am sure I will be adding to the list, but those are my short-term goals. Thanks for asking the question Tom! It is good to have a goal, and these are just some baking goals.

As I said in my last post, I have not fallen off the face of the earth, or total off of the blogosphere, a place I still hope to return in the future.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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I Have Not Fallen off the Face of the Earth ~ Blog Update

I thought I would attempt a short update, not that folks are beating down my proverbial door to ask where I am. But perhaps even writing and posting the update will help me prime the pump and get back on track. It might also help me finish up my “#What’s On My Bookshelf” post that is now three months long.

One thing that has kept me from posting regularly is that I do not want to put too much out there when I am not able to do due diligence in reading and commenting on other bloggers and my favorite writers. So now and then I have posted a stray post, but not done any link parties. This one though might turn into a “Coffee share post.”

I have been able to do more reading than I ever expected, but that is a different blog post. Except to say that reading is part of writing, and I have been reading with a particular view to style, voice and point of view. It is a mindful approach that has not taken away the joy of reading. I have found the reading, inspirational, instructive and entertaining.

My writing priority has been working through suggested edits on the manuscript of a book that is coauthored by a dear friend and myself. We really want to get it published, but those of you are authors of books know, it can be really hard to do that. “Change what I wrote the first time?” And have I ever told you my middle name is really “Procrastination?” But I have tried to be faithful to my homemade poster in my writing room that says, “Book before blog.”

Another source of my distraction, and profound lesson that one cannot do everything and my belief (opinion?) that multitasking is overrated, is baking. Almost any day I wake up is a good day to bake. (Well, except for now but I am getting to that.) Here are some of the ways I have allowed myself to be distracted from blogging in recent weeks.

(My first attempt at a braided loaf)

Unfortunately, the bagels are already gone and it will be a while, six weeks maybe before I can move around in the kitchen well enough to bake. One more picture, for good measure:

A loaf of rye bread for my husband, part of my “pre-op baking spree.”

I was born with slightly misshapen leg bones, hips and knees especially. I have probably been knock-kneed since childhood and had my first hip surgery when I was ten. Followed by an additional surgery on that hip 30 years later, and finally a total hip replacement in 2004. As of last Monday, I am the proud owner of a new knee, so still very much in recovery mode. This was my fourth total joint replacement in 19 years, with no repeats. The hospital was pretty full, so I ended up in an overflow room on the Maternity floor. I tried to get them to put a sign on my door that said, “It’s a Joint!” But that was a no-go.

Part of my preparation for surgery was a lot of baking, (bagels, muffins, breads, cookies, etc) besides the practical things one does to get ready for a period of incapacity. I am doing well, the surgery went well, physical therapy is tough as anyone who has been there know. I am resoundingly grateful. I write all this to share what is happening, but I know even among our fellow/sister bloggers there are those of you who deal with much, much worse. So, no complaints here.

If we were having coffee today, I would hand you a paper napkin from the napkin holder on my crowded table, I would reach for the plastic box containing the store-bought cookies, and I would offer you a cup of coffee ~ but you would have to get it yourself:)

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2025 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

#Natalie’s Coffee Share 3/17/23

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Flour-ishing in 2022 (My Year in Bread)

January: 2022

I have liked playing with gingerbread for as long as I can remember, well, at least going back about 30 years. My gingerbread construction projects have always been very simple, but once i had simple down, I had fun doing gingerbread house workshops at church. Sometimes the participants were all youth, sometimes the group was intergenerational.

One year I decided to try adding some chocolate pieces, thinking they would look good. At any rate I cut and baked the gingerbread and put them into zip lock bags and brought meringue powder for the icing. participants were asked to bring powdered sugar for the icing cement and candy and other items to share for decorating.

Last year started with my obsession with the story of the Wisemen or Magi from Matthew’s Gospel, the 2nd chapter. What most people remember about the story of the visit of the Magi, or Wisemen, comes from their own Nativity Sets, or the song, “We Three Kings.” But just like the difference between novels and novels that are turned into movies, there are differences between the details of the Bible and the details of the song. The book is better, but worth trying to picture. So, after spending some time studying those differences, the group was challenged to create a Gingerbread version of Matthew 2. Pictured below.

Mary with the child Jesus and the star that stopped over the house where they were staying.

Picture two below, two wisemen or Magi in front of a sheep pen,

Everything was edible and so the structures were part of snack time after worship. The sermon was naturally on the visit of the Wise Men.

January 31, 2022 (Almost February) My first Bagels

February 25, 2022

I will be honest, I have no idea what kind of bread this was, but I wish it was in the kitchen now. I would be tempted to get a slice.

March 2022

My Sourdough Starter at its best. I took an online class during Lent on Sourdough. The class was “From Dust We Come: a Lenten Sourdough Series from the Edible Theology Project Inc. 2022. Wednesday nights I took my laptop into the kitchen, uncovered my starter and conversed with the class and the instructor. This is not the sourdough starter from that class. I did not take or keep many pictures. The class was excellent and a good example of bread making as spiritual practice. The instructor is a very patient and welcoming woman named Kendall Vanderslice, founder and dreamer of The Edible Theology Project. You can learn more about that opportunity here: https://learn.edibletheology.com/by-bread-alone-lent-reading-guide

Then, I taught a class written and developed by Kendall called “Bake with the Bible.” It was a teen curriculum, but our class was mostly adults, and one brave male youth. You can find out more about the class here: https://www.edibletheology.com/bake-with-the-bible. The class paired Bible stories featuring bread, with recipes, as well as many learning opportunities. Our bakers ranked from novice to very experienced. The church provided the ingredients and the bakers brought their own tools and supplies. We worked at a long table and everyone helped each other. I was fortunate to be serving a church with a large kitchen, five stoves, so everyone could bake at the same time without crowding. We encouraged, we sampled, we prayed, laughed and ate together. We made crackers, journey cakes, flat breads, Hot Cross Buns and a few other things. A few pictures here, that covered February through May!

The whole Class. In addition to baking, eating and laughing together, we did two special projects, one a mission project suggested in the text. We prepared birthday party bags for the local food pantry, with foil pans, cake mixes, candles, etc. Everything but party hats.

Somebody’s sourdough loaf.

Hot Cross Buns

Flat Breads with paper plates and butter. we were serious about eating together.

We ended the class with a delicious meal prepared by one of the members of the class who made lasagna soup, cheese bread (There had to be bread) and a sinfully delicious, layered lemon desert). But the class went on for two more lessons. They wanted to learn how to make bagels and pizza. There is always room for pizza, isn’t that what they say? One last word about the class, it was an enriching experience for all who participated and was one of many things that reinforced for me the importance of table fellowship. Of moving beyond a traditional church potluck meal to something more traditional God centered shared meal. So much food for thought here.

Easter 2022

I made this for refreshments for the Sunrise Service, recipe from King Arthur Flour and also made a loaf of bread for Communion for the Easter Service.

May 2022

This beauty was on the cover of Southern Cast Iron Magazine. I do not eat fruit, I think strawberries are pretty, but this was delicious! And not on my diet. I found friends to share it with so I could eat some.

June 2022

Another bread from King Arthur Flour Recipes, “Japanese Milk Bread.” This one needs work, but I really like it. Have not got the measurements right for the four segments, but I put them together anyway. Check their website for the recipe and directions.

July 2022

Whole Wheat English Muffins, I really like these.

July 2022

You know that expression, “If you can’t stand the heat get out of the kitchen?” My house is not air conditioned, but I don’t have sense enough to stay out of the kitchen. Vermont Whole Wheat Honey Bread (King Arthur Flour Recipe)

August 2022

Honey Whole Wheat Bread. Did not do a lot of baking in August, spent the first two weeks adjusting to retirement and preparing for shoulder surgery.

September 2022

“Birthday Cake” in honor of my grandmother

My grandmother was born in Portugal in 1881 and came to the United States around 1898. Like many grandmothers, she was important in my life, and I have written a few posts about her. However, we never knew when her birthday was or how old she was. As far as I know there was never a birthday celebration for her. This year, that information came from a second cousin and immigration records. I was so excited to know when this wonderful woman was born, I wanted to do something special to celebrate her birthday. This is a King Arthur Recipe for Portuguese Sweet Bread (Massa Sovado) and I was just chomping at the bit for a good excuse to try it. (Oh, all puns intended by the author).

This is really a bread, made with flour, butter, sugar, eggs and “the usual suspects” and a light lemon flavor. I used it for a side dish and for sandwiches. Happy Birthday Grandma!

October 2022

I am a beach girl from Massachusetts; the main scenery in my hometown is made up of beaches and cranberry bogs. Everywhere. If it is October, I will be making cranberry bread or some other cranberry treat, scones, almost anything.

November 2022

My favorite cheese bread, baked in an iron skillet.

December 2022

Amish Dinner Rolls, King Arthur Flour Recipe

Well, that is my year in bread, the proverbial “tip of the iceberg.” Some might call it an obsession, but I think, or at least I hope, passion, dedication and persistence are better words; and avocation or vocation, that much better. I do not bake every day, but every day I would like to bake. As someone who has lost a lot of weight and trying to maintain that loss, I do not go “hog wild’ with fresh bread, but I admit it is tempting. I eat my own bread, bagels and English muffins. I try to avoid the “occasion” of rolls, but sometimes I make them anyway.

The aroma alone is enticing, even the scent of rising dough. So often, when serving Communion, I have wanted to say, “Wait, stop for a minute and smell this!” I don’t of course, it would take too much time, but I can envision a scenario when that would be appropriate. The aroma of the bread and juice mingle and rise heavenward.

Making bread fills a need for creative, hands on, personal participation with the food I eat. I try to share what I make with friends (Share? Inflict?) And I have been in a position to make bread for communion. Would love to do that a bit more in retirement. I think that bread making is a spiritual practice, and realize that some people would describe it differently or might say spiritual in a broader sense. Although I have joked on social media that it is a prayerful experience too, but my most frequent prayer when making bread is “Dear Lord, please do not let me mess this up!”

Making bread or pizza dough helps me to connect with my past, my youth. It fills a void in my present life. Everything here is not picture perfect, but nothing goes to waste.

I have tried to indicate the source recipes for things I am sure about. Credit or mention is made out of ethical considerations, but there are no affiliate relationships with my blog. I have gotten some wonderful lessons and recipes from King Arthur Flour www.kingarthurbaking.com

You can find Kendall Vanderslice on Instagram, Facebook and look for Edible Theology or The Edible Theology Project online, but I have also included direct links to some of the classes. She has a new book coming out in two months that I am eager to sink my teeth into. Oops! Did it again, but

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Shared on #Senior Salon Pit Stop

and #Natalie the Explorer Coffee Share

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My Word of the Year for 2023 (#WOTY)

This may be my shortest post ever. But I do not want to procrastinate like I did last year and never choose a word, a #WOTY, except of course for the word and action “procrastination.” I have heard it said, and perhaps you have as well, to not make a choice, is to make a choice. In other words, doing nothing is a choice too.

Although this is not a religious post, I will admit that my Word of the year #WOTY was inspired by something my pastor said in a recent Advent sermon. The sermon was on the word Love, associated with the fourth candle on the Advent Wreath. Now, the candles do not have any real meaning, but meanings are ascribed to them, generally the theme words of Peace, Hope, Joy and Love. In his message he talked about God’s love for us and our love for God, but also how confusing it is because at least in the United States, I do not know about other English-speaking countries, we have one word, Love that we use to describe emotions, romance, sports, cars, flowers, football, ice cream and many other interests, passions, obsessions and experiences. He said we should love God but like ice cream. I would say by extension, not only love God, but also our family and friends.

The love I feel for my husband, my family, our children, grandchildren, parents, and other relatives is very different from the way I feel about ice cream, for instance. Perhaps ice cream should be in its on category. But the point was taken, the gauntlet thrown, the challenge extended, the suggestion proffered, and I have decided to bite the bullet, take the challenge, pick up the gauntlet and make careful word choices. My Word of the Year is Like, as in “I like ice cream a whole lot. Even low calorie dixie cup type ice cream and rich, creamy not so good for you ice cream, I like that a lot too.

My goal for my #WOTY is three-fold, although I am not sure how easy it will be to use it. Afterall, using the word like in a sentence is much easier than using it in a blog post. It will not be sufficient or acceptable to write “I like ice cream” one hundred times and call it a post. It needs to be much more inventive and genuine than that.

First goal then, is to distinguish and positively discriminate between liking things and loving God and people. It will require careful and thoughtful word choice. It might even require me to expand my vocabulary, which is not too shabby as it is, but it will require me to speak in a way that is less ‘stream of consciousness’ and more thinking before I speak or write.

Second goal is to look for things too like and admire and write about them. This may be challenging and require a totally different point of view. It may mean looking outside myself and my world view. It may mean practicing the art of appreciation and gratitude.

Third goal, maybe one of the books I curl up with this year will be a Thesaurus. I wonder if they come in pocket editions? Seriously, have you never wanted to give a pocket dictionary or thesaurus to someone in your life, or even on the street whose vocabulary seems limited to repetitive four-letter words? I have known people like that, especially when I was a forty-something college student and growing up in a bar with a father who was a sailor. Just as an aside, I appreciate it when someone throws out a bad word in my presence and quickly apologizes. (“Oops, sorry Pastor), I really haven’t been on the moon, and it is no exaggeration that I grew up in bars. I know those words too. I generally chose to not use them. Imagine!

Sometimes I wonder if younger generations feel as though they are expected to drop the F-Bomb by their peers and they are hesitant to rebel and use more descriptive or appropriate language. I think about these things. I wonder though if doing such a thing, actually handing a pocket-sized dictionary or thesaurus to a friend or a total stranger would have the result of a side-walk version of “road rage.” But maybe it could be a peace initiative, forcing individuals to think about several words that might express their feelings. It would probably be a little frustrating, but much more productive than counting to ten. Yes, I think about these things. I just do not usually put them into print. So that is my #WOTY! How do you like it?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Post script: The photos in this post are all mine and they have no particular significance except to break up the writing, and because they are pictures that I like!

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Kneeling at the Manger

A Pastor Without a Pulpit # 2

It is my first Christmas as a Pastor Without a Pulpit. i had not planned to write a Christmas message, but these are some thoughts that have been stirring in my heart. It is not a treatise, just some things I have been thinking about decided to offer them here.

If you are still reading, but are unsure of what will follow, let me say that I am writing from a Christian, Trinitarian perspective. That means that I believe that God is three persons in one God (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) and that thinking informs my theology.

Picture of a female pastor in a white robe with a red stole.

I officiated at a funeral yesterday which was the first time I have done that since my retirement six months ago. But in addition to doing that, it was the third funeral I attended in ten days, all three very close to Christmas. I lost my oldest child Christmas week in 2013, and I know several people who are now spending their first Christmas without their loved ones.

For some people a death this close to Christmas can be its own life altering event; for them “Christmas will never be the same., For others it is the genuine sorrow of a year of “firsts” without their loved ones; first birthday without them, first anniversary, first Thanksgiving and on. Those occasions are often real triggers for grief. Everyone grieves differently, but sometimes just when you are feeling almost normal, out of nowhere come the triggers and the tears. And that is all okay.

One thing I have come to appreciate in the last several years is the tradition of a Blue Christmas Service (Named after the song Blue Christmas made popular by the late Elvis Presley, written by Billy Hayes and Jay W. Johnson) The service is also called a Service of the Longest Night and offers families an opportunity to celebrate the birth of Jesus in a way that is more sedate, less jolly, where hymns don’t end with “fa la la la la” and bells don’t jingle. But that is not where this meditation is headed.

When it comes to our loved ones, nearness, community, intimacy, a sense of belonging, and connection are integral to our own relationships. It may be what we prize the most. It is incarnational. Genesis 1:27 says that we are “created in the image and likeness of God.”” Further, from Scripture we understand that God dwells in community, i.e. The Father, Son and Holy Spirit. So, one thing I want to suggest is that those characteristics that we value in our human relationships are a reflection of God’s way of being God, the Trinity, characterized by nearness, community, and intimate relationship.

To make it clearer, the Father is in relationship with the Son, the Son in relationship with the Father, both of them in relationship with the Holy Spirit. The Father loves the Son, the Son loves the Father and they both love the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit loves the Father and the Son. And all three dwelt together in intimacy and community until that event we call the Incarnation, when the Son, Jesus left the Kingdom of Heaven, to become fully human. As Christians we believe this was to fulfill God’s plan, for us and for our salvation. But I am not sure we ever talk about the sense of loss that must have been felt by God.

I think we have a human tendency to write it off as not being “a thing” or that it was not hard for God because, well, because God is God. That kind of thinking does, I believe, misunderstand who God is; 1 John 4:7 (The first letter of John, the fourth chapter seventh verse) says “God is love; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God for God is love. ” If we love like that, our sense of loss and grief at the death of the one we love is bound to be great. Our emotions, feelings, capacity to love, our creativity and talents are an important part of our being created in the image and likeness of God. So, if we mourn and grieve at the loss of our loved ones, why would we think God would not also grieve?

Have you ever stood at a taxi stand, a train station, an airport, or a military base to say goodbye to someone you love, and hug them for all you are both worth, not wanting to let go until the last possible minute? Until the taxi driver blows the horn, until the last boarding pass is called for the train or plane, or until the bugle calls soldiers to formation? Not knowing how long the separation would be, trying to put a brave face on for the sake of your beloved, hiding or brushing aside tears?

God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, dwelt in community and unity for all eternity until the moment of the incarnation and I cannot help but think there was some heavenly form of hugs, tears, and last-minute instruction, knowing full well the seriousness of the mission. Why would we think God’s love would not be as deep as our own?

picutre of a a baby angel Christmas tree ornament. She is all in pink with red hair.

We make the incarnation, the birth of the baby, the death of the savior, the resurrection and the whole story of salvation about us, and in a real way it is. But in a deeper way, it is about God and who God is. This may be a very different way of looking at this, but here I am with a funeral a few days before Christmas, with friends and loved ones grieving at Christmas and I think of the words of John 3:16. You see them in sporting events, even if you do not go to church. They are written on a wooden cross on my desk. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…

Here is what I am trying to say with all these words. The writer of Hebrews notes “We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses but have one who in every respect has been tested as we yet, is without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16~ The Fourth Chapter of the Letter to the Hebrews, verses 16-17).

in a similar way, you could say that we do not have a God who is unable to sympathize with us or understand our grief. I believe that our grief and sense of loss mirrors the loss that God experienced, letting go of the Beloved Son, giving up the comfort and companionship and the intimacy of his presence, for us and for our salvation. Christians believe that after Jesus’ death and resurrection, he returned to the Father, where he was before the Incarnation. We believe that Jesus was/is fully human and fully divine. There was presence, followed by absence, followed by reunion. For us too, there has been presence, followed by absence and the resulting grief and the hope of reunion.

But before I think about what Jesus’ birth, death and resurrection mean to me, I think it is worth thinking about what the giving of that Gift was like for God. It cannot have been easy. So, this year, Kneeling Before the Manger, I want to think about the first gift that God gave, by simply and profoundly letting the Son go on a soul saving mission that would end in his own death. Before I go to the cross, I want to kneel at the manger and let that sink in.

Not holding back the tide,

Pastor Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Picture of a small leather camel.
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My 10:30 Goal

Three years ago, tonight, I hit “publish” on my first ever blog post. I cannot begin to tell you how nervous I was. What was I afraid of our nervous about? There might have been several concerns, putting myself and my life out into the Internet, but the biggest source of my anxiety was that no one would be interested in what I had to say. That nervous anxiety stayed with me the first several blog posts that I wrote and published. I asked a friend if she had that experience with her writing, and she said, “No, not really.” It was not very nice of her to not normalize my anxiety, but it was the truth for her.

Three years ago, I did not know a lot of people who blogged and the one person I did/do know, is a colleague whose writing focus and blogging is very different from my own. Still, she was encouraging. I told a few people that i knew about my blog, but it was not until I began to look for bloggers with similar interests as mine, that things began to change. My colleague wrote mostly book reviews, at the time, and that wasn’t my interest. I mostly write memoir, and some spiritual religious posts. Check the bio, ‘retired Clergy.”

In a short time, I found a few bloggers who were long time bloggers and part of a group that I was practically aged out of as I started, “Mid-life” writers. But they welcomed me, and I got to know more of them by reading their writing and participating in link parties, organized gatherings where bloggers go to post some of their work and read and comment on the work of other writers/bloggers.

I still write mostly memoir, with some tangent topics, like “#strongerthanthecookie, about my weight loss journey that only began since I started the blog. I still hope to write more about my bread making journey and now in more or less full retirement, a series titled, “Pastor Without a Pulpit” all on the same blog. I originally thought I would write two posts a week, and that was naive, ambitious, but naive. Although I am working fewer hours, I am still doing good to write and publish one post a month. I aim to do better, but not ready to give up.

I have “met” bloggers from countries around the world, places I will not likely visit, but have had numerous conversations with these writers and in some cases feel that we have become friends. I am grateful for that. Some of the writers I had come to know have stopped writing or taken a long sabbatical and I miss them. I am sure their other blogging friends and readers miss them as well. But I also understand. It is important to evaluate the value in time spent writing. I hope in the coming month to get more regular, to find a rhythm that will support regular engagement with real readers and not the spammers who write such graphic descriptions of their work that are too embarrassing to read. Let me just say, if you are a blogger, you know whereof I speak. If you are not a blogger but a friend who reads my posts, all I can say is “trust me on this.” They are crude and lewd and somehow manage to break through the spam blocker.

So, what about the title of this post? I am not one for making New Year’s resolutions, they are too easy to break. By the time I edit, proofread and other writerly tasks, I could have the resolution broken before hitting publish. But I have had modest success with setting goals. Hence, My 10:30 Goal.

I am not a morning person and whenever my husband or I are asked about a good time for an appointment we reply, almost in unison, “any time after 10:00 a.m.” I am retired, so I do indulge in that thing I promised myself when I was working full time, in the years before ministry, sleep as late as possible, usually that means about 7:50, except for Sunday mornings. I have to be up by then to take the dog out for her morning rituals. Two days a week I generally cook breakfast. After that though, I have demonstrated a tremendous capacity to waste time scrolling online. Considering I only do a few things online, social media, blog and email, it is embarrassing. I get “caught up” and forget I have things to do, things I want to write, or bake or organize and then the dog has to be walked again after lunch and now it is 1:00 +/-. If I start any baking projects then, they will be interrupted by preparations for supper.

This was brought home to me this weekend, when on Friday I did not start making the rolls I needed for an event on Saturday, until after supper and took the last pan of rolls (3 pans) out of the oven shortly after 11:00 p.m. Then on Saturday evening I made cookies for church which I finished decorating after 9:00 p.m. I had a conversation with myself and said, that is it. Like a newborn baby that has her days and nights mixed up, your ” go to” time should be 10:30 a.m. not 10:30 p.m.

Now, you could ask, “Michele, isn’t 10:30 a.m. starting late?” I suppose it depends on your perspective but covering all morning rituals for the humans and the four-legged member of the family, it is a good starting place. Like me, you probably know people who have done four loads of laundry, five dozen cookies, ordered groceries and watered the house plants by 10:30 in the morning and I am very happy for them, and not the least bit envious.

So, I hereby announce this goal, that on any day I am going to be home most of the day, to be ready to be productive by or at 10:30 a.m. That is a goal that covers writing, baking and other creative pursuits. If I can do that, it will be interesting to see what my afternoons look like. So, Goal 1, productive by 10:30 a.m. Goal 2, keep it all the way to the end of the month!

It is Christmas Eve on Saturday, and I am mindful of the fact that I am trying to pick up my writing at a time when many of my compatriots are taking a break until after the New Year. They have worked hard and written faithfully and read lots, they deserve a break.

Next goal, decide, announce and write about a Word of the Year for 2023, and “procrastination” is not allowed to be that word. I tried that last year and was very successful. That is it for now,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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What’s On My Bookshelf in December

#Whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

I had vain hopes of participating in the October #What’s on my bookshelf, but all my attention was taken up by preparing for my vacation home to Massachusetts, and preparing for my husband’s hunting trip; you know, laundry, cooking, baking, packing, finalizing arrangements for visits and reservations, and the actual travel. I can’t say for sure that I did any reading during that time, and although I brought a couple of books along for “down time” I did not read anything on vacation that my friend and co-writer and I had not written ourselves. Not vanity – editing, the work we had traveled to do. In between reading, editing and conferring, we ate delicious fried seafood and pizza, visited with some of my family, classmates and close friends and counted our blessings every day. This was our third vacation and long journey together and once again we never ran out of conversation. I am not sure what that means exactly, but we are both retired pastors; and my father said when I was born, I was vaccinated with a victrola needle! At any rate, we were very intentional about reading out loud every word we had written. Every. Word.

One of the unexpected things I got to do, thanks to my friend Donna, was to watch the Disney 2016 broadcast of Lin Manuel Miranda’s “Alexander Hamilton” – twice. The downside was that the television in our unit was a ROKU tv and very difficult to adjust the volume, so watching it the second time was helpful. Then we listened to the music from another source. We also watched an interview featuring Mr. Miranda and some of the cast members and that brings me to this month’s reading. One of the comments Mr. Miranda made was the fact the musical was two hours long and there is obviously only so much one can fit in a two-hour musical or play that is meant to span a large segment of someone’s life. “Read and research the story for yourself,” he advised the audience, do not settle for what you heard here.

Now, I love history, especially American history, early American history and I love nothing better than settling down with a book that requires two bookmarks, one to keep track of my reading, and one to make it easier to flip back and forth between the material and the endnotes and bibliography. Near the end of the musical there is an homage to Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, who lived for fifty years after her husband’s death. She poured herself into charitable work, including especially care for women and children. So, I thought it would be interesting to read a biography of her, alongside Ron Chernow’s “Alexander Hamilton” which I understand was Mr. Miranda’s basis for the musical. I thought it would be interesting to see what if any agreement there was and how much of Mr. Chernow’s book covered anything of Eliza’s life. It was just to large a goal.

So, that is the main part of my reading for this month. The book about Eliza is: Eliza Hamilton: The Extraordinary Life and Times of the Wife of Alexander Hamilton by Tilar J. Mazzeo

In addition to traditional reading, I have completed two audio books: One book I have completed is an audio book by Debbie Macomber, ”The Best is Yet to Come” a story about a struggling veteran and a high school teacher who is coping with personal loss. They meet working at an animal shelter and bond over an equally trouble dog. I enjoy Mrs. Macomber’s writing and character development and find her a good travel companion when I am driving alone.

A second audio book that I just finished is Mad Honey by Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Finney Boylan. So far, I am enjoying it, but typing the information in here now before the audio book goes back to the library. I have finished the book but there are too many chances for spoiler alerts so I will be cautious in what I write here. I will say that the story, although it is not the main story, chronicles the experience of domestic violence of one of the major characters, and I think, although it is fiction writing, that a “trigger alert warning on the cover” would be appropriate. It could be painful hearing or reading for some people.

But having said that, I love her writing and am continually amazed at the depth of her research as well as the ability to speak and write authoritatively about many different subject areas, in this case bees and honey production. In addition, the authors’ voice(s) are compelling. This is the first book by Ms. Picoult that I have noticed a second writer, but having listened to other books by this author, it is hard to distinguish what the other author wrote. That is part of the fun, I think.

I am also reading two books for church, an Advent study and one other book and one is a book about ministry with people who are differently abled. I probably will not review those, but I mention them here because they are important reading for me.

The other thing I am continually trying to get a “read” on is my ongoing goal of settling into retirement life, finding balance and my determination that part of my time needs to be invested in meaningful work; I still want to preach and teach when I can, but I am also enjoying the leisure of planning meals, trying new recipes, maintaining my weight loss and just being a home body. Like I said, trying to get a “read’ on it.

My slightly cramped but cozy reading space.

So, I admit to rushing as I just realized it was that time of the month for the book share and did not want to miss this one. Hopefully, I will have more to share next month, or at least accomplish some reading.

I have not been able to keep up lately with either reading or writing, but hope to get back on track. I appreciate the relationships and some genuine friendships that I have made and wish you each the best, whether you celebrate Christmas, or not, New Year’s or not. It all just seems like too much at the moment. I am just trying to put one foot in front of the other, count each blessing all the while,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Place for …Reading

You might have been expecting the title to say, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” I admire that kind of thinking, but alas, and alack, or a lack, it is something I have never managed to pull off. Please note, I am not bragging. I would say I do not have an organized bone in my body, clearly, they are organized genetically, but organization is not something that seems to come naturally to me. I was able to fool some people by generally keeping my professional paperwork up to date and on time, but if you ever saw my filing system, or lack thereof, for recipes or other important items, well, you would understand.

I admit that I gravitate to those magazine articles that promise beautiful storage and organizational systems to help one organize the clutter in their lives, but I believe strongly the only way to organize clutter is for it to get rid of it. Trash it, donate it, scrupulously inventory your stuff and make hard decisions. This has taken me years, many years. When we moved into our retirement home, I made a promise to myself that I would only keep the clothes that would fit in my dresser and/or closet with only one tote for off season clothes. There are some necessary exceptions to this, winter coats, clergy robes and costumes that I still use, for example.

In anticipation of my second retirement that happened just five months ago, I began to dig deep and start finding more things to give away. This coincided with my inspiration that I needed to redo the space that had been my office into more of a writer’s nook. This process still feels a bit like when the hairdresser combs through your hair to snip away layers; comb, snip; comb, snip! Another bag of giveaways, another bag of trash, another bag of books to donate to unsuspecting, er, willing friends, or ‘sneak’ into the donation box behind the library and hope there are no cameras. It would be so embarrassing to have the librarian who knows me personally come up to the house with a large lawn and leaf bag containing my discretely, I thought, donated books, and say, ‘I believe these belong to YOU!”

In all seriousness this has been a struggle. I had made significant progress, selling or giving away office furniture, donating smaller items, going through file drawers and purging items no longer needed. The problem was that I was not able to get it all done before my shoulder replacement surgery in mid-August. I gathered together all of the items that had yet to be dealt with and piled them in canvas bags, boxes and other containers and stacked them between my chair and the dog crate, oh, and the corner just inside the door of my former office. It wasn’t pretty, but it kept things fairly contained.

It was late September, when I was “released” from my shoulder sling that I began to sort through the mountain of items, that really could not be considered a stack. Little by little I was able to eliminate items until there was some semblance of order. Some of it just meant purging files that were no longer needed, but I had to read through everything to be sure there was nothing confidential going into the trash. The real problem came with the stack of files and papers that I just was not sure what to do with; I did not want to get rid of them, but I left myself with only 4 file drawers and they are all filled. I am not, NOT buying more furniture to store stuff, not buying another file cabinet. So, I did the only sensible thing, at least it seemed so at the time. I put the stack of files, papers and occasional books, oh, and that one canvas bag, and put them on my chair, my reading chair.

That was okay, because I still have my desk chair that I sit at to write, and browse social media and email, and I am the only person who sits in here anyway. Over the last several weeks I have continued to sort through and work through the stuff on my chair and put a small table in the place that had previously been home to my mountain of files and other things. The table to hold a small Inkle loom. But having that floor space cleared gave me a hint of victory, and then I was able to deliver a canvas bag of material remnants to a quilter and another space opened up. Little by little a sense of victory began to emerge and then this insight, which is really the point of this post.

My desk chair is a great place to write, to do research, make phone calls and scroll social media, but, except for reading blog posts and other online articles, it is not conducive to reading. Not the kind of reading that writers need to be able to do. The kind of reading that makes one grab a cup of coffee or tea or cocoa, or even ice water and curl up with a good book, to spend time with a page turner. I had created the space to be cozy and inviting, but had lost sight of it. I can read anywhere, I can pray anywhere, but this was/is special dedicated space, and I am so glad to have it back. So much so that it is worth humbling myself to admit the struggle, to say that organization does not come naturally to me. But the real personal insight, is that some places are conducive to leisurely reading and some just are not. I do not know why where I sit matters, only that it does. What about you? Do you have a special space that you prefer for reading, or writing? What makes that space important to you?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Pastor without a Pulpit

The Angry King and the Great Boxing Match

Once there was an angry king, who was so full of hatred, that he could barely fit into his clothes, or sit on his throne without breaking it. He was filled, not with fat or food, but hatred, that seemed to eat him from the inside out, until there was hardly room for anything else. No one knew exactly how old he was, but the consensus was that he was several centuries old. He hated everyone, his family, his subjects, his soldiers, most of all he was filled with lies, and he hated God. He told everyone that God was a God of hatred and did not love anyone and many believed him. And maybe the worst lie of all that he told, was that Love was not real. So, they followed his lead without question and did exactly what he told them to do. He did his best to spread his hatred of God and people and creation to all the other leaders who lived near his country and tried to get them to follow his lead, of destruction. It is unclear what he thought would be the benefit of such deeds.

One day, while he was pouring over his plans for taking over yet another village, just so he could watch it burn, two of his soldiers burst into his chambers, with a young boy about seven years old, clutched in their grasp. They had tied his hands behind his back and threw him forward to the king and announced the charges, “We found this boy from the village lurking around the palace. We are not sure what he was doing, but we know that he does not belong here. We searched him, but he carried no weapons, but the commander of the guard ordered us to deliver him to you, your Majesty.”

The King looked at the boy with contempt, and said to him, “Just what do you think you were doing? Are you a spy sent from the village? Is that why you carried no weapons, just your ears to hear information to take back home to your village?

The boy looked up at the King and said, “no, King, I was not spying.”

“The soldiers said you were walking around the palace,” the King said, “What were you doing, if not spying?” he demanded.

“Praying,” the boy answered.

The King let out a sarcastic laugh. “Well what were you praying for, not to get caught?”

“No, sire. I was praying for you,” he replied.

“Praying for me to what? Drop over dead? For the roof to cave in on me?” the King demanded.

“No,” the boy replied, “that would be praying against you, not for you. I was praying for you.”

“You know,” the ruler said, “That I have the power to throw you into prison, to even have you executed?”

“Yes,” came the simple reply.

The king persisted, “Then why would you even dare to come here? And if you were not praying against me, as you say, then what were you praying and why? “

“Well, to be honest,” said the child, “the first time around I had to pray for the will to pray for you. I did not want to do that, and I would rather pray against you, but that is not how we are told to pray. So first, I asked God to help me want to pray for you. I had to make that request several times, on several trips around the palace, before I felt an opening in my heart so that I could pray for you.”

“What did you pray for?” the King asked, although he was barely interested. He was sure of what he was going to do next, so there was no harm in letting the captive talk.
“I simply asked God to bless you.” he replied.

The King questioned the prisoner, ‘What makes you think I need God to bless me? I have everything I want. And If I do not have everything I want, I just take it.”

Ignoring the King’s comments, the boy said, ‘Jesus said we are to pray for our enemies. we are not responsible for the outcome, and we do not get to choose it. What we do know is that we are to pray. And so, I came to pray for you; trusting God for the outcome.”

“You knew this mission of yours was dangerous and could cost you your life, why did you do it anyway. You have your whole life ahead of you, or you did,” said the King,

I did not just come to pray for you, although that is the biggest part of my mission. I came to pray for you, but also to issue you a challenge from the Villagers.”

At this revelation the king began to laugh loudly, but his laughter soon turned to coughing that threatened to choke him. The soldiers rushed toward him, but he held up his hand to stop them. When he stopped his hacking cough, he said to the boy, ‘A challenge from the Villagers? that is very brave or very foolish on their part and yours. Is this a “David versus Goliath” kind of challenge?

Not exactly sire. The challenge is very basic. They wish to challenge you to a boxing match; you against the mayor of the village.

“Why me?” the King laughed, “I have soldiers who can take my place, I have an army that can plow the town down.”

“What would that prove?” the boy asked.

“That I am strong and can do whatever I want,” the King answered.

Knowing that he had very little to lose, the boy said, “But sire, real strength is shown in how one treats the vulnerable, cares for the needs of his or her people and protects the vulnerable. ”

“What does this have to do with the boxing match that you propose?” the King asked.

“Well, there is no way that you can lose. I mean, you can lose the match, but either way you win. “

“So then,” asked the King, “why bother?”

“If you win,” answered the boy, “you accept the win. that is it. There is nothing else to prove, but having proven yourself strong, you must let go of the hatred and anger that distort your very being.”

“And if I lose, although there is little chance of that?” the King asked.

“Then you must accept the loss”, and turn your energies to building up the people, improve education and medicine, job training and employment opportunities.” Although he was not sure why he did this, the King agreed to accept the terms. The Great Boxing Match would take place ten days hence. In the meantime, the boy was consigned to a prison cell.

When the day of the Great Boxing Match arrived, the King entered the village Hall where the Match was to take place. He strode into the building, as if he owned the place, climbed between the ropes and chose a corner. Then he barked at the official and said, “where is the Mayor of this Village, who dares to challenge me?”

A voice from the back of the room responded. “I am here,” and he walked toward the ring, and as the King had before him, he climbed between the ropes and chose the opposite corner. A hush came over the room as the King eyed his opponent and drew a breath. It seemed that the mayor was also a child, but a child who looked like him.

What the King could not have known, was that long before the boy left the village to visit the King at his palace, the entire village had made a commitment to pray for the King. And from the time the King agreed to the contest, even though he found the idea beyond foolish, the Villagers began to fast and pray for the King, and for the boy, whom they loved

What do you think happened next?

+ + +

“Jesus said, you have heard that it was said, Love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be children of your Father in heaven…” Matthew 5: 43-45

Truth be told, this may be one of the most challenging passages of the New Testament, because we do not want to pray for our enemies, we would rather pray for ourselves to be protected from them, and for our enemies to get what we believe they deserve. That is how I often feel. It is human. But here is a question worth pondering. God does not need us to do anything and yet, what if praying for our enemies is the missing link in the path to peace?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Back Home Again ~ 2022

I think I understand the impulse that some people have to kneel and kiss the ground, in reverence, in joy, or profound gratitude, as one who thought they would never touch the ground again, drifting in the air, in space, at sea, or on foreign soil, or as one who knows each day is a gift but not a given. I do not do this thing, kneel on the beach and brush my lips against tiny grains of sand, do not walk into the water and let it swallow me whole, but I stand on the pier and drink it all in with my eyes my heart, my memory, and a full heart that once again threatens to leak out my eyes.

Picture of blue water and light sand, taken from the dock of the Onset Pier

I am so grateful for this opportunity to return, five years in a row. When I made my first trip home in twenty-four years, in 2018 I thought I would look around take some pictures and leave well enough alone. It was not enough, and I knew that trip that it never would be enough. Still, I try to never assume, never take for granted, never allow myself to feel entitled, only grateful.

The impulse to kiss the ground, at least metaphorically, is strong because the very act of being present restores something important in my soul, something more than memory, muscle memory. Returning, like one who is slowly recovering from amnesia, reclaiming an identity thought to be lost. I come, grateful for the opportunity, knowing full well that each visit could be my last, that each visit has to carry me through and may have to suffice for always.

A white building on the edge of Onset Beach, a 4. d version of the Old beach House and life saving station, how is the home of the Buzzards Bay Coalition

Although I come from a tourist town and a county steeped in history, the sights I return to over and over are the house I grew up in, the old hotel where I spent my youth, the place where my grandmother’s house was, and of course the beach, and the canal. And, although I do not believe they are there in any real way, I will stop at the cemetery and visit my parents’ and grandparents’ graves. An act of simple gratitude for their love. There are no tickets, no hands stamped, no trinkets or souvenirs, nothing that will take up space in my car for the return trip.

Because I have been so fortunate to make this trip for the last five years, I wondered if it was now enough. I wondered why I was coming back, if it was only about place. The first time I returned I had no personal connections to speak of, only a longing to look one more time. But the personal connections have returned and enriched my life in unimagined ways.

I have come for my Booster Shot, I say to no one feel in particular but the beach, an infusion of muscle and heart memory. I am a little like the disappearing pictures in the Back to the Future movies. The disappearing had happened gradually, but with every trip home, the lines, and substance are filled in, and I am more myself than I have ever been.

The Cape Cod Canal

I left home and the beach and the canal many years ago, but have consistently been drawn to the water, all water, ponds, streams, lakes. But they all pale in comparison to beaches and canal of my youth. These are the waters that restore my soul. (Psalm 23:2-3)

I think we all need those people and things in our lives who can hold up a mirror to us to remind us not just who we are, but who we can yet be. It is not just infants or children who live in a process of becoming, at least I hope not. It is not that I want to live in the past, but drawing on the past to allow that person I once was, to be more fully integrated into the person that I am becoming. This is a place that has fueled and rekindled my desire to write and deepened my gratitude for the entirety of my life.

I know. You can say “navel gazing,” and might not be wrong. But I think it is recreation that re-creates and reintegrates something that had been lost. I cannot know at this point, whether or when I can return, but this place will always be uniquely home to me, even while I cherish the home I live in now. They are both in real ways “home away from home” and I am simply grateful.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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How I Became a Single Parent

Trigger Warning: Intensely Personal Domestic Violence Story

I was a single parent with three children, for ten years, when I met my second husband, Roger. During my single parent years, I often thought it might be worth writing a newsletter for other single parents, sharing things I was learning. That never happened. But in the process of cleaning out some files today, the story I am a going to share fell out, by itself onto the floor. It is a story about red flags and maybe, sharing this story will help someone recognize their own red flags. I am not sharing this story for pity or accolades, I survived and am grateful.

Because of the personal nature of this story, I am not sharing it in Link Parties (Places where bloggers share stories for other bloggers to read and comment) but I feel as though I should share it here on my site, and can share it now. My children know this story and they do not read my blog, I am pretty sure my former in-laws do not either. Still, I will change the one significant name. This post was originally a journal entry for a college writing class, and it was written because a required reading, well, you will see.

October 14, 1998

All three stories in this week’s reading struck a nerve, a chord, a place in my own life. They poked and prodded my psyche, like a surgeon doing a twenty-year checkup. I winced and wondered how these old pains could still hurt.

HE was a college man, a freshman from Virginia when I met him. I was a high school junior, the small-town girl he thought to dazzle. He was good looking and from out of state; both of which made him extra attractive in a small town of limited choices. He had dirty blond hair, intense green eyes and a dark mole in the center of his forehead. He was lanky, and lean, so I nicknamed him “Bony.” He was the college roommate of my childhood friend.

We sang to early Beatles’ songs as we washed dishes at his roommate’s house. We danced like stiff paper dolls, touching each other gingerly. I baked him cookies and other treats and delivered them to his college dorm, on the pretense of visiting his roommate. We wrote long letters and played at getting to know each other. It took me years to figure out that I did not learn enough of the important things.

When we got married in 1970, we bragged that we had known each other for four years. But I did not know the right things. I knew what kind of music he liked and what kind of cookies he preferred. But I did not know he had a dangerous mean streak until it was too late. At least I thought it was too late. Truth be told, that mean streak showed itself often during our dating and engagement, but I was so naive, I thought it was already too late. It seemed he could only feel good about himself if he could make someone else feel small. I did not know that I had been elected. I did not know that I had a choice.

The warning signs were there during our engagement, but I did not recognize them or smell the danger. Six years and three children late I finally put all the lessons together. I had been haunted by the fear, during our last year together, the possibility that he could make our family, or at least me, a statistic in one night of rage. When it finally happened, when he finally put all his aggression into a direct threat, screaming in a high-pitched voice, I shrugged off my inertia and chose life. Well, the shrugging took a while, but it happened.

My youngest child, a girl, was three weeks old when he threatened to kill me, and his threat was pretty specific. I was lucky, there is no doubt about that. There was no sticking around to find out if he meant it. I could excuse away the meanness, but I was not willing to risk my children’s lives or mine, calling his bluff. I had only a high school education and no marketable skills. But I also had a will to survive.

In the early days of single parenting the challenges were pretty basic. I had three children, from newborn to three years old. How could I do laundry and watch them at the same time? (the laundry room for our apartment was down the hall). Did I dare make trips to the laundry room leaving them alone, while they were asleep and locked in our apartment?How could I cook a meal and keep them out of harm’s way? What about baths?

I spent a lot of time holding and hugging the children. We’d sit on my bed and watch Sunday afternoon movies. I put my arms around them and felt secure and hoped that they did too. It was a good reminder of what I was doing and why, keeping body and soul together. My mother visited often. She’d stay with the children while I did the grocery shopping for a month’s supply of food. When I came back, she did the laundry and when it was all done and she folded everything in neat orderly piles on top of the couch that doubled as my bed.

Between her visits, if we needed anything from the grocery store, I took all three children. We had a system. The baby went into a plastic infant seat (it was 1977) that I placed in the seat of the carriage. The three-year-old sat in the carriage where the food was to go and her brother sat in front of her. Around them I would squeeze bread, toilet paper, diapers, milk, and formula. It didn’t do much for the bread, but I could not blame it on the store.

Little by little we got our bearings. Mom was a lifeline, but I am glad she was not a life raft. I had to make my own mistakes and my own progress. After a year of food stamps and demeaning visits to the welfare office, I got a part time job cooking and enrolled in night school. When I could type well enough to pass the civil service exam, I got a full-time job in an office. Putting the children in daycare was difficult, but necessary. I felt like a phony. “I am not really a secretary,” I’d say, “I’m just a mom in a secretary suit.” I never bought into the notion about being both mother and father to the children. Putting them in daycare, I felt like half a parent, like a traitor. It took years before I stopped punishing myself like that. Funny thing though, the secretary suit never did fit right, it just wasn’t me.

One day, I wrote a question in a notebook, so unrealistic it startled even me. “What if I could go to college?” The idea seemed ludicrous, totally impossible, but I decided to investigate. I applied for financial aid. When my award letter arrived, no one was more surprised than me. I called the local community college and made an appointment. My youngest child was five years old. It was at college then, as in later years, that I felt truly alive. College and beyond have continued to be life-giving for me. It seemed that I was not stupid after all. HE was wrong about many things.

In those days I worked part-time, attended school full time and the children were in two different school day care programs. All days started early and ended late. I’d drift off to sleep at night listening to the music of John Denver and get up thankful for six hours sleep. Some days, driving to day care, I could swear I heard the William tell Overture playing in my head.

I had great support systems, my best friend and house mate paid for more than her fair share of our expenses and read stories to my children, because I had not the energy or the time, and she babysat them when I had night classes. My mom continued to visit. Between the three of us we gave the children all the love and affection we could. I compromised, cut corners and on occasion over-compensated. We survived and grew; life was a good choice.

One last thing. It was really more than three of us who lavished love on my children. While HE was the biological parent, it was his family who stepped in and spent time with the children. I worked very hard at maintaining a good relationship with them, for the sake of my children. I never wanted their grandparents or other relatives to say I kept them from seeing the children and I appreciated all that they did.

When my children were in high school, I think my son was a junior when he asked why his dad and I got divorced. I chose to tell them, perhaps in self-defense. I did not want them to think they were forced to grow up without a father in the house, because of some whim of mine. I was honest, and told them many, but not all details. Was it the right thing to do? I will never know. But throughout my years as a single parent, I never criticized HIM to them, or did or said anything to jeopardize their relationship with HIM. Sadly, he managed to do that on his own, and for the most part, there has been no coming back from that for him, or them. That part is not my story to tell, though.

HE and I worked at a relationship too. He eventually remarried, much later than I did. Neither of us are the same people we were. We have been able to make peace and move on. I believe in forgiveness, but that maybe a story for another time. Forgiveness though is more about your own healing than anyone deserving it.

This is a long post. I hope it helps someone. Sharing some details, withholding others but

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Sheba and the Interloper

Sheba is our fourth rescue dog in 33 years. When we adopted her in January of 2019, the shelter indicated that she really needed to be the only dog, or maybe the only pet. She was rescued (surrendered?) from a situation in which she was one of sixteen dogs, kept in crates. You can read more about her in earlier posts, especially, ‘Introducing Sheba’ and ‘Life with a Tentative Dog.’ I love this dog, though she certainly has issues. Many times in recent weeks, I have wished she could talk, although at other times I am just as glad not to be getting a piece of her mind.

In general, she seems to like being with us, in the room with us. She does not get on the furniture, even though we would welcome her presence on the couch with us. She is a relatively big dog as the picture will show. Her weight fluctuates between 45-47 pounds, so not light. It is not so much that Sheba is an affectionate animal herself, but she soaks up affection. At eight years old, she is now an older dog. In the last year she has withdrawn a bit and shown a preference for being alone after putting in time with us. I was worried about that for a bit, because I know that animals can retreat when they are dying. But she has been to the vet and seems to be in reasonably good health.

I have joked that she is our “therapy dog” meaning she needs therapy. Recent events have made me really think about an animal’s version of PTSD. Sheba has bonded with only a few people, besides us, the kennel owner and groomer where she stays when we are out of town. Other than that, very few people. Yappy dogs scare her, young children scare her, football players who walk near our home during the football season and summer practice season, scare her, and of course, like many dogs, she is not fond of thunder, fireworks or any sudden noises. She does not bark, yet she is not a “barkless” breed. Occasionally she will make some noise if she sees a rabbit in her yard, and she barks in her sleep, but those barks are the gentle “woof, woofs’ of a snoring, dreaming dog.

Enter the interloper.

Picture of a black kitten on a patio with hosta plants behind it and a fire in a fire pit behind that.
Will

We are not cat people, although cats seem to be attracted to my husband. I am allergic to cats, off the scale allergic. But about three weeks ago, this kitten showed up on our patio. I didn’t know the difference between a feral cat or a stray, so I named the kitten Will (feral). It turns out, this kitten is more stray than feral. It likes to be petted. It wanted inside. It can’t come inside. It seems to have adopted us. It arrived at a time when we were spending a lot of evenings on the patio, with a fire in the fire pit, so we were there every night. So was Will. Meowing to beat the band. If you feed a cat, it will keep coming around. Our community has some good cat crusaders who have put a lot of work into rehoming and or neutering stray cats, to keep down the population from being problematic.

Yes, we fed the kitten. The second day Will was here I named it (still not sure of the gender) and I need to contact the local organization about neutering. But still, we have tried very hard to find a home for Will. And Sheba would like that to happen as soon as possible. They seem to get along well enough, sniff each other’s noses, and other parts, not biting, scratching, etc. And yet, the mere presence of Will has brought out Sheba’s insecurities, in a similar way that can happen to a toddler or older child when a baby comes into the house. It makes me think about cartoon pictures you see of a cow holding a sign that reads “Eat Chicken!”

Picture of a man holding a small black kitten.
My husband holding Will

It has been about three weeks. Will is wait listed on two local shelters. Now that they have had time to get used to each other, the relationship with Sheba and Will is changing a bit. Sheba is wary and weary. She looks out the window and searches the landscape for that pesky cat. When we take Sheba out, it does not take Will long to hear the squeak of the door and come running. If Will has not made an appearance, Sheba spends much of her time outdoors when she is supposed to be doing ‘something productive,’ scanning the landscape for that kitten.

It is cute in some ways to watch her trot after Roger and Sheba when he takes her for a walk, but not nearly as cute when Will insists on walking under Sheba or in front of her or next to her. Will is still a kitten, small, maybe not more than 3 pounds, Sheba is much bigger. I am not sure if Sheba, in addition to her insecurities is just an old dog annoyed at a young critter. I am not sure if Will is trying to be playful, or something meaner. Gaslighting comes to mind. Not trying to make Sheba think she is crazy, just making her crazy.

I talk to Sheba and tell her she is still the Queen of the house. She gets to eat inside, Will has to eat outside. She gets to sleep in a warm room on a cozy cushion, Will, for now is sleeping under the steps or in the woodpile. He will not be coming into the house, although my husband is working on an outside shelter for him. We still want to find Will a good home. I do not want anything bad to happen to Will. I also do not want Will’s visit with us to be followed by other strays. But it was impossible for either of us to be insensitive to the vulnerability of his/her situation. Yet, everything I see in Sheba bears out the Shelter’s suggestion that she be an “only” dog, pet?

Picture of a kitten eating out of a blue dish sitting in front of trashcans on a patio.
The close up makes Will look bigger than he actually is.

There are two competing complications for me where Will is concerned. I have fallen ” in like” with that darn kitten. But her attempts to walk under, in front of, between Sheba’s legs could trip Sheba and make me fall. With a new artificial shoulder, and a modest collection of other artificial joints, I do not relish the thought of falling on the dog, the cat or the ground.

My primary pet obligation is to Sheba,

Picture of a black and tan dog, close up. The dog is sitting on a porch with a green outdoor carpet on the porch floor.
Sheba does not like getting her picture taken. Here she is pretending to be invisible.

But, oh, that darn,

A repeat of the picture of the small black kitten sitting on the patio, hosta plants in the background with a fire in a fire pit beyond them.
Will or Wilhemena, not sure yet.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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What I Wish I Had Said

Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit two churches to share the message, preach a sermon. It was the first time since my last Sunday the end of June. While I often did sermon and worship planning in advance, the advance sermon preparation was generally limited to choosing a scripture, a theme and some elements. But for most of my preaching life, I prepared sermons one week at a time. This past weekend was very different in that I had three weeks to prepare one message. Not that I worked on it every day, but I had a lot of time to think about it.

I do my best to never wait until Saturday to start thinking, reading and writing, it is generally on Saturday that I wrestle with my notes, try to summarize, organize, write, rewrite what I think I will say. I have not used a manuscript in 13 years with few exceptions, at the same time I do not ‘memorize’ a sermon. Rather, I try to ensure the connection is on my notes if I need them, but in my head and my heart. What that has meant for me is a lot of restless Saturday nights. When I think I have done all that I can, I turn in. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I start running my sermon in my head. Like I said, it makes for restless Saturday nights. Is that a method I learned in seminary or preaching class? No. It is just how my sermon writing and preaching style as morphed over the years.

What made this past Saturday a bit different is that I realized, but not until I had tossed and turned much of the night, that part of my problem was that having had three weeks to prepare, I had three weeks of sermons in those pages of notes. No wonder they didn’t fit neatly into an outline or on an index card!

The sermon was on a famous passage from Luke 15: 1-10, which is just prior to but does not include the story often (too often?!) called “The Prodigal Son.” The part of the scripture that I focused on was the Pharisees and scribes complaining about Jesus’ welcome and hospitality to sinners and the celebration that Jesus said occurs in heaven. By implication part of that celebration was occurring with Jesus at the table. My sermon title was “Are you a Whittler?” by which I meant not someone who works with wood, but someone who would whittle down the guest list of those welcome at the kingdom of Heaven. It came together and seemed to work and realistically, the message I presented was all that could have fit the time slot. From the feedback I received, it made sense, and made folks think. I am always grateful when that is the case.

Picture of a colorful cross made of popsicle sticks with a variety of stuffed sheep at the base
Image of sheep to talk about Jesus looking for the lost sheep Luke 15: 1-10

But here is what I wish I had said too, it would have taken another whole sermon; but time is ‘of the essence’ especially because we are in the thick of elections and all they entail. I wish that I had said, as Christian believers, we ought to take our example from Jesus’ welcome of “The tax collectors and sinners’ as an example of how we are to “Love our Neighbors as Ourselves; as an example of how we ought to talk about and treat everyone.” When Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” he was not instituting new policy or philosophy, he was quoting Leviticus 19:15.

There is a fundamental understanding that comes to us from Genesis; not only is Adam said to be created in the image and likeness of God. (Genesis 1:26) The Common English Translation of the Bible says, “Let us make humanity in our image…”) So all of humanity, with no exceptions, is created in the image and likeness of God. That should underscore how we treat all of humanity. We should treat each person we encounter, as though God God’s self were right in front of us. Ask yourself this question then. Is the way you responded to (treated, talked about) that person you recently encountered and criticized or otherwise demeaned, the way you would respond to, treat or talk about God? That is what you just did, because they are created in the image and likeness of God, they reflect God’s Image.

I believe that this is crucial, is fundamental to who we are meant to be as people of faith and how we are to be in the world. So much of that understanding though, even among Christians, seems to be lost in the political/social rhetoric of the day. And not just recently. There seems to be a divide, a discrepancy between the words we say in churches and the words and thoughts that are expressed in the social realm, including social media. Rather than living in a way that deeply reflects the Biblical mandates to social justice, care for the poor, the widow, the orphan, the alien, all those in need, we are led by sound bites, slogans and memes that are more a reflection of mean-spirited politicians (and their backers?). And those sound bites and memes and the attitudes behind them, lack humility and compassion. There is little cohesiveness between the words uttered in worship, and words and actions on the street and on social media.

This seems to me at least, to inhibit any meaningful social discourse around serious issues such as racism, immigration concerns, human rights and dignity and more because we have covered it all in the language of memes and slogans, and we lack the humility and compassion to engage in conversations that just might lead us to healthy solutions. For instance, denying that we might possibly be racist, gets in the way of our seeing and caring about other peoples’ experiences of hurt and discrimination to name just a few. Instead, we get dismissive and defensive. I have seen it and heard it over and over again.

As people of prayer, we are missing a large opportunity to allow God to lead us to solutions that are just and fair that we never thought of. If we believe that God answers prayer, shouldn’t we actively seek God’s guidance, and be on the lookout for an answer and guidance for this prayer? If we seriously want God’s kingdom to come and God’s will to be done on earth as it is in heaven, we need to spend more time in asking God what God has in mind and how we can help to bring that about. Do we really mean it when we sing “Let it (peace) begin with me?”

Picture of a stuffed sheep standing on a desk, with paper red hearts in the foreground.
Murray My Frst Sheep

Many of the “hot button” issues that have our country, our towns polarized are almost considered hands off by many church people, because they are political issues. I don’t deny that, but even more than being political issues, they are theological and ethical issues. Where better to have serious conversations about the issues that matter, that affect God’s children than in the church, in coffee houses and parks and squares and our homes? In order to do that we have to set aside political rhetoric, sound bites and memes and really listen heart to heart.

Let me hop back to my statement about how we talk to and about people and treat people and political rhetoric. Have you noticed, in the United States anyway, that when talking about someone who is a member of the other political party that is not yours, the party is not simply named. No there are a string of pejorative, unflattering and accusatory adjectives in front of the name. And my friends and family and friends on social media will quickly say, “Hey, it’s not just us, it’s them too.” Yes, it is. How does that help anyone get to meaningful social discourse?

There are a lot of scary things in the world today, and I suppose that is nothing new. But this frightens me. The willingness of good church people to settle for the Gospel as interpreted through political rhetoric, photo-ops and a watered-down version of a Gospel filtered through the lens of social media, that is all law, and no heart. That was the situation with the Pharisees and Scribes described in Luke 15. They were so scandalized by Jesus’ willingness to have table fellowship with sinners, that the did not realize that the Letter of the Law needed to be married to the Spirit of the Law. They did not, and we do not, have the humility to see their/our own brokenness, to care about the vulnerable and to wonder if God does not have a different plan in mind. Maybe that is what scares us most. We are called to participate in the healing of a broken world and recognize our own brokenness in the midst.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Real Retirement – Part Two UPS and downs

I am a United Methodist (retired) Elder. What the ‘Elder’ in this case means is not a reference to my age, but my status as having gone through all of the requirements, education, examination, experience and evaluation to be ordained. In some ways, United Methodists are a different breed, though perhaps not in the way you might think of in terms of current news or struggle.

Rather it is something that many people including United Methodists struggle with: Itineracy. That means we go when and where the Bishop says, unless there is a valid excuse not to do so. This drives some pastors and some parishioners and some non-United Methodists crazy. I think that Itineracy is a good thing really, but that does not mean it is easy. I grew up close to a thriving U. S. Air Force Base and few occupations are as itinerant as the military. By contrast, my dad was in the Merchant Marine, and we stayed at home in Massachusetts, but he sailed out of Hoboken, New Jersey to ports all over the world. When I was a kid, I think I would have preferred the itineracy of military life, had it made it possible to see him more.

Granted, by the time I became a pastor, our children were grown and on their own, so they did not have to deal with the trauma associated with frequent moves.

One good thing about being itinerant is the opportunity of a fresh start, a “do-over.” There was a time when Methodist/United Methodist pastors were moved so often, that by year three, everyone knew it was time to start saving boxes. I came along later in the process and I was fortunate to be in one place for seven and a half years in my first appointment, while I completed my education at college and seminary. Then we moved about 140+ miles away for five years (two churches three services each week and working on my requirements for ordination)- and then moved again to my last full-time appointment and were there for nine years, during which time I returned to school to get my Doctor of Ministry Degree.

As to moving, one of my mentors was fond of saying, “Methodism is a movement; how can you have a movement if nobody moves?”

Picture of a basket of pink carnations and white daisies.

The opportunity to start fresh, to meet new people, to learn new things and skills and make a difference in people’s lives and in the community is priceless. One important benefit in terms of movements is that knowing your time is limited (shelf life?) can keep you from getting too comfortable; that goes for congregations as well as for pastors. The challenge for pastors and their families is that when we move, we are supposed to simply leave and not look back. That is hard, because hopefully, you have been involved in the ups and downs of the lives of your parishioners, officiated at weddings and baptisms, and comforted the mourners at funerals. Hopefully, you have seen and participated in spiritual growth of the flock and helped the congregation find their calling.

At the same time if you are a new pastor, it can be very difficult to have that new start, that opportunity to get to know your flock, with the ghost of pastors past hanging around your neck like an albatross. And it is hard for that pastor who has moved to focus on the present if they are always looking back. So, when we get those calls that say, “Would you come back and do mom’s funeral?” our answer is supposed to be no. Here is a truth I have experienced and believe in: allowing your new to you pastor to do mom’s funeral, officiate at your son’s wedding, wait with you at the hospital while your wife has surgery, is how they get to be your new pastor. It is how they get to know you, and you them.

There is a loop hole of sorts, depending on the interpretation of your Superintendent or current Bishop or Board. You can have friendships with people in the parish, as long as you don’t violate that “Going back to do funerals, weddings, etc.” thing. Part of the test of that reality is can you visit with a former parishioner and not ask questions about the new pastor or how it is going at church? It is a little like the challenge that married couples who are parents face when they have the opportunity for a night out. Can they go out to dinner and not talk about the children?

I will say that leaving a church or churches behind when you are going to a new church or churches is easier than leaving them behind when you are retired. At least in my experience. Retirement brings good opportunities for family engagement, hobbies, and other things; it is good, it is important, it is needed. But it is different. There is no new trapeze rung to grab, you have to simply let go of the one you have been holding onto and hope there is a net to catch you when you let go.

Picture of the author standing in a hallway. She is wearing a white clergy robe with a red stole with gold decorations,
At Annual Conference at Hershey Lodge 2022; after serving part time for four years, getting ready to let go.

And then there is the “bad apple” “albatross-y” issue of a retired pastor who is not just a memory, but a physical presence. For those of us who retire in the neighborhood of a former church, we are required to stay away for a full year. The denomination takes this quite seriously for some of the reasons I have mentioned above. I have experienced personally, and I know other colleagues who have experienced the frustration of retired pastors who could not “stay in their lane.” I never want to be that person. but I realize that it could happen accidentally.

I share all this not to put my readers to sleep, but to try to create an understanding of what I find so difficult in retirement or what I am STILL processing. What do I miss the most? The day-to-day relationships, especially those that are grown through contact of Bible Study or Youth Ministry. I love teaching and preaching, using both my education and creativity to dig into the Bible and accompany people on that journey. I can let go of planning services and series, I can let go of administration and won’t mind if I never have to officiate at another wedding. It is all okay and I am content to leave those things in the past.

picture of two loaves of wheat bread cooling on a rack

What I miss most is the opportunity to celebrate the sacraments, especially Holy Communion. Those things are not usually done by visiting pastors, but are the right and rite of the sitting pastor. Besides the actual conversations and transformations that can happen at the table in Bible Study, that is what I miss the most. In theory, one wonderful way I might participate in the celebration of Communion is making and providing bread for communion for friends who are pastors, but that has not happened as readily as I had hoped.

What do I gain in retirement and celebrate? I am an introvert at heart, and often told parishioners that I was the “Queen of Shy,” In most cases that did not show but it is true. My comfort zone is our living room, our house and despite having been something of a workaholic as a pastor, I am a homebody at heart.

I do not feel like every day is Saturday. But in retirement it is important for me to discern what small piece of my former life as pastor can I/should I be doing? Or how can I fill my own need for meaningful work without over doing it? Or as one pastor friend put it, finding my niche.

I have good choices of meaningful and fulfilling recreational pursuits, creative arts, making bread, writing and doing some simple weaving and perhaps simple crocheting.

I have discovered something surprising in all of this. I just did my first “pulpit supply” preaching at two churches this past weekend after being home for two months. It is something I would like to do more of, but not every week. That surprises me. In two months, I have gotten quite comfortable being at home, not flying out of the house for meetings, I am more firm than ever that I am not “taking a church” even part time. Preaching once and a while and maybe teaching Bible study is enough. I want those things to be part of my life while I am still able to do them. I do not want to leave that part of me behind as one sheds a winter coat in summer. But it is finally enough. It is good. I am thankful to be in this place.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Real Retirement ~ The Early Days (Part One)

For all my family and friends who said, when I retired four years ago and promptly – well, six weeks later, went back to work part time, “mom, you are not really retired.” I am now. So, if you will bear with my while I process this huge change publicly, here goes. A good friend, and my writing partner for a special project has said, “we write to fix our lives.” I do not know if that is a quote from someone more famous than my friend, so I will claim innocence there. My hope in many of the posts I write is that these reflections will help someone, or that someone will be able to relate to them. My other hope is that this does not sound like so much navel gazing. There have been surprises along the way so that is where I will start.

Surprise number 1: I expected to jump back in as a retired pastor and preach every Sunday possible, serene in the knowledge that I could leave administration, and many other details of pastoral ministry to the actual pastor. Driving home from a hospital visit shortly before June 30th, I was struck with the realization that I did not want to do that. I had made a commitment to do some pulpit supply for a colleague and realized that the drive I had signed up for would be exhausting. Everything in me said, “What, WHAT were you thinking?” She was gracious in accepting my change of heart.

Surprise number 2: I had originally thought that even though we live just a few blocks away from a church I had served for nine years before retirement (and four miles from the sister church) that I would do what many other people do ‘nowadays’ and ‘church shop.’ But the new pastor had invited my attendance, presence and participation so genuinely and former parishioners and new faces in both churches greeted me so warmly, that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. They gave me the gift of belonging, the sense of being at home in their midst.

Surprise number 3: I hope that there are opportunities to preach and do biblical storytelling in the future, but not yet. There is no desire in me to jump up and wrest a pulpit or church from anyone or take back my retirement decision. Truly. That said though, not sure what is going on with my tear ducts. The tears are real. As I walked upstairs from Sunday School to the sanctuary for worship this morning, I uttered a prayer that I have used several times through my life as a pastor, ‘Dear God, please do not let me cry here, now. ‘ The tear ducts are just part of the ponderous question, who am I now? And it is okay.

Picture of a woman standing on the beach, looking out at the wat er.
Photo by Donna Vaux ~ saying goodbye to one of my favorite places before returning home October 2021

Time: Time is a gift to be sure and I am enjoying it. In the year leading up to my retirement I rediscovered a love of cooking and a passion for making bread. That rediscovery is something that helped me feel confident about retiring; there could be creativity and fulfilment on the other side of the pulpit, on the other side of ministry. Also, more time for writing and making progress on the book. There certainly are other, more personal benefits to the time retirement gives. But this is a process. Not two weeks old, but this retirement still feels more like a vacation, in which I remind myself, no, you do not have to switch gears to prepare a sermon or a report, or plan worship, go to a meeting, lead a meeting, etc. Keep writing, keep going, breathe, rest and do meaningful things.

Surprise number 4: Six weeks later. By week three and four the tears did not come as often, but they still come now and then. I still did not lose the sense of being on vacation, feeling somewhat lazy because I was not living into my too long set task-oriented behavior. It was hard to overcome the sense of “Isn’t there something I should be doing?” I am grateful for so many things, but still trying to process it all. I hope my friends will forgive me when I make a comment and their response is, “well you are retired!” I know they mean well, but I do not find it that simple, or helpful, and it feels dismissive. Maybe it is supposed to be, not in a rude way, but retirement is not the same thing for everyone, maybe it is just too personal, like grief. I am still struggling, still processing. I am embarrassed to say that I never did get that “work-life’ balance thing but was more of an unintentional workaholic. Now I am trying to get the “retirement-life” balance thing.

And figuring out my place in church as a retired pastor, that is a whole other struggle. Maybe I will just talk about that in my next post. It connects to everything I have said here, some of it may be unique to my denomination. It is not so much about identity as it is other things.

Surprise number 5

My husband likes to burn wood, one can never have too much you know. But our yard is uneven, and I am gimpy with three joint replacements now to my credit. So shortly after I retired, I asked if he could move the fire pit closer to the patio so I could sit in my favorite chair on the patio and enjoy the fire. It has become my favorite after supper activity, as soon as possible to take a drink and a book and sit on the patio, with or without a fire. It is soothing, healing and a great kindness on his part. I just have to sit there and enjoy it; he works hard at tending it. Who knew? He did, of course, but I never really took the time. Sitting on the patio, watching the fire, reading and thinking, stoking the embers of memory.

A basket of pink and white flours sitting on top of a bookcase.
A gift from the church on my last day as their pastor.

Not “recalculating” but processing – hopes, dreams, tears, reality, needs, desires and

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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The Bread Journal, Towards Daily Bread

It is my husband’s fault! (I can’t blame everything on my mother!) Seriously, it is his fault, but it is a good thing. Our computers are not in the same room, although it might not make any difference. He sends me recipes to my Facebook page, a practice that some people find really funny. But I think it is sweet; he sends me recipes he thinks might interest me, or that he thinks sound good, or that he would like. My task is to discern which category they fall into. When the same recipe appears more than two or three times over a given season, I conclude either that he has forgotten that he sent it before, or that he is hinting. Sweet, thoughtful and funny. Some days the recipes appear, not through social media, but an open magazine or newspaper section left at my place at the table.


A little over a year ago, he left me a magazine open to an article about making sourdough starter, to make sourdough bread. The instructions called for using compressed yeast, which is difficult to find, but not impossible. I had given up making any kind of bread years ago, just had not had much success, and found rolls much easier to make and enjoy. I made rolls a lot, but that is a story for a different day. For those who do not know, yeast is in the air, so it is possible to ‘capture’ it to make sourdough, but this seemed much easier. I didn’t have to capture or trap the yeast, though I did not realize at the time, that would have been a faster process than finding a store within fifty miles of our town that sold compressed yeast. Before I leave this thought, picture a cartoon character, sneaking quietly around your house or yard, on tip toe, with a butterfly net behind his back and a Mason Jar in one hand, and the lid in the other, ready to snatch the wild yeast out of the air and take it home.

This loaf might be my first sourdough loaf, but I am not sure. I do know that it was early in my breadmaking journey


The short version of that story is that when I finally found compressed yeast I bought it, took it home followed the directions and had sourdough starter, and not long after that, a beautiful, wonderful, amazing loaf of sourdough bread. It came out so much better than any loaf I had ever made, that I decided to do it again and again and again. I had tried jumping on the sourdough bandwagon the year before when stores were unable to keep bread on the shelves, and much to my surprise there was little flour left either. But my attempts at sourdough quickly failed, and my attention and energy needed to be on other things.

Back to 2022 and the recipe from my husband, I quickly began to collect sourdough recipes and recipes for sourdough discard, and I made biscuits and hamburger buns, regular sourdough loaf bread and wholewheat sourdough bread, and waffles, to name a few things, but my knowledge lagged behind. Understanding the process of feeding the starter and discarding, and when to do what…

Sourdough Starter in a half gallon jar

Additionally, as I was just venturing into making bread, I could not make sourdough bread, and other bread at the same time. I may eat bread daily but cannot take the time to make bread daily. So, once again I set sourdough aside. When my starter appeared to not be working, I just did not make any new starter. But I did not stop making bread.


I used my newfound bread making confidence to experiment with other recipes. Like a kid in a candy store, so many things looked good. I started to print and accumulate recipes. My bread folder soon expanded to the largest folder of recipes in my collection (stash, accumulation, limitless acquisition?) No need to buy more cookbooks, when there are so many recipes available online.

An early whole wheat bread slice, dense, tart and not photo worthy. I used it for sandwiches or snacks with marmalade to kill the taste until it was all gone.


I ate everything I made, regardless of the outcome. Mind you, I did not throw any bread out, so I ate some bread that was, well, dense, and tart, but I ate it, even when I could not find an appropriate jam or jelly to help kill the taste. When it turned out well, I took pictures and as my confidence grew I began to share the bread with polite friends.
I called a senior saint I know and asked her if I could stop by. “Do you believe the adage, ‘half a loaf is better than none?’ I asked her. She said, ‘yes.” “Good,” I said, “I brought you half a loaf of bread.!” She was polite and encouraging and has been a willing taste tester ever since; a willingness I am careful to not abuse. She is an excellent cook, and for a time worked in a school kitchen, at 95 she is town, maybe county famous for her cooking, especially her mini-meat loaves.

Another early attempt at whole wheat bread. Not pretty, but not as tart as the slice above.

None of those were failures, they were edible and they were a learning curve. Even today, not every loaf comes out picture perfect, but I have come a long way. Sometimes I rush, or start too late in the day, but overall, learning to make bread and feeling competent at a variety of breads has been a source of joy. I want my bread to be edible, and gift-able. I have several favorite recipes, but more bread stories too.

This one is a work in progress; a cinnamon raisin loaf from you guessed it, King Arthur Flours. It looks like it is making a face, or I may just be loopy-tired.

Cinnamon Raisin Bread: write your own caption
Molasses Whole Wheat Bread

Before that however, I had begun in earnest to eat my own bread. As I said, regardless of outcome. Those who follow my blog know that I have lost a lot of weight (see my #Stronger Than the Cookie posts). So, while I was happy to eat my own bread, it was important to also calculate carbohydrates and calories. Every loaf had to be weighed before it could be sliced, for as close to an accurate count as possible.
I have continued to maintain my 55-pound weight loss, but it means being careful of the amount of bread I consume. Sometimes I get carried away, I am only human and warm, fresh bread is tempting. I usually let it cool, and when I don’t, I don’t always go for butter or jam, just want to savor the taste of the bread, the texture of the crumb, the crunchiness of the crust. Yum. But then, oh yes, butter melting into warm bread is also a taste and texture to be savored.

This is one of my favorite breads, a Vermont Honey Oatmeal Whole What recipe from King Arthur Flours, I will say more about my favorite sources that I have leaned on in the last year, in my next post about making bread.

Vermont Honey Oatmeal Whole Wheat recipe by King Arthur Flours


Following the practice of much younger friends on social media, I often post pictures of the food I have made, especially the breads, but sometimes other things as well. I did not realize how often I did this until I had to go scrolling through my social media posts and pictures to look for a picture to use for a profile picture for a new account and had a hard time finding a picture of myself that was current. If “you are what you eat’ I could have chosen any of a few dozen pictures of bread. As it is, there are more pictures of flowers and flours than of me.

Japanese Milk Bread recipe from King Arthur Flour

The Milk bread in the picture above is really good, but it is one I want to work on. I can never manage to get the sections rolled to the suggested dimensions as neatly as the instructions say, but even or not the sections, roll, fit, rise and yum.

Some fun for Easter Morning for the Sunrise Service and a regular loaf of bread for Communion
Not by Bread Alone: A loaf for Commuioin for Easter Sunday

If I have to spell it out, or haven’t said this in so many words, I have come to love making bread. It is tactile, transformative and some would say spiritual. Depending on your philosophy or spiritual inclinations, a variety of descriptions might apply. I am in the camp of those who consider bread making a spiritual practice. It is something I want to grow into. Perhaps it is the meditative quality, or capacity of the act of kneading dough, participating in the transformation of flour, salt, yeast and water, the basic elements into something that is life giving. I long to enter into that more fully, but at this stage of breadmaking and breadmaking as a spiritual practice my prayer is very simple. “Dear God, please do not let me mess this up!”


I have been wanting to do this as a series for a long time, but it has taken over a year to start. Hopefully, though in that year my bread making skills have grown, and my desire to get better and keep going are unwavering. #cookssayitwithflours #dailybread #notbybreadalone

More to come!


Not holding back the tide,
Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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My Grandmother’s Wicker Chair

Just when I think I have exhausted all the stories from home in Onset, a new story/old memory pops into my head. That is what happened with this story. I just re-did my “pastor’s study” into a different kind of room. Out with the old…

Picture of books and other items on bookshelves,
Bookshelves where my vintage oak desk was.
Picture of a lamp on a small end table. There is a coffee mug with pens, a notebook and picture frame with family photos
One of my favorite additions to my new space

The empty space next to the end table is where the recliner was supposed to go. Perfect spot for resting and reflecting; eclectic and homey. The only real new furniture in the room is the bookshelves, which are exactly what I had envisioned, and would not be enjoying if my husband had not been good enough to put together. Seriously, don’t blame me for being helpless. Let me put together a meal, a celebration, a basket of breads, but when it comes to putting together things with multiple parts, requiring screws, nuts and possibly swear words, let me “leave well enough alone. ‘ Thank you honey!

Here is my new writing desk, with carefully selected mementos. I freely admit this space is not quite as neat now as in the picture.

picture of a folding table with a lamp, and a laptopcomputer and some small stuffed animals.

The wall hanging from the quilt group at the church I served, is on the wall. The dog’s crate has been moved from the kitchen, into my room. The old heavy wooden desk and metal filing cabinet and particle board bookcases are all gone, creating a much friendlier space.

 There remains however a stack, a BLOB of canvas bags and boxes of stuff that covered and filled my desk along, with files, papers, mementos and other things that I’m not sure where to put. (No pictures, I have my pride.) Bu,t I did not get all the work done before having shoulder replacement surgery two weeks ago, so final sorting, circular filing has to wait.

picture of a wall hanging and a dog crate
Small space to be sure, but I prefer to think of it as cozy!

So back to the recliner, my original intent. I had gone to the furniture store and given the recliners that looked interesting the sit test I found one I thought was reasonable. I took a picture and just left it on my phone. My hope was that I would have enough saved up that I could just buy the chair before I was actually retired, but that did not happen. That is okay, I’m a grown up. I still wanted a chair that I could put in that spot that would be conducive to reading, thinking, praying and again something that was not a desk chair sitting in front of my laptop. Trying to be practical, I chose a Plan B chair.

picture of a white wicker chair on a porch

I grabbed a white Wicker chair from our porch that had been left by the previous homeowner. That chair was special in its own right. The woman who owned this house for 65 years was famous in her later years for sitting in that chair on the porch watching this small-town world of our community go by and there was a lot to see. She watched students and school buses, football players and marching bands, neighbors and parents, people coming to community meetings and sporting events and yes concerts of many kinds. I was glad to have inherited her chair and as a way of honoring her, I bought a second white Wicker chair to put it on the front porch. There was no way to match it identically, but they were both white wicker, and welcoming.

I got some I got some new cushions to put on the chair and grabbed a very special quilt to drape over the chair to make it more comfortable for me. I picked up the chair, brought it into my new room setting it next to an end table with a lamp, some family pictures, my Bible and prayer journal. It was at the moment that I remembered my grandmother’s Wicker chair.

My grandmother was widowed the year I was born. She had 13 children, maybe 14. She came to this country in 1899 from Portugal she married in 1903. My grandfather was a caretaker on an estate in our in our hometown. At some point he built their house on the edge of the grounds of the estate. There were approximately 12 rooms, although that may not have been the original number of rooms. Sometime after my grandfather passed away my parents bought the house where my grandmother lived. They had it remodeled into four separate apartments two apartments on the 1st floor one of which was my grandmother’s and two apartments on the second floor one of which eventually became my first apartment but that’s another story.

There was one bathroom on each floor to be shared by the apartment dwellers. My father bought the house so that my grandmother would always have a place to live as long as she lived, and no one would be able to put her out of her own house. It may have seemed self-serving to some family members because there were apartments that were rented. But I have no memory of the apartment being filled all the time and in many ways, it was probably safer for grandma she did not have to go upstairs. Her apartment was on the first floor and consisted simply of a bedroom a living room and a kitchen and of course the shared bathroom.

I stayed with my grandmother countless times in my early youth. When I stayed with her in the beginning I was probably as young as four years old, or younger. When I was a child we did not know how old she was, but she always seemed to be very old. Grandma was slightly bent over, she was short and when she walked she made sounds rather than words, that gave the impression that her movements were painful.

Grandma had long gray hair that she put up in a bun during the day and brushed out at night. Her furniture was modest and probably typical for the time There was a dresser with a mirror and space for her to sit to brush her hair there was a double bed and a nightstand there was no closet, but her room held a metal wardrobe for her clothes.

The furniture in her living room was equally modest. There was a day bed for a couch, with bolster cushions on it. My mother probably made the cover, but not necessarily; it was her style though in the 1950s and 60s and beyond. There was a black and white television in the corner there might have been a dresser outside the bathroom there was a brown Wicker chair with flower print cover cushions. There might have been a second Wicker chair memory does not serve me well.

Grandma would sit in her chair in the afternoon and watch “her stories,” the soaps. There were times she would be heard to say about one of the male characters and whatever soap opera she was watching, “Oh him no good, him bashta.”  My father, one of her sons, was a sailor, so I what is used to strong language. I never heard Portuguese spoken at home only at my grandmother’s I never learned it. Somehow, I assumed that when she said someone was “a bashta” she meant that their parents were not married.

Grandma would sit there with a colander in her lap and a bowl and maybe a paring knife and she would be snapping beans, paring and slicing carrots, or doing some other meal preparation. I loved spending time with her. I loved hearing the sound of her voice, her thick accent and her broken English gave me a love for the sound of all languages.

Picture of an old woman sitting on a chair with a young girl holding a doll.
Grandma and me and a friend, in our living room in Onset. circa 1954

When it was time for bed, she would sit with me while I said my prayers, and then walk across the room pull and tug on her wicker chair, push it up against the day bed to function like the siderails on a bed, to keep me from falling out. I hope I never forget that. Safe. Loved. Cherished.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

All photographs property of the author

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The Reunion

A Short Story from The Beach Girl Chronicles

The woman opened the door to the reception hall and glanced around the room. People had already begun arriving, some were hugging, others stood in small groups, talking and laughing. Some were still at the registration table, getting gift packs, filling out name tags, pulling the tags from the adhesive backing and placing them on their clothes. Many of those who had gathered for this occasion, came only sporadically and did not recognize each other. As the woman stood in the doorway, before entering the room, she asked herself, “Who are all these old people? And why am I here?”

One of the reunion organizers stood at a podium with a microphone and addressed the crowd. She had perfect white hair, with just a hint of gray showing through, as though it had been intentionally frosted. Her hair was cut in a page boy cut with her bangs, brushed to one side of her forehead. She looked as though she had just stepped out of a tanning booth. She wore too many rings, or so it seemed to the woman entering the room. The hostess called the room to attention to welcome them. “Welcome to the class of 1968,” she said. You might have noticed that place cards on the tables and the empty places at each table. Your seats have been specially chosen for you, as have the empty places near your chairs. Members of the class of 2023 will be joining us at the table. This is a special project, and the guidance department of our alma mater has asked us for our full participation. The reunion committee felt certain that you would want to do anything possible to support these young people in their endeavor, and so we agreed on your behalf.

There was an air of excitement, mixed with hesitation. Fifty plus years after graduation, this group was unaccustomed to assigned seats or humoring the high school guidance counselors. Still, it might be interesting to see who would come and sit in those empty spaces and what the result might be. The wait staff, dressed in black slacks, white dress shirts and black bow ties, moved discretely and quietly around the room, placing water pitchers, bread baskets and salad dressing on each table, as the guests found their names and seated themselves.

Music from the 1960’s played quietly in the background. Now and again a few voices would chime in and sing along with the songs. The woman looked around the room once more before taking her seat. The table service was simple flat ware, almost unattractive, which she supposed was intentional; to discourage stealing. There was nothing about the table service that screamed “reunion souvenir.” White cloths covered the tables and were adorned with Milk Glass vases and yellow football mums. Dark blue and light blue cloth napkins were folded and tented alternately at each place.

As she sat, a waiter approached her and asked if she would like a drink. At the same time a young woman approached her. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, a bit shyly. She appeared to be about seventeen. She was a little plump, with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She looked at the woman hesitantly waiting for her reply before sitting. The woman looked up at her, caught off guard for a moment and answered, “What?” and then, “no, I think it was meant just for you. Please join me.” She offered her hand to the young woman after she sat and said, “my name is Mrs.,” and then she started over, “My name is Anne; and you are?” she asked the young girl. “My friend’s call me Maggie.”

“Well, Maggie, it is nice to meet you. This is an unexpected pleasure. Where would you like to begin? Do you want to tell me about this project?”

Maggie laughed, lightly. ‘Well, some of the students have joked that this is a cake course in etiquette. And I suppose it could be that.”

“A cake course?” the woman interrupted.

“No, not a ‘cake course, exactly,’ more of an exercise in social graces. But I think it is something much deeper than that.” As the young woman said this, she fiddled with a folded piece of paper that she had pulled from the pocket of her slacks.

“What do you have there?” the older woman asked her.

The younger woman smiled ruefully, and said, “a cheat sheet in case we get stuck.”

“Do you mind a suggestion,” the woman asked her? but she did not wait for an answer. “Just ask me what you want to ask, or tell me about yourself, don’t worry about the list. If this is meant to be a conversation, let’s converse.

Maggie looked relieved. She picked up the glass of ice water and took a long sip. It was soothing, and as Anne suggested, she jumped right in.

“So,” she began, “I understand this is a significant reunion, number wise. Not many classes continue meeting for 55 years. Have you come to every reunion?”

“To tell you the truth, Maggie, this is my first reunion in 54 years. I moved away from home, and lost touch. There really was not anyone I was close enough to make me want to make the trip, and there were, let’s just say, “complicating realities” that got in the way of a long trip. But a few years ago, I reconnected with some of my classmates and was able to gather with a small group of them at a local restaurant. What I thought would be “once and done” turned out to be one of the great joys of my life. and I have found my classmates to be a group of caring, interesting individuals. As a result, I have made new friends from old acquaintances, and look forward to opportunities to get together with them.”

Maggie looked at Anne for a moment and said, “Wow, I wonder if I will ever come to feel that way about my classmates?” Then she said, “Do you mind if we move on? What was your favorite part of school, high school especially?”

Anne responded quickly, ‘that is an easy question with an easy answer. “Chorus!” Concert Choir, Mixed Choir.’ It was the best thing in my life.”

Maggie responded, “Yes! Music! Singing! me too.” Then she asked her new friend shyly, “Do you ever…ever want to just break out in song?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Anne asked, and then she did; but she stopped herself as soon as the first notes were out. ‘I am sorry, Maggie. I did not mean to embarrass you.”

But Maggie reassured her, “I loved it. I do it too. Well, maybe not in a dining room, but in the car, in chapel when no one else is there, in the shower, really, anywhere I can.”

“Walking the dog,” Anne interjected. “She doesn’t mind if I sing.”

Maggie asked, ‘Are you a musician then?

Anne suppressed a laugh, “Oh no. I write, I am a teacher and volunteer chaplain. What about you, Maggie. What is next for you? College? What are your plans?”

Maggie looked around the room before answering. Everywhere she looked people were engaged in conversations. “I have wanted to be a nurse, ever since I was 10 years old. I had an operation, and the nurses were so kind, and really good at their work. I started reading nursing stories, some fiction, some true stories. I want to make a difference,” she said solemnly. “Even if this sounds a little vague. But, there is a program at the University that I am interested in, too.”

“Have you started applying to schools yet? the woman asked the girl.

“Yes,” she replied. “Two different schools, two different programs. I have been accepted at both.” She beamed.

“So,” Anne said to the younger woman, “Now you have to decide.”

“Yes,” she answered cautiously, “now I have to decide.”

“Do you feel drawn to one more than the other?” Anne asked her.

“Well, you see that is the flaw in my plan. My plan was that I would apply to both and whichever one accepted me, that is the road I would take. But they both accepted me and now…”

“Do you have a ‘Plan B’ ?” the woman asked the girl.

“You see,” she answered, that is just the problem. That was my Plan B.”

Anne asked the girl, “Would you accept some unsolicited advice from a stranger?” And then she added, “I once dated a young man who was fond of saying ‘Unsolicited for advice is worth exactly what you pay for it.”

“Go ahead Anne, I will consider it. What do you suggest?”

Anne said, “Think about your gifts, your passions, talents, whatever you want to call them. What is the strongest pull on your heart? And be fearless, but also discerning. Have a Plan C, and a Plan D, if need be. Give yourself options. I am not saying that your plan will not work out, but what if when you get into the hospital, you decide that nursing really isn’t for you? If you leave in the middle of a semester, you have to have a plan for what you will do for the interim. “

Maggie said to the woman, ‘Sounds like the voice of experience.”

“Anne said, “that transparent, eh?”

Maggie glanced again at the folded paper in her hands and asked the woman, “Did you know what you wanted to do with your life when you were my age?”

“Get married,” she answered quickly. “My best friend and I fought about it a lot. He knew I should go to school, preferably college and get a degree and be able to be independent. I thought all I needed was to be married. Not to him, we were just friends. We were good enough friends that he never held back, but I did not listen. I was the first person in my immediate family to graduate from high school. I took the college prep classes, but my imagination did not extend as far as college.”

They continued talking, looking up now and then in response to the wait staff bustling around the room. The hostess stepped to the microphone to announce a five minute warning. The women looked at each other.

“Guess we have to wrap it up, this has gone fast. One important question for you, any regrets?” the student asked the woman.

“No and yes,” she chuckled. “That sounds definitive, doesn’t it? No, because of my children, and yes, because the marriage did not last. Eventually, I found my own Plan B, C and a few other plans, or options as well. I was able to go back to school many years after graduation. I discovered that I loved learning, and I love teaching.”

“I guess that you are good advertisement for Plan B, no change that to, ‘a Trustworthy representative of the Plan B model of life.’ So, if I were to ask you for one piece of ‘solicited’ advice, what would it be?”

Anne looked at the young woman for a long moment, before speaking. “Be yourself, and as part of being yourself, do not let others put you down.”

Maggie laughed appreciatively, “Easier to say than to do, but thank you. I will really try. Being myself is easy, the other part will take work.”

Anne simply nodded at the young woman and then asked, “I take it you do not get to stay to enjoy the meal?”

Maggie shook her head apologetically, as she rose to her feet. She pushed her chair into the table and stood for a moment, with her hands on the back of the chair, and looked at the woman. “No,” she said, “They want us to reflect on the conversations while they are still fresh in our minds, to give us time to process any learnings or insights. ” Then, looking the woman in the eyes, she asked, “Could I return the favor and offer you some “unsolicited advice?”

Anne looked at the student, with anticipation. “Fair is fair,” she said.

Maggie plunged ahead, ‘Forgive yourself. Forgive yourself for any failed plans or unmet expectations, real or perceived failures on your part. And forgive those who have hurt you. Not for their sake but for yours.”

Startled by the words and wisdom of the young woman, Anne looked up to say something, but she was gone. Lost in the group of students, leaving the ballroom, leaving Anne to her own thoughts.

Author’s Note: Have you ever wondered what it might be like if your present self could have a conversation with yourself as a High School Senior? What might you say? What would you want to know? What do you think?

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Update, August 2023. I wrote this story at my husband’s most recent high school reunion last year and am getting ready to attend my first and last (55th) high school reunion in a few weeks, so thought I would republish this. Hope you enjoy it.

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A Retired Pastor’s Heart

I specifically said “a” retired pastor’s heart, not “the” because as I wrote in my first post about my retirement, I know that I cannot speak for all retirees everywhere, or even all retired clergy; all I can do is tell my own story, seek wisdom and express gratitude.

For every person who retires, whether professional or not, there are likely some parts of their work they will miss, some parts of their work they are happy to leave behind and things they look forward to doing and seeing. I think too, that some people whose entire life was their work, and they have no hobbies or interests to carry them, that they have particular challenges the rest of us may not understand. That struggle is real, and sometimes leads to shortened lives.

I enjoy the pictures and reports from family, friends and neighbors who spend their retirement traveling, and I know (of) some bloggers who happily chose the Nomad’s life while still earning a living. Check out my friend Liesbet’s blog Roaming About: A Life Less Ordinary, at www.roamingabout.com

I have written about my struggle to let go and retire, the preparation once the decision was made, the tears and downsizing, and I will probably continue to do that as I process the change wrought in our lives by this important decision. I am a process person and blogging, writing can be a great way to do that.

I am an academia nut, no that is not a typo. I have a scholar’s heart and while I may not be heady, enough to self-describe as a “nerd” or “geek, or have the requisite degrees (Doctor of Ministry, yes; PhD, no) I am grateful for John Wesley’s emphasis on the importance of an educated clergy. Preaching, teaching, spiritual direction and leading worship are disciplines that are a combination of spiritual, emotional and theological study and reflection, all wrapped up in a ribbon called prayer, or if you will, the spiritual life. From the earliest days of claiming my Christian faith, reading scripture was in invitation to a deeper relationship with God; an invitation to wondering. questioning and searching.

This in part was my Aunt Millie’s fault. I visited her during a particularly rough time in my life (I was recently married, moved to another state and then learned my father had terminal cancer). I remember Aunt Millie reading to me and saying, “Listen to this, Michele; isn’t it wonderful?” As she read to me the amazing words from Isaiah 43:1b “Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name, you are mine.” (New Revised Standard Version) It set the stage for a lifelong response to the Bible. Read it, close the cover, walk away, but keep reflecting, ruminating and wondering. That very act was the impetus for my call to preach and my call to ministry. To have the boldness to say to others, Listen to this! What do you hear? What do you think? How do you respond? What challenges does this passage of Scripture present for you?

Pictrure of the author in a white clergy robe with a red and gold stole.
Photo by Donna Wilson, Susquehanna Annual Conference 2022

It is a part of me I am not sure what to do with because it is so connected to my prayer life, to my spiritual life, to my identity, that it does not fit neatly into a box. My burning question is this: what do I do with “her?” Not something to pack away with old photographs, to take to a donation center and say “Here, maybe somebody will want this/these.” Nor do I want to “take back” retirement and keep going. But because study, prayer, reflection, teaching and preaching have become a way of life, it is the second most difficult aspect of my retired pastor’s heart.

This reflection on retirement is more about the spiritual life than the tangible one. It is not so much what do I do with my stuff, (books, papers and all that jazz) as it is, what do I do with me? As I get back into regular writing on my blog and get deeper into my retirement, it may be that I will make some changes to my blog that will need defining; here is what I mean. I want to continue the “memoir” portion, the #strongerthanthecookie posts, the Beach Girl posts, the Jack and Maggie stories and the Union Villa stories (Just when I think there are no more, another memory pops up), and bread baking posts too. But there is another side to me that has only occasionally spoken in the blog, and I want to find ways to let that happen more often, without overtaking memoir – to let her speak. I need to find a way to give readers a “heads up” in the title or subtitle, so that if they are not interested in such things, they can keep on moving, without abandoning the memoir posts.

Picture of a table in a corner with a lamp, phicture frame, cup with pens and journal on a multi-colored woven cloth.
Reclaiming Office Space to Reflection Space, a work in progress

I am not a (good) evangelist, not interested in hitting anyone on the head with a Bible and definitely not interested in arguing about the Bible specifically or about God generally. If that is what you want, then move on. But maybe the best thing that I can do for “her’ is to let her out more often, to find a way to let The Beach Girl share the space of memoir and faith. There may be occasional opportunities to preach, and I welcome them. But some thoughts that could be sermons, could also find their way into a series of blog posts. You could argue it is a cheating way to have a sermon at the ready. So now, as I read scripture, study and reflect is there might there be room for some of those reflections here?

Picture of the author in a blue flowerd dress with a blue sweater, she is standing in a church parlor.
Photo by Pastor Jennifer Jones

There are many people who receive these posts and I do not know who they are, who you are, but there are also several people that I have had blog conversations with, you know who you are. I would certainly welcome your thoughts and suggestions. It is not as though I do not have hobbies (wait until I start posting blogs about bread) or things we want to do. It is this one piece of myself, of my life that I question about where she belongs. I would rather not manage two separate blogs. Thank you in advance.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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One Hundred Pounds of Flour for My One Hundredth Blog Post

The flour came in 100-pound bags and was stored in in the kitchen in a wooden barrel that was covered with a metal lid. It was measured in a large, graduated metal measuring cup that had a lip for pouring and a handle. The flour was poured into a stainless steel mixing bowl. We added salt and then after mixing that into the flour, made a well in the center of the flour for the yeast, water and oil to be added. The yeast was compressed in one-pound blocks, that would make you think of clay. We sliced an inch thick slab of it, crumbled into the well of flour. Then the water, and yeast were left undisturbed, until it was apparent that the yeast was working and bubbles appeared; then it got messy. This dough was mixed by hand, not machine. it is how I learned that when making pizza dough by hand, or any other kind of dough, you never wanted to put in both hands. How would you answer the phone when it rang, or discretely scratch your nose when it itched? (not over the bowl of course!)

So, you put one hand into the warm water and began to squeeze the yeast between your fingers, mixing it in to the water. This action might have seemed strange to me, had it not been for my mother’s stories about my grandmother Marcellino creaming butter and sugar with her hands when she made cakes, not with a spoon or mixer. It was like mixing up a mud pie, but with your hand instead of a stick, and this concoction would be edible. When the yeast was dissolved and mixed into the water, you began to pull some of the flour from the edge of the well of flour and carefully mix that in, gently squeezing the mixture, and adding more until all of the was flour moistened and mixed in.

Two baked pizzas sitting in the kitchen, one on a cutting board, the other on a well used cookie sheet.

If the phone didn’t ring and your nose did not itch, it was good to have one clean hand available anyway, so that when the dough was completely mixed in, you could use the edge of a knife to scrape the dough from your fingers and hand you used to mix. Then, and only then would you flour both hands, so that you could knead the dough until it was soft, pliable and a bit bouncy. Then you let it rest and rise until it doubled in bulk.

Somehow, the rumor got started that kneading all that dough would help increase one’s bustline. It did not; but it was not unusual for the guys at the bar to say to me, “Why don’t you go and knead some pizza dough?” Wholly inappropriate, I know, but this was the 1960’s, and it was a bar. My dad had been a boxer in his youth (teens, twenties?) and a union rabble rouser later than that. Although he was in his 50’s when we lived at the Union Villa, and not exactly in the best shape, he could move fast when there was trouble, and did not put up with any nonsense at the bar. I was safe, they were trying to be funny.

A bowl with risen bread dough.
Okay, so this is bread dough, not dough for 36 pizzas, but you get the idea.

After the dough had risen, and punched down, it was divided into eight ounce rounds of dough, and set in the drawer of an old dresser lined with freezer paper to await it’s turn. When dad called through the window from the bar into the kitchen, “3 plain pizza’s to go for plaid shirt….” It was ready to be rolled. It was hot work, a large brick lined pizza oven set at 500 degrees, stood in the corner. There was little ventilation, just a screen door and an exhaust fan. The sounds of country music and laughter, beer bottles and glasses clinking, and the smoke from the bar all filtered into the kitchen.

Sitting here writing about it now, lots of sounds and pictures come to mind. The heavy duty can opener on the edge of the table, the pizza boxes stacked up (somewhere), stainless steel soup ladles for the pizza sauce and spaghetti sauce. Containers of freshly sliced or chopped vegetables and Italian sausage for toppings. Forty pound blocks of cheese to be sliced into large chunks and fed into the grinder. It was labor intensive, but everything was made fresh and nothing was prepackaged.

While my mother was the primary pizza dough maker, I learned early on how to make it, and how to be a help. While I don’t think it was a secret recipe, I am not sure that any of the helpers made the dough. I met a local businessman and restaurant owner last fall when I was in Onset and when I was introduced as Jack’s daughter, he said, “Jack made really good pizza.” I did not tell him that Jack made the spaghetti sauce and could rustle up an order of spaghetti and meatballs when needed, he did not make the pizza. It was a moot point, and I did like hearing that he thought the pizzas were good.

Fast forward ten or twelve years, my (now) ex-husband was sent to Rota, Spain and I joined him after our son was born. While I hesitate to call pizza junk food, I could still hapily eat pizza once a week, it was the only American “junk food” we could not get on the base. So, I began to make my own pizza. I continued to make it through the years and there was a point where I made it almost once a week when the kids were in their teens. I wish I had my mother’s recipe from the Union Villa, though the recipes were part of the business deal and what would I do with enough pizza dough for thirty-six pizzas?

Picture of a pizza fresh from the oven.
Home made

My children are in their 40’s, now, and are long gone from our house; now, I make pizza only occasionally. My husband swears that after the kids were gone, I only made pizza when we had company, and that might indeed be true. I try to be more conscientious about making it for just us, but pizza is a high carbohydrate food, especially thick crust pizza. For a while I settled for getting frozen pizzas, good for a quick supper.

Once I started making a lot of bread though, I also got hungry for my own pizza. Homemade pizza is not a quick meal, but it is oh so good. And all those years of making pizza dough prepared the way for making rolls and finally making bread. So, it seems that the roots of my breadmaking are in the old kitchen and the Union Villa and that huge barrel of flour. Not unlike making cranberry bread (See https://michelesomerville.blog/2020/01/07/the-cranberry-bread-ritual/) making pizza is another way my kitchen smells like home. The subtle scent of yeast, the aroma of pizza baking in the oven; they are edible sentimental journeys home.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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The Photograph

I have never been one to document my life with a camera, especially my early life and early married life. Like my sense of humor, and my love of cooking, this too is something I might be inclined to blame on my mother. She must have taken pictures. I do not remember her with a camera in her hands, but I remember the old Brownie Camera, and maybe the other one before that. There is photographic evidence that she took pictures, I have a lot of picture booklets from the 1950’s. When she died, my brother and I went through her pictures, and divided the family pictures so that we each had half.

My brother enlisted in the Navy in the fall of 1961, just before my dad retired from the Merchant Marine. My parents had bought the Union Villa and we moved into the apartment at the hotel in March 1962. There are very few pictures of that time period. Maybe that is one reason I have written so much about it, to set memories down in word pictures, where no other form exists. There are precious few pictures of any of us at the Union Villa, there might be a total of ten. Readers who have followed my blog have seen the best of them, and I have repeated them here. The pictures of my parents behind the bar are 1960’s poloroid pictures that are framed in an inexpensive plexiglass frame. I am afraid to try to remove them for fear they would totally fall apart.

A faded picture of a man and woman behind a bar and a second one showing them with customers.
The only pictures of my parents together at the Union Villa

I don’t think I realized just how few pictures of that time exist until I started writing my blog at the end of 2019, and the series of Jack and Maggie/Union Villa stories. There is a picture of me in my cap and gown taken in the pool room I wasn’t able to get a good enough copy to post. There is the picture of me on the steps outside on graduation day, June 5, 1968.

Picture of a young woman on graduation day. She is wearing white shoes and a white cap and gown.
Graduation Day, June 5, 1968

One of the things that has made me sad since I started writing The Beach Girl Chronicles was the reality of a missing picture of my dad. With the passage of time I have come to realize that it is the only other picture of my dad from that time period. I knew it had been in my possession in recent years, but we moved to our retirement home four years ago. I knew with a certainty I had not thrown it out. I knew that no one else would have done that either. I am not the most organized person on two feet or the neatest, so I did that very human thing of looking in the same places over and over and over again. you know that fits the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing multiple times and expecting different results?

Picture of a woman and a teen age girl, the author.
Mom and me, circa 1966? Me in a tent dress in front of the Union Villa. The waters of Onset Beach in the background.

I have manilla envelopes filled with pictures that were never framed, family pictures from the 1950’s. They are mixed in with cards, cards from my husband, a few cards from my mom. I have the only postcard my dad ever sent me from a trip. It is a picture of the Taj Majal. But no picture of dad.

In the picture, I had misplaced, he was standing outside in front of the Union Villa. There is a young woman with him, I think her name was Linda, but I am not sure. Her husband Billy worked for my mom in the kitchen, and they rented one of the cottages my parents owned. He was in the Air Force and worked part time with my mom. Both my parents thought highly of this young couple and hence the picture.

Picture of two women and two children in front of some cottages and a picnic table in the background.
Two of Eight Cottages ~”Marcellino’s Real Estate . According to my brother they were built by my dad, Russell Simcock and Henry Gill

It is not that I do not like pictures or value them, but i have never been much of a picture taker, or had any set tradition to care for them after they were taken. No photo albums organized and titled, or scrap books. Sometimes filling up a roll of film and never getting it developed, getting pictures and not putting them in albums. Maybe some of it was a lack of confidence, or competence. Sometime in our 30’s, my best friend handed me her camera, and asked me to take a picture. “It is foolproof” she said. Apparently not! She loves me though, because she didn’t say it was “Idiot proof.” Which is good, because it wasn’t that either. She was disappointed, but we are still friends.

Picture of a young man in a sailor suit.
Dad, about 19 in the U.S. Navy circa 1929

I am grateful for the pictures I have of my parents, the picture a cousin found of my dad in his Navy uniform, he was probably 19 at the time and it is the youngest picture of him I have ever seen. It has only come to me in the last four years. I appreciate the pictures I have of my parents on their wedding day (at least that is what I think that picture is), honeymoon pictures, pictures of my dad with his parents and I love them all. But here is the thing. As wonderful as the pictures are, and they certainly have meaning for me. But they are not pictures of the father I remember, the man I knew, they were “Before my time.”

Picture of a man and woman on their wedding day. The picture is black and white She is wearing a street dress and a big hat, the man is in a suite and tie.
Honeymoon Visit to Onset

Every now and then I would go searching through all of the possible hiding places, or storage places where that picture could have gotten lodged in a crevice somewhere, stuck to another picture, but still had the same result. Nothing, nadda, zip, zilch, well, tears. How could I have lost that picture?

A color picture of a painting, of a woman the author's mother.
Mom, painted from a photograph

Today something happened that really made my day. I have been trying for several weeks to sell my large vintage oak desk and a filing cabinet, so that I could remake my “pastor’s office” into something more of what my friend and partner in rhyme calls a writing nest. I was so excited because it meant I had an opportunity to turn vision into reality. I have shuffled things around in that room, carefully bagging up desk contents and office supplies into various zip lock bags (I looked in them too, to no avail).

No, I did not find the picture in the desk, it was empty. I thought nothing could be better than this though, actually creating space in that room for something else to develop. I knew the desk was heavy and awkward, so I moved things out of the way to make moving the furniture easier. So out with the broom, some curtain rods still in plastic, a picture frame with old family pictures, you know the kind, the collage frames with space for pictures. My senior picture was in there, and one of my brother in his Navy Uniform from Boot Camp, the old family picture of mom with her mother and siblings, and a picture of mom with her sisters taken sometime before 1975. I am not sure it ever got hung on a wall, just moved from place to place.

Here is the thing that I think is true. When we have pictures of our loved ones, even our pets and show them to friends, or post them on social media, beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. No one will ever see what you see. We look at those pictures and are flooded with memories, the whole person, we remember things they said, maybe even things we wish they had not said. But maybe because we love them so much, we cannot stop ourselves from asking, “Do you want to see a picture?” And we hope in that instant that a miracle will take place and they will see a hint of what we know is there.

A color picture of some cottages. It is a sunny day. there is a car in the picture.
The original cottages transformed in the 1970’s

So, I picked up that picture frame, and there it was. Right there in the top row, the missing picture. The face of the man I called Daddy even when I was grown up and married. The face of the man with the gold tooth, the permanent tan, the curly hair, the mischievous grin, the one who loved my mom, “his Maggie” so much that he would sing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” drunk or sober and you always knew it was for her, the man who, when my best friend Peter would visit the bar and remain unflappable when dad would ask him, in front of the whole bar mind you, “Young man, what are your intentions towards my daughter?” The one who chewed cigars and smoked them, the one who would duck his head into the ordering window when someone ordered a pizza and say it was for the guy in the flannel shirt, or the red shirt, the man with only an eighth grade education in seven years of school, and was a Merchant Marine officer, “licensed to serve as a chief mate of steam and motor vessels of any gross tons upon oceans” (OCEANS!) but would look at my mother and ask her, “Do you love me, though?” and when he was dying, would call out from the bedroom and quote a character from a police drama and ask, “Do you love, love, love me?” and we called back and said, ‘Yes, we love, love, love you.”

Picture of a n older man and a young woman taken outside in front of a restuarant.

This is the face I remember, and oh the joy, I am beyond grateful to have found this. Beyond joyful.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Some Ups and Downs, but Still #Stronger Than the Cookie

Update: On May 9, 2022 it was one year since I met my weight loss goal. I am happy to say that I am still a shade below that goal, floating between 142 and 143.5     I am thrilled, and still like how I look in the mirror.

Some ups; starting with vacation in October, although I was very careful, through the remainder of fall, Advent and Christmas, my weight crept up three pounds above my goal of 145, which meant I had gained a little more than three pounds. Most people would say three pounds is nothing. Maybe, but it was that creeping toward 150 pounds that set my teeth on edge. I did not want to back track and once the weight starts to come back, it is that much harder to lose. And, it can sneak into your body in the same way one accumulates possessions. Just keep bringing new things into your home, without taking anything away, you don’t realize how much you are accumulating. As it goes with possessions, so it can go with food.

I wrote about this briefly in December (stronger than the Christmas cookie). Just after Christmas I decided to go back on my program, to get a refresher and also learn what updates had been added. With my doctor’s agreement, I reset my goal down to 138, only seven pounds lower than my original goal and only five pounds below my normal 143.  That has proved more difficult than I would have thought. I got comfortable eating about 1500 calories a day, +/- and going back to 1200 calories felt much more punishing than it did two years ago when I had more to lose. 

Picture of a woman sitting at a table in a restaurant. There are farm animal and truck miniatures in the background.
Photo by Shane Hicks-Lee

Some downs: I have succeeded in losing the three pounds that I had gained and I have had a few cookies. But I am still avoiding anything chocolate laden, so “no” to , the delicious, wicked chocolate chip peanut butter oatmeal cookies that I self-medicated with during the early days of the COVID lockdown. I have enjoyed more than a few Girl Scout cookies (shortbread only) and some plain gingerbread cookies. Sparingly.

In theory, I can and do eat anything I want. But I have had two experiences with food that were instructive, at least for me. One is dealing with leftover peanut butter hot fudge sauce that I had made for a special event for church. There was a lot left over. It is really yummy, and you can eat it by the tablespoon. Put that with some left over ice cream and …yeah, not a good idea. I finished up the ice cream and finally threw out what was left of the chocolate sauce. Not worth it. I hated to waste what was left, but at that point I was more concerned about my waist, than food waste.

Another lesson was a delicious meal that I enjoyed that was provided by a generous class participant and parishioner. She made feast of lasagna soup, homemade cheese bread and a decadent lemon layered desert for our class of eight bakers, a closing celebration. I had regular portions of each thing. And I was stuffed. No extra-large portions, no seconds, but stuffed all the same. It surprised me to notice that, it had been a long time since I had felt that way physically, and It was an uncomfortable feeling that I do not want to repeat. I did not feel forced to eat or guilted into anything. Sometimes, you just need to savor and appreciate the gifts of others.

This is not a diet, but a way of life. But for me the way of life I choose means that I will always need to weigh and measure my food when possible and be gracious when it is not possible.

For me, all those lessons are valuable. And I have continued to make positive changes. I keep thinking I need to make a list, and I can give you some examples, but I have expanded my food repertoire so that I am eating foods I never ate before. It means I have more choices. Although this does not mean I am eating all of these things regularly, the fact that they have found their way into my life is amazing.

I have limited (though not totally eliminated) highly processed foods, so that means: cooked oatmeal over boxed cereal, fresh fruits and vegetables, when in season, and sometimes when they are not in season. Navel oranges and seedless green grapes are especially helpful. I have eaten my first ever Brussel sprouts, zucchini, asparagus,  lentils, barley, whole grain breads (homemade), and vegetarian chili.

Also I made and ate my first ever split pea soup. It was okay. I have also added some variety that may not be on anyone’s healthy list. For years I swore I did not like kielbasa, and much to my surprise, I do like it. I don’t envision eating a lot of it, too spicy, but delicious. I choose real maple syrup and honey, over artificial sweeteners. One serving of maple syrup is 4 tablespoons, but I can make 2 tablespoons work, using it on the side for a dipper, instead of soaking my waffles or pancakes. Half the calories of a total serving, all of the flavor, and zero preservatives and additives.

I admit that some days I wish all this was easier, second nature, something that did not require thought. On the other hand, it was thoughtless, mindless eating and snacking that kept me at a cozy 200 pounds for much of my adult life. I think when people lose large amounts of weight, they go back to eating the way they were before their diet or weight loss journey, because nothing changed. They were on a diet, a temporary detour. That works for some  people, and I am not a diet guru, or nutritionist. Just a person with a Story and life experience. I began my journey two years ago in June and on July 9th, I will have been at my goal and less for fourteen months and counting. A feat I have never accomplished any of the other times I lost weight.

Picture of a woman in a blue dress with a blue sweater. She is standing in a church parlor.
Photo by Jennifer Jones

So, I hope to keep learning and growing, and trying new foods, and now and then I will pop in and let you know how it is going. Here is my latest picture taken just before Easter. And let me share this segue to a new series. I have been making bread for over a year now. I have been planning to write about my bread making journey for several months, but just haven’t quite gotten there yet. But look for it soon.

“Bread for the Journey.” No recipes just stories and pictures. It is not diet bread and I eat my own bread, bagels and English muffins. Everything gets weighed. The bread I make for myself I calculate, weigh, slice and freeze, and yes, I eat it. Not taking anything for granted, and

Vermont Honey Oatmeal Whole Wheat Bread a King Arthur Flour recipe

and,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

One postscript for my readers and blogging friends. One discouraging side effect of my long absence from regular writing is the awful accumulation of smutty comments that show up in my comments folder. They are so disgusting one would feel dirty reading them. I am glad that I discovered the “bulk” edit. So now I am trying to check that every day or several days a week. If any long time bloggers have suggestions I am open. But I do not want this to be the main thing you get from reading this post.

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The Day After the First Day of the Rest of My Life

I am convinced there is no “one size fits all” when it comes to retirement. I am getting ready to retire for the second time and by the time I finish this post, that retirement will be a done deal’ well, seven days and counting. Most of my energy is going to preparing for my last official act as a pastor, and it is not only necessary, but also a great distraction. Now and then my eyes will leak a little, and I indignantly ask, “where did that come from?”

I knew when I retired the first time that I no longer had the energy for full time ministry, which in my denomination is roughly 60-hour weeks, give or take. That decision was a no-brainer. But I wasn’t ready to come to a full stop and felt like I still had something to give. Four years later, I still have something to give, but equally realize that there is less energy to put behind that desire.

Picture of a woman and a man at a party.
June 2018, Photo by Jean Barber (the date in the picture is incorrect).

Fortunately, four years ago we did the “find a retirement home” thing and “Sign up for Medicare” thing, and the packing and the moving and the unpacking, and oh yes, the crying thing; me anyway. Finding the retirement home was not wonderful. We each had ideas of what we would like, and we got expert and finding and falling in like with a house that we thought would do, only to have it bought out from under us before we could collect our thoughts. We thought this might be our new role in retirement, we could advertise for folks who had homes that were hard to sell. Because if we saw a house and liked it, it was going to sell. I exaggerate? Some, but five houses???

Knowing that it is time to retire though, does not make it less emotional. Knowing that I do not have the physical stamina to give and have anything left for us, does not make my eyes leak any less. It is a little bit like when a loved one is dying, but you are not ready to let go. Yes, they lived a long fruitful life, yes, the body is giving up, but all that acknowledgment doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier. I was going to title this post “The Valley of the Shadow of…Retirement” but decided against it. Yet, here am I, poised on the edge of the Valley of Retirement, grateful for the privilege and taking tentative steps.

Picture of a large black and tan dog on a brown pad on a tan floor.
Sheba

Trying to keep an open mind and an open heart and not assume too much. We have a dog, there will be no sleeping in, past her water-tight integrity hour of 8:00 a.m. That means I have to be up, dressed and ready to get her out the door, coffee be darned. There will be naps, occasional preaching and teaching and creative pursuits, hopefully some fishing and campfires.

“The Day” itself was full, emotional, wonderfully full of hugs, tears and cake, and before that of course a Scripture, Sermon, Service and Sacrament, oh and song. When I retired the first time, at the end of the services I sang Roy Rogers and Dale Evans’ Song Happy Trails, and I think Carol Burnett’s closer, “I’m So Glad we had this time Together.”

picture of a basket of pink and white flowers in a white basket with a pink bow.

The Day after the Day, I was able to meet with my successor and do some visits together. This is What I wrote on my Facebook page: “Spent the morning in conversation with a colleague, had the privilege of introducing her to some of her new flock who are homebound or in assisted living. “This is your new pastor,” I said. Turned in some things to the church office and gave her a few more files and my church and parsonage keys. Still on duty through the 30th. All the feels. It feels like a Sunday afternoon (it was Monday).

It feels like a Carpenter thing, rainy days and Mondays. Grateful for time spent with close friends today who came to supper. It is good, it is the right thing at the right time, I simply was not ready before. But the weight of processing all the feels; Gratitude, hope, sorrow and wonder. Just sharing.”

Today, I managed to pay some bills, write some thank you notes and get them all in the mail and in the process cleared about half the clutter from my desk. Also had coffee with a colleague, made a delivery to a church in another town and when I got home, got in a quality nap. I love naps, but do not want to sleep my life away. Thank goodness for leftovers. Tomorrow? I would love to get lost in some breadmaking, but time will tell.

So, not to bore you with the minutia of my life, but right now, this is what it looks like, one step at a time, stepping into the rest of my life, tentative, baby steps, with a cane.

Picture of the author standing on the shore of a beach, She is look out over the water and the houses beyond the beaach.
Photo by Donna Lynne Vaux

Maybe next time we will talk about assumptions and platitudes. In the meantime,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

P.S. About the duck! Prior to my first retirement I scattered small rubber ducks around the church and the church office and said, “I am not a lame duck.” because I was going to work up until the last possible moment. I shared that this time around and my partner in children’s ministry made this duck for me. It lived in the water well in the pulpit until Sunday.

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Piece Meal Stories of Jack and Maggie, Part 2

MEALS AFTER THE UNION VILLA

I left home when my parents still had the Union Villa and lived with my brother and sister-in-law for about nine months, in Washington State. I had always been a picky eater, but my brother would not have it. He was the first person to ever say to me, if you don’t like supper, the next meal is breakfast. I learned to eat vegetables I thought I hated, and salads. (salad dressing helped!) When I went home, I moved into my own apartment at 19. My meals consisted of living out of large cans of beefaroni, or some similar food. So much so, that I was thrilled to have Sunday dinner at my parents’ house.

Fast forward several years, although I do not think it was a coordinated plan, mom did several things to encourage my cooking. She bought me special gifts useful for entertaining and special meals. She helped me buy my coveted set of Lenox China, one place setting at a time. The last gift she gave me was a marble rolling pin. I think my favorite memory is of her reading me recipes out of the women’s magazines. “Oh, Michele, listen to this! Doesn’t this sound delicious?”

This, for me, is an important connection. When I was married the first time and making meals for myself and my husband, I already had the deeply imbedded habit of setting my sights on a picture or a recipe, and trying to duplicate it. Especially as a new cook. Much to my surprise, with all the things I have lost in 70 years, I still have a copy of the first meatloaf recipe I made as a bride. I had found it in a woman’s magazine, and there was a picture. It was the first thing I remember making and being bolstered by the compliments. (It was a mushroom stuffed meatloaf). But I probably would not have tried it without the picture.

Picture of a table with chairs, place settings, china cabinet in the background
Photo by Jean van der Meulen from Pexels

When mom and her sister were older, and both widowed, they would come to our house for special holiday meals. I always made some kind of roast, because in general it was not something they would not make for themselves. I suppose I took as much joy in making those meals for mom and Aunt Cassie, as mom had taken cooking for us. I wanted each meal to be special and I was keenly aware this was a time limited opportunity.

It wasn’t just the holiday meals or the family meals that I remember but countless shopping trips with my mom that always involved lunch. Whether we were at home in Massachusetts or when we both lived in Baltimore, or mom and Aunt Cassie picking me up for lunch from work every Friday. They had a routine, Daily mass, breakfast at Dunkin Donuts, bowling and then meeting me for lunch. If the details of all these meals are lost swirling around in the gray matter in my brain, the love they represent is firmly lodged in my heart. I would joke on those Fridays, that it was “old lady lunch day” Knowing how keenly I would come to miss those opportunities.

MY FAVORITE MEAL: CHRISTMAS DINNER AT MOM’S

During the years that I was a single parent, my children spent every other Christmas with me, and the alternate Christmas’ sometimes with their dad, sometimes not, but always at their Grandparents’ home in Virginia. One year stands out particularly, the children had been picked up and I was home alone. I made fruitcakes for my mom and Aunt Cassie and then drove to mom’s apartment. She lived in an efficiency apartment in a senior citizen’s building, it was “assisted living”

The “living room/dining room/kitchen” combination held a couch, chair a folding table and a china closet. The folding table was a wooden dropleaf table with a compartment for four uncomfortable folding chairs. The table was covered with one of the embroidered tablecloths that dad had brought from Italy. It was dressed in her Noritake China, and sterling silver flatware. There were glasses holding shrimp and shrimp cocktail set at each place. Red taper candles were in the silver candlesticks. The shrimp were followed by standing rib roast, spinach soufflé and long grain and wild rice, all her favorites and specialty. She had made a rich chocolate pudding for dessert. The meal lovely and an unforgettable gift of love.

Photo by Liza Summer from Pexels

Mom did not buy china dishes until later in life, but the sterling silver was her pride and joy. She bought it one piece at a time in her twenties and when she and my dad got married, asked for pieces or place settings for wedding presents. I do not remember having any special plates, I remember her taking the wooden chest out of the buffet dresser that was in our dining room. The chest was lined in blue velvet, and filled with her precious treasures. Today, in 2022, it is hard to imagine someone buying just one spoon, or one fork and being excited about it, but before getting any pieces for wedding presents, that is how mom got her silver. It was a simple, if material joy, paid for in cash.

As I finish up this post, I am working very hard, rearranging my posessions, giving things away, setting things aside for a yard sale, donations to the library, preparing for full retirement, but that wooden chest with the silver remains. Perhaps it is my age, but thoughts of my parents are never far from me. Meals at the Union Villa were rushed by necessity, but remembering our first home, or family meals in the apartment at the Union Villa when the bar was closed, these two statements made by my father ring clear and present. After we said the traditional blessing before the meal, he would remind us, “God bless the provider of this table” (meaning himself), and after eating, he would push his chair back from the table and say to my mom, “My dear, I have dined sufficiently.”

I am so grateful for all the memorable meals, thankful for the cook and the provider and the joy.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to My Most Recent Blog Post…

First, please notice that I specifically did not say “my last” blog post. I have not quit, abandoned, given up, or otherwise stopped blogging. I did take a rabbit trail of sorts, but all with good intentions .

It was like this. As I was minding my own business, writing a post, laying out my ideas for my Word of the Year (WOTY), which at this point has got to be “Procrastination,” whatever else I thought my WOTY might have been. As I was working that out, and considering my future plans, I had a moment of clarity that what I most needed to do was to prepare for my upcoming retirement in some very specific ways. Immediate ways.

Photo by Donna Vaux

That is right, I am retiring again. I set the date for my upcoming retirement back in September. I was pretty sure that I needed to ease into it, sneak up on it and prepare for the drastic changes that retirement would bring.  I had fought retirement the first time around, taking a whole six weeks off before returning to work part time. But this time, retirement will be more conclusive. Do not think I have not taken a lot of good natured (?) teasing about the way I was doing retirement to begin with, but I just was not ready to come to a full stop.

While this retirement may not constitute a full on stop, my plan is to do fill in preaching, Sunday mornings only, but not taking a church, both to make room for other activities in my life, but also to make room for someone coming up, eager to continue the work.

All of that is beside the point of why I have not been writing. There are two reasons really. First, I have a commitment to my good friend and writing partner to finish our book, to do what we both have to do to get to a full first draft. So in the two rooms where I am inclined to do any kind of writing, I have a picture with my main character and an admonition that says “Book before blog!”   So, if I have not been finding time for the book, no blogging.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-vintage-typewriter-3601081/

There is another component. I could write a blog post and well, post it on my blog and some folks would see it, especially those who regularly follow my blog when there is something regular to follow. But part of the fun of blogging is the mutual supportive community that one finds in a link party. That means that a writer will read and comment on the posts of other bloggers, with the understanding that they will do the same. It is a courtesy, and I would even say it is an ethical responsibility. And it is more fun and community building. So, not having enough time to do that, I have been largely silent.

The third reason I have not posted anything in a long time is the reality that I cannot seem to accomplish as much as I think I used to, given the same time frame. And the preparation I discovered that I need is to prepare the space that has been my home office, into something more like the creative space of a retiree, without it looking like a pastor’s office. And, much to my surprise, and here was the crux of that moment of clarity, I should not wait to start it until I was retired to start. That meant starting in January, combing, but not culling, through my books and papers, giving away books that others might be able to use and gritting my teeth and throwing away papers from seminary that no other eyes would read. All that hard work, right in the circular file. That kind of discernment has taken all the resolve I could muster.

It took about two months to get one bookshelf totally cleared. I have made decisions about what books to keep and have finally managed to totally empty two desk drawers and two drawers of a four drawer filing cabinet, but it is slow and emotional work. Worthwhile work, I hope, but I have thrown myself into the task, and along with that, the work has occupied time that is usually dedicated to writing, and blogging. And, truth be told, I have also been baking bread like there is no tomorrow, and bread making also takes up time and space.

I give away books, and give away bread, and hope that none of my friends duck down under their windows when they see me coming, heavy laden with bags of books, or cradling a loaf of bread in my arms like a newborn baby. O shucks, truth be told I probably have as many pictures of my bread as any new mom has pictures of their babies.

Throw into all those reasons (excuses) the fact that two busy pastors’ seasons have come and gone (Christmas and Easter). I try to be polite when people say that, “Oh, this is your busy time of year!” Because how to explain that Christmas has four weeks of Advent connected to it and Easter has five weeks of Lent connected to it, when they were just being polite anyway?

Well, there you have it, the unvarnished truth about my absence, reticence, hesitation, procrastination and distraction. Thankfully, it was not writer’s block, just a determination to do the right thing and not write.  I hope that some of you have missed me. I certainly have missed reading my favorite bloggers and being an active part of the community. I write this and post it in the hopes that for me, it represents a return to some type of normalcy, as I ease into my new life. Nine Sundays, services and sermons, and other activities to go. Eight….Seven…,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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What’s On My Bookshelf ~ January Edition

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is woybs-7-cont.jpg

I am about a week late with this post, but still want to finish it up and share it, at least before the month is over.

Whenever we go on vacation, we always take books. There are other times we take books with us on short trips, such as shopping – one of us may want to browse through a store that holds no interest to the other, so having a book along, rather than mindlessly killing time in the story is a great way to encourage the other. “Take your time” I say to my husband as he goes into a sporting goods store or a favorite gun shop. This is much easier done in good weather than in the cold of winter. In the winter, I would say “drop me off at the craft store.” To this end, we make sure we have our phones with us. My favorite time to “vacation read” is the week following Christmas, the week following a long year of…life. I had planned to take my kindle with me on vacation but managed to forget it at home. As a result, I just finished The Little Cafe by the Lake, my first Joanne Tracey novel, after returning from vacation.

I have never been to New Zealand or Australia, and while I do not expect to make that journey, reading The Little Cafe was like a tour in many respects. Because it was my first read of an Australian writer, I was grateful for and curious about some of the things Joanne referred to that I had no idea what they were, so I was grateful for the dictionary app on my Kindle. (And my mother’s life lesson modeling of using dictionaries). There was only one definition that did I did not understand. but looking back through the text, I can’t find it. It was some type of food item. That in itself is a lesson, next time I look up words in my kindle, I will be careful to also highlight them!) When I began connecting with bloggers and writers from Australia and New Zealand, I promised myself that I would get a map of the area so that I could understand where folks were and places they referred to. When I began reading “Little Cafe” I wished I had already done that, but that is on me.

I confess I was a little confused about some of the characters, for instance sometimes Jess’s father was referred to as Fletch and sometimes Cam. That depended of course, on who was talking about him, his wife, or others. Because this was my first Joanne Tracey novel, I wasn’t sure if the characters had been introduced in a previous work. But sometimes my reading gets disjointed (like leaving my Kindle home instead of taking it on vacation). So those are simple things, just me getting used to a new author.

I have a bad habit of (sometimes) reading the end of a book before I get there. As I read through food descriptions, I kept thinking, boy, I hope there are recipes. But I did not go looking. While there were a lot of things I liked about the book, when I got to the end and saw there are indeed recipes I threw my hand up in the air and said, “Yes!” I want to try the cheese scones soon.

One of the things that impressed me was the author’s ability to reveal plot twists and turns, unexpected occurrences that kept me wanting to see what happened next. Every chapter pulled me ahead to the next chapter to see what would happen. I never anticipated any of them. There were times I did not like certain characters, pretty sure that was intentional. I was happy to see character growth.

Photo by Pixabay by Pexels

Twenty-One Days: A Daniel Pitt Novel by Anne Perry (2018) and One Fatal Flaw: A Daniel Pitt Novel 2019

Taking these two together as they share many characters and settings. As I had written elsewhere, i like Anne Perry’s writing and have enjoyed all of her books that I have read. She has several characters in series, in addition several Christmas stories. The ones I have enjoyed the most have been the Pitt family, Thomas and Charlotte Pitt, the first generation, Charlotte was a socialite who fell in love with Thomas who was a police detective.

Daniel is one of their two children. In the Daniel Pitt novels, he is a 25-year-old lawyer, who ends up playing detective in many of his cases. The novel is set in England in the early twentieth century. Women had not yet gotten the vote, and women’s lives were extremely regulated, with social conventions beyond most of our ability to imagine. Two that come up in these stories are that it was legal for a husband to beat his wife, and that women were not accepted as doctors or scientists.

In Twenty-One Days, the number of days in question is the amount of time he has to appeal and find the real murderer before his client is executed. Fatal flaw, in large part, deals with social prejudices about women’s abilities to learn and carry out medical and scientific work. The fact that we have come so far, does not mean that there is no racism, sexism or classism in the world today. That assumption would be naive. I enjoyed both of these books and was on the edge of my seat for much of it. However, as I came to the end of Fatal Flaw, I felt that perhaps the ending had been rushed, or that that particular section of the story, which was the climax to be sure, came so late in the story I wondered if the author was pushing up against a deadline or a page limit. i still want to read the next one though.

The Judge’s List by John Grisham, audio book unabridged, read by Mary Louise Parker

John Grisham is one of my favorite authors, and I was really happy to get this from the library, since it is a new release. The characters were strong and intriguing. In the introduction, read by the author, he talked about the heroine of this book, Lacy Stoltz, who was apparently the heroine in The Whistler (I have to read or listen to that now.) He said that he had been waiting for a story that would be a good vehicle for Lacy, and this story is it.

Before saying anything at all about the story, I want to comment on the characters, the heroines of this story, in my opinion. Certainly, Lacy comes through and makes the story. I want to suggest though that “Margie” who goes by many names (her real name is Jerry Crosby) is also a heroine. She has tracked, stalked actually, the man who killed her father. In the course of doing that she was able to pin other murders on him, revealing him to be a serial killer. She has been able to identify both the method and the motive but has no real evidence. While I do not approve of everything she did in the story, I think she also deserves heroine status. Without her work, and resolve, there was no case.

I often joke that I heard the “call of the mild” not the “call of the wild” so there were many facets of this book I found frightening, the fact that the person accused of being a serial murderer was a judge, who was supposed to uphold justice, not obliterate it, the cold hearted, vengeful pursuit of individuals who had wronged him, his ability to break through firewalls and use technology in pursuit of his objectives – all scary.

I do not want to say more about the case, but to me, there was a third heroine involved in this story, and it is Mary Louise Parker’, who read, narrated or voiced the story. No matter how good a book is, when it goes to the audio version, the ability and talent of the reader/narrator, can be make or break. I have never taken acting classes and don’t plan to start now, but, I am always fascinated by the ability of actors to do multiple voices and keep them straight.

Photo by Pexels ~ Pixbaay

I thought as I end this month’s contribution, I would share a few of my favorite mystery writers through the years:

Robert B. Parker, was my first mystery book author. I saw a book in the library that was a book about Spenser, which was on the air at that time (1987?). I started collecting them in paperback and read every one. I also like the Jesse Stone series. I have tried, but just not able to get into the Sunny Randal series, though it might have helped if I had read the first novel in the series and gone from there. I have read or listened to some of the books that have been written “in his vein” by authors approved by the family and have enjoyed them.

Sue Grafton, read or listened to most of the “letters” was very sad when she died.

Jodi Picoult, a wonderful author, her research (does she do it all herself or have assistants?), character development and simply surprise draw me in.

Lisa Scottoline, The first thing I listened to by Lisa was funny, so I was really caught off guard by her mystery writing. I especially love the Rosato and Denunzio series.

John Grisham (have read many, but certainly not all). Although many of his books are similar in terms of tension, danger and character, I loved “A Painted House” which was very different and “Skipping Christmas” which was the basis of the movie “Christmas with the Kranks”

David Baldacci, have read or listened to most of his books. I like the Amos Decker series, but others as well.

Grateful for the opportunity to read and share and,

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

#whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

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#Stronger than the CHRISTMAS Cookie!

I do not usually write my cookie posts together, but eight days before Christmas, with New Year’s around the corner it is “crunch time” in more ways than one. This is my first Christmas in maintenance for my weight loss, and I want to make the most of it. On December 9th I shared about my frustration at my weight gain, slight though it is, since a medication change and Thanksgiving. Although I do not believe I misbehaved very badly, there were careless handfuls of caramel popcorn that were unaccounted for, as well as occasional scoops of peanuts, pecans, and other such things.

My weight loss goal, which I met on May 9th was 145 pounds. For most of the months since then, except for Thanksgiving, my weight has fluctuated up and down a few ounces in the 143 range, occasionally dipping to 142. Today my weight was 147.2 and while that is not awful, it is not great. My chief strategy since writing my last “cookie” post, has been to continue weighing and measuring my food, getting on the scale every day and dropping my calorie intake from 1500 calories a day to 1250 to 1300.

So far, so good. But my current situation has reminded me of something I had forgotten, that my weight loss was very slow. The last two months before finally getting to my goal, it slowed to a crawl, a two-pound loss in the last month. While enjoying my 1500 calorie plan and my 143 pound weigh-ins, I had forgotten how hard it had been.

Photo by Alesia Kozik from Pexels

I went shopping yesterday to stock up on some pre-Holiday items, including some grapefruit, navel oranges and apples, congratulating myself all the way to the check out. And there I saw it, the thing that made me decide to write this post. There, in shiny, glossy color, were several magazines featuring cookies, cakes, pies and more. Let me restate that. There were sugar-laden, gorgeous, tempting, inviting, sparkling, satiny, alluring cookies and cakes and pies, oh my!

They seemed to speak, almost jump off the page words of invitation. “You still have time, it’s not Christmas yet. You could go home and make me, give me away, well, maybe just a taste, you have already gained five pounds, what is a few more cookies?”

That is when I thought, maybe someone else needs to hear the words that I have to say to myself, some healthy ” “back talk.” I realize there are lots of experts in health magazines, websites and podcasts who may be more scientifically based, and you have your own program that you are following. But perhaps some encouraging words from someone who is in the trenches of weight loss maintenance in this season of sweets would be helpful. “Protect your investment. It is not just those size 10 dress slacks you don’t want to outgrow, it is those healthy cholesterol and blood sugar numbers you want to maintain. You do not have to be deprived, but make wise choices.”

For some people two cookies would not be an issue, but I am the woman who self-medicated with double stuffed sandwich cookies for a mid-morning snack during those first stressful months of the pandemic. Every. Day. I know I can have an occasional scone, or muffin, but I know what two cookies would do to me (I cannot eat just one, one cookie is an appetizer).

I realize that there are people who have the opposite problem, women and men who want to gain a healthy weight but not matter what they try, they do not seem to be able to do that. Those folks deserve a lot of respect and empathy from those of us on the other side of , er, the scale. There are certainly people who have grown up knowing what healthy eating is and how to maintain a healthy outlook, where food is concerned. People for whom food is simply fuel. I cannot imagine what that is like.

Here are a few thoughts and strategies that might be helpful.

Put on a “just for you” fashion show. Dress up in all your favorite new clothes and model them for the mirror. Be thankful.

Stick to your resolve! I do not know who to credit for the quote, “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.” I have mixed feelings about that, but I love how I feel in my dress clothes.

Say no kindly, but firmly to anyone who offers you any food that is going to throw you off track. “You do you!” I do not know who to credit for that either, but I like it.

Choose! Plan to not be deprived, but chose that special food or treat that you want to enjoy and plan to savor it. Plan too for the healthy options that will accompany it.

Look in the mirror again and smile.

You’ve got this! And you can be #stronger than the CHRISTMAS cookie! We both can.

Hoping this helps. Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Postscript: This weekend is the second anniversary of my blog (a blogaversary?) which is mostly memoir. I plan to keep writing, although life lately has made regular posts challenging. I am grateful for every follower, friend and family member who take the time to read and comment on my writing. I am grateful for the people I have come to know around the world. Some of my friends are taking a break from writing and I miss them, but that is how this thing works. I am grateful for the opportunity to write and publish these stories, especially stories about my parents, Jack and Maggie and my beloved hometown, Onset, Massachusetts.

Linking up with Denyse Whelan Blogs at Life This week

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December What’s on My Bookshelf

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#whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

There are just two books on My Bookshelf for December and I am reading a third. I have an opportunity coming up shortly for some cozy reading time and I hope to have more to report next month. One of my two books for this month is very local in locale and the other is a new Christmas story. My current read is my first Joanne Tracey book, The Little Cafe by the Lake. Whatever you may be celebrating this month, I wish you peace, health and love.

The Call of the Raven, by Richard P. Hanlon, Jr.

My husband says that I am a “city girl” because my small home town in Massachusetts, is much larger than his small home town in Pennsylvania. His meaning is not lost on me though. He was raised in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania; hunting and fishing are his primary sports. He thinks nothing of walking through tall grass or other forms of under-growth, but I like to be able to see my feet at all times. I have a macro appreciation of nature, but not so much micro. On those occasions when I do go walking with him in the mountains, I prefer our trail to be at least car width and I keep my eyes out for holes out of which creatures might scurry or slither.

My friend and colleague Rich, writes of sauntering in the wild, with a depth of knowledge and love of all creation that eludes me, but I appreciate it in him. The Call of the Raven is a series of journal entries that takes the reader along with him in a very specific area of North Central Pennsylvania to what he calls wild spaces. He is a scientist, with the heart of Francis of Assisi. Rich serves as a guide in real time with people and is only to happy to introduce them to residents of the wild spaces, which he refers to as neighbors.

I mentioned that the book covers a very specific geographical area. The subtitle of the book is “Reflections of time spent in the Pine Creek Gorge in North-Central Pennsylvania between Ansonia, Leonard Harrison State Park, and Colton Point State Park.” You might wonder why I would write about this book in an international forum. Wouldn’t you know that I have an answer. Perhaps, if you, like me are more of a ‘city’ person than a country person, or a wildlife person, that reading Rich’s words, hearing his passion married to knowledge, you might be inclined to take a closer look at your own “wild spaces.” Rich does not use any contemporary, polarizing buzzwords, but his writing might motivate you to take a look at your individual responsibility to care for all creation and to simply notice the blessings in ferns and fronds and other living things.

For myself, I might be more easily persuaded to join him in an easy hike, and look forward to his next book. You can purchase his book at www.thebookpatch.com and his website is www.wnnc.net I hope you will take a look.

St.As: The Second Book by Lisa Samson and Len Sweet, published by The Salish Sea Press

I just finished reading this book and loved it. It is, as best I can describe an “After Christmas” story, that focuses on the life of Mary, Joseph and Jesus in Bethlehem and the visit of the Magi. Many of us are so used to seeing Nativity sets with the Magi or Wise Men at the stable with the shepherds, but that is the way the song “We Three Kings” tells the story, but Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 2:1-18) tells it differently. For one thing, Matthew does not say how many Magi, nor does he say that they are Kings.

The book includes a donkey (Is, Izzy, Starlight) and a camel (Zebby) who talk with each other, although they do not talk to the humans. Even with animals who talk, I think this is more of a family story or an adult story than a children’s story. In addition to co-writing the story, Lisa Samson did the illustrations.

There are some things that refer back to the first book, but I don’t think they would be a barrier for someone who started with St. As. There are biblical and historical allusions and lots of food for thought.

I read this book on my Kindle, partly because I was being “cheap” and partly because I wanted to start reading right away. But I am tempted to order the paper version of the book. You can start here, but as I said the story begins with Jesus as a toddler. The first book, St. Is tells the story of the months leading up to the birth of Jesus, if you want a book that is “Christmas,” you might start there instead. But reading St. As first may help to shake up your expectations of the story you know and hear it with fresh ears.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Still #Stronger than the cookie: Maintenance on vacation, holidays and every day life

I have spent much of my life, youth and adulthood, overweight. I have lost large amounts of weight in the last forty years, but this is the longest I have ever gone maintaining that loss. I take nothing for granted in this journey, but count it all gratitude and joy. Six months from achieving my goal weight of 145 pounds (down from 200) my average weight has been 143, up and down by ounces of course.

I entered this period of maintenance carefully, almost gingerly. What that means for me is continuing to get on the scale most mornings, and continue to weigh and measure my food count, and log calories. I started increasing my calories slowly, sticking pretty close to 1300 calories for a number of weeks. I realize that all of these things might seem extreme for some folks, getting on the scale, weighing and measuring food and counting calories every day might seem too much like work. But for me, they are the best ways to protect my investment and my health.

I write these posts to share my personal experience in the hopes that there is something helpful here, that might be a source of encouragement to others. But I am not a weight loss expert or guru. The thing I have been an expert in, is regaining the lost weight, something I am trying very hard to not do again.

Picture of a food scale with a pear on it.
Photo by JJ Jordan from Pexels

Changes I have made:

One change is setting a 1500 calorie daily goal. I try to not go beyond that, and on days that I do, try not to worry, but I also try to not do that very often. In the past I have comforted myself with the knowledge that 2,000 calories a day is considered average need for normal metabolism, but I have recently learned that if I get too close to 2,000 calories, I am going to gain, so for me, 1500 calories daily is a good workable number. Most days I feel comfortably full, but there are other days that I feel inexplicably hungry. Maintenance is a journey and a process.

New foods I have incorporated

Cooked oatmeal! I used to think I could only eat oatmeal if it was instant and sweet. Just adding sugar to cooked oatmeal was not enough. But I tried it again on maintenance and have come up with a combination that I find satisfying. Cooked oatmeal with a tablespoon of raisins, tablespoon of walnuts or pecans, and two teaspoons of honey. A full cup of oatmeal with those ingredients will be enough to keep me happy in the evening. However, I have figured out that a full cup is too much (darn) for an evening snack, so next time I will go for a half cup. It is still filling and great for cold Pennsylvania nights.

I have also added occasional lentils and barley. I have no interest in going 100% plant based. For one thing I like meat too much for that. For another, it seems that many plant based foods, in the freezer section anyway, are highly processed, which seems to me to be the opposite of healthy. I have not eliminated foods that are highly processed, but certainly have limited them. I still need to incorporate more fish into my diet, and barley and lentils, but am not there yet.

Picture of foods in baskets, on shelves. fruits and vegetables. Scale on the top shelf and a figurine.
Photo by Maria Orlova from Pexels

One thing that I have not changed from my routine is that I get on the scale every morning, and weigh and or measure all food. That might seem tedious or rigid, but it does not take long. And I have done it the other way. I successfully maintained my weight at 200 pounds for years, by just eating what I wanted, when I wanted, grazing and not counting. I prefer maintaining my weight as close to 143 as possible.

Eating on Vacation

I had a wonderful opportunity to spend a week in my Massachusetts hometown in October. That meant several opportunities to enjoy seafood, and I did. Fried seafood, and pizza. Fried clams, fish and chips, fried scallops and shrimp, and pizza. Although people and places were the most important ingredient in my time at home, food ran a close third. Because of that choice, I did not log much of my food, it was hard to count calories without weighing and measuring, which is difficult to do in a restaurant. But I still got on the scale every morning, ate minimal French fries and skipped deserts entirely. I gained two pounds that week, that I quickly lost. Eating on maintenance, even eating while losing weight has to have some flexibility and not rigidity. That being said, I have no plans for Christmas cookies or frosted cakes in my holiday plans. I will tell you why.

Thanksgiving and other food dilemmas.

Picture of a cranberry tart.
Nantucket Cranberry Tart “Yummy”

I love turkey, and generally make my mother’s sausage oyster stuffing for Thanksgiving and Christmas when we choose turkey for both meals. For me then, I generally limit other traditional foods. Cranberry sauce is a must have, I can skip the mashed potatoes and other things. We received Thanksgiving meals from a local group that included a slice of pumpkin pie for each of us. I would have made the pie if my husband had wanted it, but I was grateful when he decided that one piece was more than enough. It is better to enjoy some special foods occasionally than to feel deprived (depraved?), and stuck in rigidity, so I have striven for balance. I had a half cup of stuffing (sans oysters, they went bad) every night for several nights. I have had a few other treats in recent weeks, a large piece of yummy cranberry tart, and two slices of homemade cinnamon raisin bread not in the same day.

My current frustration:

Other than what I have detailed above, my daily intake is normal, no cookies, cakes, etc. But a bagel and cube of cheese are almost daily must haves. I continue to monitor, log and weigh in. But something is different. From May 9th until mid-November my weight has hovered at 143. In recent weeks I have gained weight, this morning at 148! Ugh! Not happy. I have had a recent medication change that eliminated one of my blood pressure meds because I am doing so good. Not sure if that is the culprit, or if there is something cumulative going on here.

I share this because, I have tried to be transparent in these posts. It could be that this is the stage where some folks start gaining, and as we know, Christmas is around the corner. Or Christmas cookies are around the corner, but they are not worth the possible weight gain, especially when I seem to be doing that on my own. In the spirit of full transparency, there is this:

Picture of two loaves of bread on a cooling rack.
Raisin Bread on the left, white sandhiwhc bread on the right.

However, like everything else I eat, I weigh it. When I make bread I let it cool, then I slice it put it in the freezer and limit the amount I eat. Every slice is weighed and logged. But, I would be lying if I did not admit to preferring bread to fruit, even cookies!

The Plan

Although my bottom line weight goal was 145, because I have been able to maintain close to 143 for most of the last several months, when the scale hits 145, I want to be extra careful. I will be talking with my doctor soon. At 148 I think I will reduce my calories back to 1200-1300. If I see another increase, I am going back on my program for a few weeks. While none of this may seem problematic for some, I think in terms of what I have done, this is the danger zone. I have been on the “gain – lose- gain” roller coaster before and do not want to be on that ride again. I got my ticket punched for “maintenance” and I plan to stay the course.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Home Again ~ My Cup Runneth Over

Four years ago I was able to visit my hometown for the first visit since 1994, and only a second since 1973. Because I had moved away and left home behind, I did not think it was possible to become suddenly homesick. My thought was to do a brief revisit, take a lot of pictures that I could put in an album, store in my heart, and perhaps frame a few to hang on the wall. It was to be like a rock group’s farewell tour. I had thought that 40 hours, or so, would be enough. Instead what I discovered in that visit, was that it would never be enough. I was the audience, wanting one more song, and the band, wanting the show to keep going, for old times sake, but not just for that.

beach sand water with sun reflecting on the water.
Sunday Morning Sanctuary

The following year I was able to make the trip for a whole week by myself. I had thought I was just going to revisit memories and home. When people would ask, “Are you going to see family?” I simply said, “No, there is no one there, it is just about place, about being and hopefully some writing.”

That was the plan, the expectation, but in the last six weeks before that visit, my life and world got peopled, repopulated, with family I hadn’t known existed (wonderful second cousins), and a childhood friend and his wife. In addition to that, there was a gathering with high school classmates that I really had not known in high school, one I remembered from elementary school, and one from middle school, but I left there with a sense of connection, renewed acquaintances, and new friends.

9 women sitting at a table in a restaurant. They are looking at the person taking the picture. there is silverware, napkins and glasses on the table.
October 2021 Dinner at Lindsey’s Restaurant with some classmates from WHS ’68 and my friend Donna.. Photo courtesy of Nancy Cushman-Rice

That was the trip that fueled my blog and deepened my sense that one trip home to Onset was never going to be enough. I have to approach each trip with the understanding that life can change in a moment’s notice and one should never assume. One can always hope, however, and I will always want one more trip as long as I am physically able to make it.

My trips home to Onset, the short ones, and the week long ones, have been an opportunity to encounter my long lost self. The one who was valued, and loved unconditionally, before layers of life and baggage and roles. In high school, and after, there were times when being known as Jack and Maggie’s daughter seemed burdensome, as though I had no identity of my own.

While I am happy to be someone’s wife, mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, step- mother, and pastor, to name only a few roles, there was something healing and refreshing about being in that place where I was just Michele Marcellino, Jack and Maggie’s daughter.

The Plan

My intent in returning to Onset, has the same foundation as the first full week two years ago, to come home and simply be; to let loose of the busyness and demands I place on myself, to shrug them off like an old coat, and take on the peace of the place and just be. So often, I act as many do, as though I were a ‘human doing’ and not a ‘human being.’

Secondly, I go to write. It is true that I can write anywhere, even in a noisy place, but something about Onset digs deep into my soul, and the old addage, to “Write what you know” holds sway.

The third benefit to returning to Onset is the unexpected gift from 2019, of new connections with “Classmates and cousins,” and two friends who were an important part of my long ago life.

Three women and one man sitting at a table in a restaurant. there are coffee cups on the table.
Photo courtesy of Peter LaBouliere (taken at Stephen’s Lounge, Onset, MA)

Going with the Flow

I return to Onset with hopes, but to the best of my human ability, not assumptions. I hoped to connect with “classmates and cousins” to see the places in Onset that hold so much memory and meaning for me. The main goal for this trip, though, was writing. My good friend Donna and I are in the process of writing a book together. I won’t say much more about the book, until it is done, at least the first final draft, but we are excited.

For a long time in the beginning we would say, “we are trying to write a book…” Chalk it up to fear, realism, a quote from Yoda, perhaps all three. But we have moved from that to saying we are writing. We have certainly hit snags and slow downs. We each have our individual writing projects and life, of course brings its own interruptions. In many ways we are in a better position to make progress with the book now, than a year ago when a family accident cut our trip short.

We live about two hours from each other, but do regular phone check-ins most weeks. Ostensibly to talk about the book, some days we just talk about life and our other projects. Truth, it is easier for me to write a blog post, than to sit and work on the book sometimes. But I think the work we did accomplish this week, and it was a lot, has helped and will help me stick with the story and the discipline needed to write. When I talk about procrastination in writing and other obstacles, do not misunderstand. No one is forcing me to write, it is my own sense of longing. I cannot speak for my friend, though I think she is similarly minded, I left Onset this weekend loving our story and wanting to spend more time with the characters. It is an adventure.

Nostalgia?

If you are looking at a definition of the word “nostalgia” I cannot deny that it describes my return to Onset, again and again. But there is so much more to it than that. This trip, I did not do some of the things I thought I might do. There was no sitting by the canal looking longingly at the water, just stolen glances while crossing canal bridges. I took only a few pictures at the beach, our writing and work together happened differently than I imagined, but it was real, rich, productive, and fun. We are able to hear each other, trust each other to read and edit each other’s work, plan and suggest, create a plan for moving forward. It was it’s own enriching experience. And it was helpful to be away from the everyday realities of our lives, to spend some time together spinning fiction.

We had wonderful visits with people, and really good seafood and pizza. A sub desire of any visit home is eating seafood, that was as good or better than I remembered it. Seafood and pizza, yum.

Photo by Donna Lynn Vaux

I cannot deny that on any visit home, my parents are always close in my thoughts. I did not grow up in a family that visited cemeteries, taking flowers on Memorial Day, or returning for conversations. I am of the mindset that “they are not there.” Yet, when I have only had the opportunity 4 or 5 times in 50 years, so it is something I do when I can. And even though I know that “they are not there,” it felt good to say “thank you and I love you still.”

I am not trying to be fourteen again, or to “bring my parents back” or to live in a fantasy world. What is it about these trips home that is more than nostaliga? It is like looking for my life. Looking back to see what I had left behind, remembering, recovering, and redeeming what was broken and storing reserves, and direction for the rest of my life; the “who am I when I am not a pastor life.” It is about being a sponge, and soaking it all up, reserves for the future. it is about gratitude, more than I can express in a single visit, in a single blog post. Every visit home begins and ends with a stop at the Onset pier and a look a gaze, on Onset Beach, so sharing this picture from the last day, taken by my friend.

Photo by Donna Lynn Vaux

I am so thankful! I am a beach girl from Onset, Massachusetts and I am

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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September into October Reading

Photo by Caio from Pexels

Death with a Double Edge, by Anne Perry. A Daniel Pitt Novel.

Anne Perry is a prolific writer and has three different series that I know about. A friend introduced me to the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt novels several years ago and I really enjoyed them. There is also a group of novels with the character of William Monk, a police sargent, both series are set in England in the late 19th century. This may be an awful admission from a writer who wants to be a published author (and have people buy her books) but often my fiction reading comes from the library, not the book store. That means I read what is available and not necessarily in order published. This novel, the fourth and most recent in the Daniel Pitt series was published this year. Daniel Pitt is the son of Thomas and Charlotte Pitt, so about 25 years after the original book.

Perry has also written a series of Christmas novels, and a series that are set in the time period of World War I. I have read fiction series in different genres, detective novels, amateur detective novels, Christian fiction, as well as many individual books. The ones I have read, the authors have done a good brief job of catching the reader up on the who’s who of characters.

I have never done a good job of skimming text books and try not to do that with fiction either. So I don’t know if I blinked while reading this, but it seems to me there are a few places with repetitious dialogue that do not move the plot forward. And one or two “announcements” related to “who done it, or might have done it” that seemed introduced as a “fait accomplice” that sent me reading back to see if I had missed something.

If I did fall asleep somewhere, it wasn’t the writing. I had a very good, but long morning on Sunday and managed to nod off about 5 or 6 times during a fairly close football game that evening. At least I was in my living room and not on the bleachers. Reading this book though reminded me that I do like her writing and characters and will probably look through her earlier work and see if I can pick up where I left off.

Photo by Caio from Pexels

Klara and The Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

Klara is a solar powered A.F., an artificial friend. It took me a while to catch on to the fact that this was science fiction, dealing with artificial intelligence, but more. Klara’s relationship with the sun is of necessity, but Klara herself seems the most human of the characters, and her relationship with the sun is close to spiritual. Let me interject by saying that I enjoy some sci-fi stories, though I haven’t read any. Star Trek (“Live long and prosper”) and Star Wars (“May the Force be with you”) are the beginning and ending of my sci-fi journeys. And in both cases, I d id not see all of the television versions or movies.

So barely recognizing the reading as being science fiction, I struggled a bit through what felt like stilted dialogue, and mysterious allusions beyond my ability to hazard a guess, until much later. Even then, I can only guess: For instance, they often referred to a child being “lifted” which I finally assumed to mean some type of genetic altering, which may or may not have unintended and deadly consequences on the child. Well into the story, there are some conversations about the value of life, the meaning of love, and a hinting and fear about a possible A.I. takeover. So there are also conversations that revolve around fear of the other, What constitutes prejudice, and the possibility of armed conflict between those who resist, and those who embrace the presence of artificial intelligent life to an extreme degree.

Part of Klara’s claim to fame in the storyline is her ability to observe and take in her surroundings, and the behavior of those around her, to evaluate their intentions, and make decisions accordingly. She does act independently in some surprising ways, perhaps ways that could cause her to be shut down permanently. Most interesting to me is Klara’s relationship with the sun, and her relationship to the Manager. I will admit, even at this stage, I am not clear if the Manager was a person, or an A.I. creation.

There were many times during reading this book, that I persisted in reading, like a child who grudgingly eats their spinach, or other vegetables, because they will be good for them. I simply did not want to leave it unfinished, or cast it aside. There were things I appreciated about the book, but had I understood up front what it was, I might have left it in the library. I am glad that I did not do that.

Photo by Vincenzo Malagoli from Pexels

Promised Land by Barack Obama

I have been listening to this story as an Audible book over a long period of time. It is very long, and made more so by the fact that I had only snatches of time in which to listen. The truth is that although I enjoy some fiction work, I gravitate to non-fiction and biography. I enjoyed this book for a couple of reasons: it was narrated by the author and was auto-biography (not just because I listened to it in the car). Although I do vote, I do not consider myself a political animal and prefer to keep my opinions to myself. Writing about politics is not something I aim toward. That said, one reason I appreciated this book was hearing about his life, apart from many of the outlandish accusations and assumptions that characterized his run for President and were lobbed by the opposition.

I am embarrassed to say that I believed some of them, and was very wary of the man. I am as embarrassed by that admission, as I was wary of him. So, hearing from his own voice, stories about his background, growing up in Hawaii, visiting his father in Kenya, his mother who lived in Indonesia, put the accusations into perspective. I appreciated his frank discussion of the difficulties of living in the White House, for his family, and the tremendous benefit of having his mother-in-law living with them. His care for his family was evident, his love for his wife and daughters, his education at Harvard, his calling into public service were the parts of the book I liked the best.

While I am sure that he worked with carefully kept written records, his recall of detail, people’s names and roles, personalities, etc., are impressive, to me anyway. He is a good writer, and a smart, smart man. I admit that some of the details were tedious, and the book is quite lengthy. It only covered the first two years of his presidency, ending with the death of Osama bin Laden. I assume it is his intention to continue writing to chronicle all eight years of his presidency. I did gain some insight into current political events from the things he had to say. But, honestly, at this time I do not know if I would persist in reading three more volumes. Maybe, though.

I stopped reading on October 3rd, with too many tasks to complete in anticipation of a life-giving vacation. I have tried throughout to live in the present moment, with a cautious anticipation of things to come, of things present. The good thing was, all those tasks kept me focused and able to avoid over planning or assuming what the reality might be. Much better to live into the non-fiction of life and hold it close. And so I am.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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Still #Stronger Than the Cookie

I am not typically a countdown person, so I can tell you when I met my weight loss goal, May 9, 2021, but not how many days it has been. The numbers I pay attention to most, are the amount of calories I eat on any given day, and the numbers on the scale. To some people, that may sound obsessive, but for me it is an important measure of health. I was going to say success. I am happy to say that so far, my weight has fluctuated up and down by degrees, but consistently two to three pounds below my goal.

In the past when I reached a weight loss goal, I stopped counting; but I also started gaining. The biggest thing I am trying to permanently keep out of my daily intake is frosting. I have a recipe for carrot cake that I use as muffins (From the book “Eat Cake” by Jeannie Ray) and I think frosting would cover up the delicate taste of honey. So while I am skipping frosting, occasional sweet, moist muffins are a welcome treat.

Some days I do better than others. I average between 1400-1500 calories a day. There are some days I am genuinely hungry and maybe not eating enough, but it is probably also on those days when I am not balancing enough fruit and veggies with my carbs. Most days I have eaten enough to feel satisfied but not stuffed.

What I am trying to say is that my weight loss journey is not a done deal. Maintaining a weight loss may be harder than loosing the weight in the first place, but many of the same strategies are what is keeping me healthy. There are some things I am still not doing that I should be doing, like walking enough or drinking enough water. But, I surprised myself the other day by mindlessly putting down my sandwich between bites! Progress! Yay!

Paying attention to cues, especially temptations or cravings is important. One thing I have learned in recent weeks, especially since I started baking again, is when I am feeling hungry, it is most often for carbs. Candy, cakes and cookies are not the problem they once were, snacks with frosting on top or creamy frosting inside, don’t lure me either. But Bagels and muffins whisper in my ear. Every day. It is okay, because I weigh, log or otherwise count everything, and continue to be intentional about fruits and vegetables. I will always have to be careful, but admit that I feel very vulnerable in these early weeks. It is a period of time where it could be easy to become careless.

A picture of the author, a woman standing in a restaurant. She is wearing blue.

A new tool in my tool belt. I realize on some of those days when the cravings are strong, or on days when I have not made the best choices possible that I need to think them through carefully. So I have added a short narrative section in the back of my “everything” notebook. I do not write it in every day, but on those days when I feel that I could have done better, I do a brief summary, what was going on, what I could have done better, what I was feeling.

Another form of documentation that has been important. I have been able to use a free version of the log app from my weight loss program. Some days though, it does not work; when that happens, I resort to old fashioned tracking systems; pen and paper. I cannot keep track of 1500 calories in my head – I get to 13 and have to start over. Accountability is not a four letter word. I have said on more than one occasion, my practices may seem extreme, but 60 plus years of bad eating habits, do not just go away.

Baking Redeemed

That said let me share with you one of the wonderful gifts I have been enjoying. I began baking as a coping mechanism, at an early age. Once I was old enough to bake without supervision, turn the oven on and off, etc., and follow directions, I figured out that if I was upset, I could pour that energy into making a cake to give away. For the most part they were package mixes, but it was something to do and felt like an accomplishment. But I could also make a cake, ostensibly for the family, and slice away at it until it was gone.

This was a bad habit I carried into adulthood. Hurt my feelings? I’ll show you! I’ll make something… and then eat it. By then I had advanced to homemade treats. I made fudge for a friend’s mom for a gift when I was teenager and she liked it. I made the recipe ever since. Do you know the stuff that is left behind in the pan is so good! It didn’t go to waste, but it went to my waist.

I started baking in earnest as a young bride. I had learned to cook at home, but I would try almost anything if the cookbook had a picture that I could use as a model, or if the picture looked so good I had to have it, I mean, make it. And I did seriously use baking for gifts for family and friends, when I could not afford to buy gifts. Of course flours, sugars, butter and eggs were not free. But knowing that I felt compelled to bake presents for my in-laws, a friend from church gave me a box of flour, sugar, etc as a Christmas gift that made my gifts more affordable.

I still make homemade brownies, etc. The only time I reverted to package cake mixes was when I was in school and serving three churches. I would get the urge to bake, open the pantry door, look at the box of cake mix and declare it too much work, closed the door and went back to working on papers.

There is a lot more to my baking, eating and giving resume, but that is enough for you to get the idea. When I began my journey last June (2020), I knew that the only way I could be stronger than the cookie, was to not make or buy any cookies in the first place. I thought my baking days were over.

Picture of two loaves of white sandwich bread, on a cooling rack.
Sandwich Bread

My husband often gives or sends me recipes on social media. Often, because he knows they are things I like to make, or that we might like to eat, and sometimes I think they are unabashed hints. I think that is cute. For whatever reason, one day in April he shared with me a recipe for homemade sourdough starter, a primitive recipe from a muzzleloader magazine. The short version of this story is that after tracking down compressed yeast, which is difficult to find here, I made the starter, and then the best bread I had made in a long time. I had to make it again.

But it was such a gift, because at this stage in my journey, I knew I was not going to tear into that bread and eat it up in two sittings. It was probably the best bread I had ever made. I used my self control to let it cool, then I sliced off an end piece, popped it into the toaster, and spread a thin layer of butter on the warm bread. From the first bite, I was hooked. The combination of the crunch of the crust, the soft bread, the butter melted into the bread, was worth savoring. Bite after bite. I do not know if this is true for all countries, but we call the end slices of store-bought bread “heels.” I think the end slice of homemade bread, toasted and buttered, deserves a much better name.

Picture of a loaf of homemade wholewheat bread
A work in Progress ~ wholebwheat sourdough bread

I have been baking my own bread ever since, and that is its own journey, that I hope to write about in a separate series of posts. But I write this here to celebrate, because I have learned that I can still bake for fun, for stress relief, for the sheer joy of baking, and not worry about undoing all this work. Baking is a joy that has been restored in my life and helped me through some rough days.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Linking up with Natalie’s Weekend Coffee Share #weekendcoffeeshare, Esme’s Senior Salon and Denyse Whelans’ #Lifethisweek

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My September Reading

#Whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

My husband and I are both readers. That is not necessarily something I knew about him during our brief courtship, because it was so brief, but it is a practice I have come to value, even after thirty five years of marriage. I am fortunate that he is such a reader, because being married to a reader when you yourself are not a reader, well, one could easily feel left out. Admittedly, he does tease me because he prefers a book he can hold in his hand, and has no interest in electronic readers, audio books, etc., where I would be lost without them.

I may not always sit at the table or in the living room and read, but I always want to be surrounded by the companionship of stories created by good writing. Sometimes we sit at the table reading, we read at dinner, which would scandalize Miss Manners, or the late Emily Post, but to us it is companionable. Yet we manage to sit together reading, while immersed in the characters, plot and setting in our hands, without having strayed beyond the dining room table.

We generally prefer different genres, although early in our marriage we played “dueling bookmarks” reading the same book at different times. One that I remember was a biography of John Adams. My favorite refrigerator magnet is something I picked up at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home. It is a quote from Jefferson that says, “I cannot live without books.” All that said, here are the books that enriched my life during the last thirty days:

In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex , by Nathaniel Philbrick.

This is a true story that begins with a departure from Nantucket, in July of 1819, until the rescue of the remaining crew in 1821, and the aftermath. Fifteen months into their journey, while some of the crew were in a whaleboat hunting, the Essex was rammed twice by an eighty-five foot sperm whale. The captain and crew survived the attack, but the ship was lost. The crew gathered what supplies they could onto the much smaller whaleboats. Those twenty survivors in three whaleboats, eventually dwindled down to eight survivors.

In some ways this is hard to read, it is a gruesome story, told in detail based on writings of survivors and other documentation. The battle against starvation, thirst, and the decision to survive by eating the bodies of their dead shipmates, as well as battling storms at sea, and repairing boats while in the water. The biggest surprise to me was that I was able to read this. I shy away from stories about violence or anything resembling horror, so seeing the word “cannibalism” in the intro almost put me off. But Philbrick is a reliable teller of history, and skillfully blends in depth research with storytelling.

Open Photo

I was drawn to this story for a few reasons. It is not his most recent book, but it had been recommended by a high school classmate almost two years ago. While cruising the book store I saw his name on a newer book, but decided to go in search of this one. Another book that picked me? I grew up close to Cape Cod, a ten minute ride from home to the Bourne Bridge that crosses the Cape Cod Canal onto the Cape. Also about a thirty minute ride in the other direction from my home in Onset to the Whaling Museum in New Bedford. So there is a geographical connection with whaling in my home state.

Another reason for this book, I have read other books by this author and really appreciate his writing. I think of him as a historian, although his background, I believe is in American Literature. The nerd in me appreciates the depth of his research and the storyteller in me appreciates his ability to spin a true story, replete with facts and not put the reader to sleep. Well, not a history loving, Massachusetts women with relatives who spent a large part of their lives at sea.

I read this book with three bookmarks, one to mark the detailed drawing of the boat, so I could look back to see what he was describing, one to mark the place I left off reading and one for ease of checking footnotes and bibliography. I always want to know where the author is getting their information from, and what the notes have to say. I may not be as smart as I think I am, call me a nerd though and I will take it as a compliment.

And then there is my dad. It is only a case of speculation whether any of my family where ever part of a crew on a whaleboat. I don’t think that my dad was, but I know he was put to sea by his father at the age of 13. Was that a Portuguese or Cape Verdean thing? I will never know. But he did spend most of his life at sea from the time he was 13 until he was 59, with few exceptions. Whenever he had too much to drink (was drunk, inebriated, three sheets to the wind?) he told the same whaling story, (sprinkled with hiccups) parts of it anyway that I recognize from early childhood. I never heard the whole story. “Thar she blows…” and “Mr. Simms, says I, shall I lower?” (the whaleboats). I do not know if it was recitation or memory, but I heard those words again as I read the book. Now and then they would pop into my head unbidden.

Eat Cake, by Jeannie Ray

Does this ever happen to you? You are reading a book that you love, it makes you laugh, chortle, chuckle and gasp, sometimes it also causes tears to well in your eyes because of the sadness in the story? You can’t wait to finish the book and yet, you never want it to stop? That is how I felt reading this book by Jeannie Ray. I do not know much about Mrs. Ray. She has written three other books that I know of, but I wish there were a lot more, because I love her writing. Her characters are relate-able, there is character transformation, which is key in my book. There are complications, revelations, surprises, laughter, tears, twists and turns. What do you do when what you always thought you would be or do, is suddenly taken away?

I am trying not to make cheap, punny comments, but this is a book you can sink your teeth into. As with other books I have loved through the years, this is a book that I could not wait to get to the unfolding of the story, the new direction of life for the characters and at the same time, did not want to see “The End” too soon. Reading this book restored to me something I had forgotten, the simple joy of reading.

One of the things I appreciate about the story that intersects with my life at the moment, is that the protagonist bakes for stress relief. Not that my baking is on the same level as hers, but I can relate none the less. And a novel about cooking that includes recipes, is a plus in my book. That said most of the recipes are way above my talent level or calorie cap, but I have made the carrot cake, without frosting, and it does make a good muffin, or side dish. Yum! There is a recipe for a pear upside down cake that looks tempting. But most of all, I love the story. I want to read her other books, but since there are so few of them, I don’t want to rush into them.

Vinegar Girl, by Anne Tyler

My reading goal is two books a month. For some of my blogging friends, that is setting the bar very low. However, it is a challenge, not a competition, and reading two books a month, beyond reading for sermon preparation, is something I did not think I could do. I finished my third read last night, plus am including one audio book in my report. The audio book is Vinegar Girl (A modern retelling of Taming of the Shrew) by Anne Tyler. I am glad that this is a book I listened to instead of read. One of the main characters is a Russian Scientist, and I could not have read his accent into the reading.

The book was read by Kirsten Potter and she did an excellent job. As many audio books as I have listened to in the last 20 years, I continue to be amazed at the ability of actors, and others to give voice to several different characters in a novel, and keep them straight! Since I mostly use audio books while driving, it is important to be engaged and not put to sleep by a monotone narration of a story. The thing that draws me to any novel, or television show or movie, for that matter, is whether or not I can care about the characters. If there is character transformation, so much the better. Of course, plot twists and surprise endings are also good.

One of the small things about this book that I appreciated is that the setting is Baltimore, Maryland. When an author includes locations that you know are real, or even places you have visited, or lived near, it adds an air of authenticity to the story. You just might go to a suburb of Baltimore, or a landmark and run into Kate and Pyotr. This story made me laugh, weep, and wonder. It entertained me in the busyness of my driving around life, and surprised me too. I am only vaguely aware of Shakespear’s The Taming of the Shrew, so I cannot tell you how closely the author did or did not follow the plot. But this story gave a lift to my spirit.

The only drawback, and it’s minor, is that every time I see the title, or even think about it, this is what runs through my mind:

I did finish a whole fourth book, but since this post has gotten long, I am going to save that one for next month.

This reading challenge has been a great benefit to me, restoring the joy of reading that I had long misplaced!

Thank you blogging friends for that.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Linking up with Esme’s Senior Salon and #whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

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Of Coffee Shares, Link Parties, Writing Challenges, and other Lovely Things

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Most bloggers know that link parties, coffee shares, and other variations on the theme can be a great way to grow one’s readership. They are also a great way to grow one’s mind, and enlarge the circle of people that somehow become part of your “tribe”. So I thought for this week it would be fun to share some thoughts on The Weekend Coffee Share.

Credit, or blame, a blogger named Ju-Lynn. I was sitting on the edge of my bed the other night responding to something that she wrote to me in response to something I had written and could not help but think of the wonder of it all, me, in small town Pennsylvania, having a conversation with a writer in Singapore!

For friends, family and other readers who are not bloggers, a brief word of explanation may help here. Participating in a link party or coffee share carries with it the expectation that the writer will read posts by some of the writers, few people could read it all, and leave a comment about their post, as well as respond to comments that other bloggers leave on your comment wall in response to your post.

Sometimes, when a blogger is “new to you” in addition to reading the post they are sharing in the link party, exploring their site and reading something they have written, or their “about me” page can be helpful.

Photo by Leah Kelley from Pexels

Sometimes the comments made are brief and sometimes a real, although written conversation takes place, something like an e-mail, but connected to the blog format. When I started blogging I wanted to read what other bloggers were writing, partly to see if I was doing it right! But those earliest follows all seemed to be people who wrote book reviews and a) I do not do book reviews per se, although I am happy to tell you what I am reading. And b) I wanted to find bloggers who wrote similar types of posts to mine.

I stumbled into a mid-life blogging party, and although I was at the top end age-wise, maybe beyond what might be considered midlife, I was accepted into a group of similarly minded writers, mostly women. I eventually became part of the group, and saw that blogging can really be a form of community. Surprise; happy surprise. I thought blogging was just a way to get my writing out into the atmosphere, so all those thoughts in my head that were pouring out onto paper, did not, as my mother often joked, die of “solitary confinement.” But it become so much more.

Let me share just a few ways, I may be forced to name drop here, although I do not want to be considered a name dropper. Australia and New Zealand: If I start naming people, I may forget someone important. though I don’t expect feelings would be hurt. The First Australian blogger I remember reading and following was Deb from Deb’s World. http://debs-world.com/ Deb takes stunning pictures, is an avid bicyclist and a good writer. Many of the first bloggers I connected with were from Australia or New Zealand. So much so that I still would like to get a small but readable map of A/NZ so I can picture where they are. I do know where the continent is, but it would be nice go look at it and say, Oh, there, that is what they are talking about.

Ireland: Enda is a funny but also serious writer and I hope you will check out his blog. http://endastories.com/He is also patient because every now and then he uses a word I am unsure of, but rather than assume, I ask him and he is always gracious in his response. I am not a traveler and am quite sure I will never visit the places where I have blogging friends, well, Toronto might be doable and when I see Natalie’s amazing and inviting pictures, I think, maybe. http://natalietheexplorer.home.blog/ Bucket list?

Cheryl is in Bulgaria and we have become Facebook friends, for which I am really glad. She was living in Russia when I first encountered her and I have followed her through two moves. I started blogging at the end of December 2019, so much of my “international travel” via reading the words of other bloggers has happened during COVID.

That has been an education in itself that I wish many of my friends could experience. Even people who are not friends, I wish they could experience the COVID experience through the eyes of writers around the world. Sorry friends, but we can be very self centered in the United States when it comes to many things. I would give us the benefit of the doubt and say that we do not mean to be that way, it is often the end result. Reading the COVID life experiences of writers in other countries has been an education.

Benefits and Blessings of Blogging I am not sure what I thought retirement would be like, beyond having a vague notion that whatever I chose would be it, written in stone. One of the blessings or benefits of following other bloggers who are retired from their jobs, careers, or professions, is that it is possible to make a change, more than one. While that may seem obvious to some readers, it was not obvious to me.

Reading about changes that other bloggers have made in retirement, has helped me to broaden my horizons and dream, perhaps not about where I wanted to be, (pretty sure we fixed that in place by buying our retirement home), but what I wanted to be and how I wanted to spend part of my time, now feels open and not restricted. For instance, in a way I had not envisioned before, I realized I could make changes (weight loss), learn new skills (bread making), and retool others. In other words, I am not ready to choose a headstone, or set my life in stone.

Although I had some things in common with the writing community I stumbled into, age mostly and writing style, many of the early bloggers I followed are very much into healthy living, diet, exercise, physical activity; none of those things applied to me. I felt a little sheepish, as though I had wandered into the wrong room and hoped I would not be found out. When I began my weight loss journey in earnest, I found compassion, encouragement and support from my new friends. If you have read any of my #strongerthanthecookie posts, you know I have not shied away from honest confession of a lifetime of bad habits. They have generously and faithfully cheered me on. Perhaps even better, they did not seem to tire of my updates and they are champions of self-improvement.

Photo by Pixabay  from Pexels

There are a few other things that I found to be happy surprises or positive side-effects to blogging. But I will end with this, the exchange of ideas, opinions and experiences, especially in this long season of COVID has allowed me to get to know and care about people in other countries that I would never have met in person, or any other way in print. As a result, when I hear about an issue in Ireland, or England, or Bulgaria, Mexico, Australia or New Zealand, Singapore, or India, Toronto, British Columbia and other places as well, it no longer feels impersonal. I have friends there, who have impacted my life and who matter to me. Even though we will not likely ever meet in person, they matter. This is true also for blogging friends who live in other parts of the United States as well.

I wonder if more people had that experience, if there would be, could be, fewer wars. Granted bloggers generally connect with people with similar interests and feel an affinity with, yet it is our differences that are part of what enriches the process. If more people had more positive relationships with people in other countries, I would like to believe it would make a world of difference.

I’ll have another cup of coffee and maybe one biscuit.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Linking up with Natalie’s #WeekendCoffeeShare, Denyse Whelan Blogs and Esme’s Senior Salon

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Piece Meal Stories of Jack and Maggie, Part I

Both of my parents were good cooks. So it amazes me that for all the memories I have of my parents, my memories of specific meals, or food, are scant, piecemeal. Nevertheless, my mother’s cooking especially has been a large influence in my own love of cooking, and how I cook. What I remember are simply bits of pieces of meals and experiences and yet they were very formational.

Probably part of the reason I don’t remember much of those early meals is that I was young, and was only 11 when we moved from our house in Point Independence, to the Union Villa, the hotel, bar and restaurant that they bought at the end of 1961. We moved into an apartment on the first floor of the hotel shortly before my 12th birthday. So, I think of my parents’ cooking, my mom’s especially as before the Union Villa, during the seven years we lived there, and the years following the Union Villa. In addition, during these years, my dad was in the Merchant Marine and at sea, and in other ports, much more than at home, so family meals are a bit of a blur, if a family meal means everyone at the table.

Picture of an old woman wearing a sweater and sitting in an overstuffed chair, with a young girl holding a doll.
Me, at about 5 with an unnamed friend and my grandmother, Mary Marcellino

Before the Union Villa

I remember watching my mother decorate my birthday cake for my fourth birthday. I remember Thanksgivings and mom’s oyster dressing, that I thought was awful (although I love it now and make it whenever I can, when oysters are in season). I remember my mom picking up my grandmother Marcellino, and bringing her to our house for dinner and then taking her home. What I remember most though are the plates we ate on, I remember when she bought them at the hardware store/lumber yard. They were Melmac, some were a dusty rose, and others were grey. Fashionable in the 1950’s. The dining room furniture was blond oak, also very fashionable in the 1950’s.

Mealtime Traditions with Dad

These were simple, but for me unforgettable. Somewhere along the line, dad decided to amend the traditional Catholic table grace. When we got to the end of the prayer he would add, “God bless the provider of this table!” I suppose he did not want to be left out; to his addition, mom would retort, “…and the cook!”

I remember on many occasions when he was home, my dad pushing his chair back from the table after a meal, and saying to my mother, “My dear, I have dined sufficiently!” That was especially memorable because it was a real word and a rather large one. My dad was a sailor and talked like it, so much of his conversation was sprinkled with four letter words, and larger ones but with the same type of sentiments. Although I am sure that my mother did not invent this description, he was one of those folks who could swear two minutes straight, and not repeat himself.

In those early years before the Union Villa, he would make fried fish and jag (jagacita), a Portuguese rice dish. There are probably dozens of ways to make this, but he cooked it using salt pork, chopped onion, converted rice and peas or lima beans. It was his traditional, “just got home from sea and I’m going to cook dish.”

The alternate tradition for his just getting home from sea, was my favorite, “Let’s go out for dinner!” I have only recently come to realize, that this is probably the source of my enjoying going out to eat, and my desire to do so on special occasions. Sometimes, just because it is a welcome break from cooking and cleaning up. Not to recreate something lost; but the memory is so potent, that it does beckon, creating a humble, but hopeful expectation of something that speaks of love.

My favorite places that we went to, no longer exist. The China Maid Restaurant had Juke Box selection boxes at each table. There were small metal handles at the top of each page so you could ‘turn the pages’ to see what songs were on the juke box without having to leave the table make a selection. It was fun to browse through and pick out songs. The food was good too, though nothing really stands out, so many years have past

My other favorite place to eat was The White Rabbit, which was attached to Nickerson’s Bar. I loved the dinner rolls, that were like squared hamburger buns, buttered and grilled, toasty and delicious. Their seafood platter was my favorite dish. The waitresses wore dresses that were large flower prints, and white nurses shoes to ease tired feet. We sat in wooden booths, and the atmosphere was different than when we ate at tables in the bar. Pretty much any place we would go out to eat would have a bar, that was a given.

Postcard circa 1945?

The Union Villa

The menu at the Union Villa was limited to pizzas, spaghetti and meatballs, meatball sandwiches (Grinders, or subs) and traditional Grinders (Italian subs) and occasional stuffed quohogs. (Pronounced Ko-Hogs). I never ate mom’s stuffed quohogs, though now I wish I had. We could not eat dinner together when the bar was open. Somebody had to tend bar, and somebody had to cook, so we more or less ate separately.

Even though I still love pizza and spaghetti, there had to be other foods. Mostly I remember mom making fried rice, chicken or pork chops that she made in the electric frying pan. Meals were simple, because most of the cooking in the kitchen was for the restaurant, so our food had to be made concurrently with the restaurant fare. As amazing as it sounds, we went out for breakfast every morning, to Arthur’s Restaurant, just around the corner. Mom tried making a family breakfast for us at the Villa, but when customers would hang over the back of the booth and say, “Gee, Maggie, you got any for me?” that was the end of that. So off to Arthur’s we went. We sat at the counter, but it was the only meal we could eat together.

Picture of sandwiches and fruit on a table.
Photo by Kasumi Loffler from Pexels

Customer Appreciation Meals

We lived in a beach town, and the liquor license was seasonal. That meant that the Union Villa opened on April 1st and closed on November 30th. On opening day, and closing day, mom laid out a feast. She bought large lobsters, cooked them and made lobster salad. She cleaned the large claws and placed them on the table for decoration. There were trays of sandwiches, in addition to appetizers, and the requisite chips, nuts, etc. But it was how everything looked that caught my attention. It wasn’t just the taste, but the look of a party. I thought I wanted to be able to do that. I never wandered into catering for lots of reasons, but those customer appreciation events caught my eye. Mom made everything look special and taste good.

Dad’s Version of Customer Appreciation was a little different. There were roofers, and I suppose some other construction workers who stayed at the hotel by the week. Once a year he invited “the fellas” to a home cooked New England Boiled Dinner (corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, carrots and turnips). He also made beef stew for them once a year. I was a brat, loved dad, but those meals I was happy to get an invitation to eat elsewhere, or have spaghetti.

Home Cooking

Off season cooking was much different, but still my memory does not serve me well on this. Mom made boiled butternut squash, roast beef, but not pot roast, so the beef was roasted dry. She loved wild rice and back in the day, Stouffer’s made Spinach Souffle, something I haven’t seen in a long time. Unlike the stove in the restaurant kitchen, the stove in our apartment was apartment sized. The kitchen was small, there was no counter space to speak of, no dishwasher, and microwave ovens did not exist yet.

Everything the restaurant served was homemade. The pizza dough was made from scratch, meatballs, sauces. everything was made in our kitchen, nothing was pre-packaged. Although I am not sure how it came to be, mom made most of the restaurant food, but dad made the spaghetti sauce. So he kept his hand in, but mostly he was behind the bar and took care of the whisky and beer. I helped in the kitchen as needed, squeezing canned whole tomatoes to get the pulp out, making pizza dough when needed, although mostly my help was limited to things like folding pizza boxes. But in family businesses, you do what needs to be done and it was a way to be with my parents.

There is an important thread here, and part of the reason I wanted to write this story, because it leads into my current obsession with making bread. The short year I spent overseas with my first husband, the only food from home we could not get on the base (trying not to call it ‘junk food’) was pizza. So I began to make my own, which is something that I did often when the kids were growing up. Although I can only claim to be a novice bread maker at this stage, working with flour, yeast, salt and water, and also baking as a way to deal with sorrow or stress is just part of who I have been, who I am.

I hope you will come back to read more. What about you? If you are an adult of any age, who loves to cook or bake, have you ever explored the roots and connections of that love? What have you learned about yourself in the process?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Linking up with Natalie’s #WeekendCoffeeShare, Denyse Whelan Blogs and Esme’s Senior Salon

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My August Reading

 #whatsonyourbookshelfchallenge

The Reading Challenge

I love to read and love writing, as a blogger that goes without saying. But much of my reading is taken up by professional reading needs and so recreational reading is something that generally happens only on vacation. While I had come up with a plan for improving my reading capacity, there is nothing like a good challenge. So when I was invited to participate in this challenge, I jumped at the chance.

You can find an original post about the reading challenge here: http://debs-world.com/2021/08/20/whats-on-your-bookshelf-1/

That said, I only completed two whole books this month, but once again, I am happy that I had completed reading two whole books, that spoke into my life and held my interest. In addition to the two books that I am writing to share about, I am 70% through an auto-biography on Audible, and have started reading a book for Advent, that is professional, but also spiritual and enlightening.

Photo by Oziel Gómez from Pexels

Women Rowing North

I bought the book several months ago and moved it from my bookshelf to prop it up against the wall next to my bed. Fortunately, my bedroom floor is not littered with books, it would not be safe. But this book lived, leaning against the wall on my side of the bed, for a long time, like a daily reminder to pick it up and read it. The book? Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as we Age, by Mary Pipher (Bloomsbury Publishing 2019).

When I finally picked it up, having started it once before, it became a frequent companion. It may sound as though it could be depressing, but that is not the case. Pipher skillfully and creatively weaves the stories of several women in a variety of circumstances, with the emphasis on the specific challenges they faced and how they overcome them. In addition, she offers many practical suggestions.

Several years ago, I participated in a two year certificate program. I was 58 when I started. One of our group leaders, a retired pastor, often spoke about accepting her “diminishments.” I did not quite understand; I was still in the fullness of my life and work. Today, in 2021, I am probably the age she was when she was leading our group. I understand a little better today, and wish I had been more compassionate then.

When I am working with couples who are preparing for marriage, (okay, they probably prepare more for the wedding than the marriage), I ask them, “What is the most difficult thing you have experienced together?” In retrospect, I would be inclined to still ask that question, but also send them scurrying to interview their grandparents, or another older couple they know, to have them ask that question to the older couple. Hopefully, it would not scare them off, but generate some deeper conversation.

I think this book would be a good read for the sandwich generation, as well as for those of us approaching our own “diminishments” or those of our spouse or significant other. Perhaps it would offer insight to the struggles their parents face as we attempt to flourish in the face of unexpected changes. Having said that, I do not think I would give it to the couples about to be newlyweds to read.

In many ways this book struck very close to home, as I try to carefully discern next steps in what I call my partly retired life. I am glad that I finally picked the book up and read it.

Can a Book Choose You? As I was getting to the end of “Rowing” I was not sure what my next read would be. There are lots of choices right in my office and on my Kindle, but nothing was popping. I read on somebody’s blog about a “book choosing you.” I think I did anyway. I was skeptical, but it happened to me. At least I walked past a display of books, and a book by Jodi Picoult, The Storyteller (Atria Books, 2013) caught my attention. When I read the inside cover, I knew that my next book had indeed found me.

I love her writing and am always impressed with the amount of research she puts into her novels. I have been working very intentionally on baking bread and trying to move from novice bread baker to a capable baker. It was a small thing, and yet the bread in this novel is almost, but not quite a character. It is of some importance.

There are also morsels of writing process, placed on the mouths of some of the characters. While there is not enough dialogue about writing process to qualify it as a quasi character in the novel, I think this is a “must read” for bloggers and other writers.

One caveat I should share about something that comes up early in the novel. I mentioned Jodi Picoult’s research that she clearly does. One of the characters is a funeral director. Although it must have seemed essential to the plot, I could have gone the rest of my life without feeling the need to know that many details about preparing a body for viewing. Really.

The book was hard to put down. Trying to do it justice without trite superlatives is not easy. And since I do not do “book reviews” all I can do at this point is tell you the ways each of these books intersected my life and begged me follow.

I am sure that I will not end 2021 with a long list of books read, but I am off to a good start of having read and not just listened to, some worthwhile, and meaningful books. I like fiction, and yet many of my reading choices are non-fiction.

If you have read either of these books, I wonder what your impression was, what you found relevant, meaningful or intriguing? Or off-putting?

My next read? In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, by Nathaniel Philbrick.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

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My Summer into Fall Reading Plan

I was going to title this My Summer Reading Plan, Progress Note, (https://michelesomerville.blog/2021/06/14/my-summer-reading-plan but I feel the quickly draining away of summer, with all of the school supplies on sale, the summer clothes on sale that seem to be heralding the close, or clothes of one season morphing into another. I never did buy enough sleeveless tops to get through the heat of summer, but today I had to go digging for long sleeves, at least to get me through the cool of the morning and the dog’s first walk of the day.

I was at one of my favorite stores the other day and saw an attractive door decoration and was tempted to buy it. But I stopped myself with this thought, a stifled yell from somewhere in my psyche, “Don’t buy that yet, it screams fall and it is only July 21st!”

We have had a lot of rain the last few weeks in North Central Pennsylvania. Every. Day. Rain, storms, flooding and grey skies; definitely not good sunbathing weather, or swimming or other outdoor activity weather.

Picture of books in a book case with other mementos, including old cameras and suitcases on the top shelf. Picture has rounded edges.
Photo by Taryn Elliott from Pexels

I admit, perhaps this chatter is to avoid telling you how abysmally my summer reading plan has turned out. And yet, not so bad in the long run. I have read a book that I enjoyed, and highly recommend: Mennonite Daughter: the Story of a Plain Girl, by Marian Longenecker Beaman. https://marianbeaman.com It is available on Amazon, I read it on my Kindle. I have a bad habit of checking out the ending of a book, but it is way to much hassle to do that when reading on a Kindle. So I was pleasantly surprised to find some recipes at the end of the book.

I found it to be well written and compelling and perhaps a must read, but also a potential trigger story, for anyone who has grown up with domestic violence and done the hard work of processing, attempting to understand the perpetrator, and find threads of love and forgiveness. In addition to that, she experienced extreme prejudice and bullying in a toxic work environment. There is a lot of redemption in her story and fulfillment.

It took me a while to get through the book, not because of any failing on the part of the author, but because I can be easily distracted and more importantly, had genuine family needs that required my attention.

Picture of a large black and tan dog on a brown pad on a light brown wood look floor.
Sheba

I had started reading a second book as well, the 25th Anniversary Edition of Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. This is a book that is good for writers at any stage, but in order to engage the book best, one needs to read a little and then write. I picked out a notebook to use, but just did not keep up. I intend to return to the reading and the work.

The second book that I successfully completed, was an audio book by one of my favorite authors, Jan Karon, the book was “To Be Where You Are.” I had read the book previously on a vacation, but I don’t go anywhere without an audiobook and I find comfort, encouragement and inspiration in Jan’s writing. It was an excellent companion during the stressful time of my husband’s surgery, hospitalization and recuperation.

My current read, that I am moving through slowly, but finding it important for the stage of life that I am in, is Mary Pipher’s “Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as We Age” It is a book I had started on a previous vacation and when I returned the copy to the library (unfinished) I determined to purchase my own copy. It had sat on the floor by my bed for several weeks, where I managed to avoid it, until one fateful morning it seemed to jump up and say, “Hey! Pick me!”

I am also listening to a current political memoir book on Audible, but my Kindle, or the app or my car sync can be temperamental, so I am only about 43% on that one.

So, the truth is I have only finished two books in the last month. On the other hand, I have finished two books this month! Hurrah! I know, it does not sound like much, but in the normal day to day of my work life, most actual reading is professional, which takes precedence over any other reading. It is usually on vacation that I can pick up one book read it, and then pick up another and come home from vacation with 3 to 5 books read. I always listen to audio books in the car when I am alone, so I hear books on average two a month, depending on the size of the book and the amount of car time.

Picture of an old fashioned typwriter with a paper inserted and the word "Goals" typed on the page.
Photo by Markus Winkler from Pexels

But my goal here is to pick up a book, or my Kindle and READ the whole thing!

Part of my goal that has been most successful is my determination to not sit in front of the television watching endless repeats of shows I have seen. One exception to this plan is Friday night at 10:00 p.m. Eastern Time (U.S.), if Blue Bloods is on, I am there. So I feel really accomplished in that way.

In addition to all the above, I have written and published two blog posts, and have two in process and have been intentional about reading and commenting on other blogs as I am able. Another wonderful part of my reading/writing life is a generally weekly phone conversation with a friend who writes, we share what is going on in our lives, but also encourage each other in writing progress or attempts and our hope to get back on track with our joint writing venture.

So my plan now is to continue the discipline and the reading plan into fall. That will require more intention on my part because the fall season of favorite shows is coming, and I will try to be choosy.

Oh, my other summer reading? Bread recipes! But that is another story for another post. What will my next read be? Tune in. What about you? Do you have a favorite author, or genre?

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2020-2024 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Linking up with Natalie’s #Coffee Share Weekend, #Esme Senior Salon and #Denyse Whelan’s life This Week

Separate the Egg

You have probably heard the expression, ‘”If you want to make an omelet you’ve got to break some eggs.” But a souffle is a whole other matter. If you want to make a souffle or a meringue, you have to break those eggs very carefully, so that you can separate the egg yolk from the egg white. If you break the yolk in the process of separating the egg, the yolk will contaminate the egg white and weaken, if not prevent the stability you seek for the dish you are trying to make.

I do not want to stretch this metaphor too far, so I ask you to bear with me while I try to connect some dots. There was a time in the culture in the United States, at least, in the 1950’s and 1960’s where conventional wisdom was to not discuss sex, religion or politics in social gatherings. By extension churches and other religious gatherings were not supposed to discuss sex or politics. Indeed, I would argue that separation of church and state is a good thing. But we have probably done more harm than good by not discussing sex or politics in the church. In saying that I don’t mean that churches should promote candidates for office, even though the current administration wants to change that.

But the sentiment that churches should not discuss political things or that pastors should “stay in their lane” makes it difficult for the church, or pastors, to speak and act prophetically. We are expected to be silent in the face of injustice perpetuated in the guise of politics. Many people in the pews in our churches are equally clear that they do not want their pastors to talk about politics from the pulpit, lest we drive new people or long-term members away. I understand. In a time when churches are empty, people have left in droves over a variety of issues, social, political, and personal, we do not want to be responsible for driving people away.

The trouble is though, that many injustices are being perpetuated right in front of our eyes, in the guise of politics in a way that obfuscates biblical imperatives to care for poor, hungry, aliens, widows, children, victims of abuse or war or natural disasters, refugees and others in need. But any attempt on the part of the church to address these issues is treated as meddling in politics and government.

Many of our parishioners are so used to hearing about populations in need as threats to their own security. People are being systematically taught to hate and fear anyone who is different and right now, in the United States, it seems that it is a crime to be a person of color, any color but white. For many, those are fighting words. I am speaking in fairly broad terms about a situation that is not only unfair but unjust.

As a pastor I have struggled with these issues more as time goes on. I have tried to focus my preaching on issues of biblical justice, speaking carefully because I know if I sound “political” or say too much, I will drive away my own flock, the group of people I have the greatest possibility of influencing. The reality is that if I am ‘too political” or “political” at all, I can lose that ability to influence them for good and goodness’ sake. I try to place solid and sound Biblical evidence in front of my flock, the Words of God in Scripture that call us to mercy and justice in the face of extreme racism, prejudice and hatred that masquerades as “Christian.”

It is a fine line, maybe a razor-sharp line between being prophetic and political and I have tried very hard to not cross that line but to maintain a balance on that line. But I struggle too because I have to answer to a higher authority, and what excuse can I make for my silence? I try to choose my moments, my words and posts carefully, often wondering if it is enough, if it is too much.

In recent days and weeks our country has been rocked by horrendous violence, including today as I write. People have said rightly that our response cannot be partisan but must stem from compassion that is not laced or lined with political rhetoric. They are on to something, if it can be done. We need to separate the egg, to carefully break open the shell and separate the egg yolk (politics, political rhetoric) from the egg white (wholesale, multilevel injustice) that is perpetuated on disenfranchised children of God.

We need to separate that egg because I think it is the only way we can address the issues before us. I am not sure how to say this part, but too often when concerns about the treatment of any group that has been othered or demonized by this or any other administration, politicians and their supporters take on the demeanor of a children arguing over who gets to ride in the front seat, or whose response to any call to accountability is ‘”he/she started it, they did it too!” That blame game has gotten very old.

I have spoken in general terms in order to get a point across, to begin a conversation and to suggest a model for moving forward. Whether or not one thinks it is appropriate to discuss politics in the pulpit, it is very much our responsibility to proclaim God’s justice, good news to the poor, to denounce racism, prejudice, violence and every other sin that treats humans as less than worthy of respect. It is our lane, we are called to proclaim good news to the poor, to challenge reckless rhetoric that incites violence and hatred as anything other than it is. Evil.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Rev. Dr. A. Michele Somerville

Copyright 2023-2028 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

Dear Mom,

It really has not occurred to me to write to you, because you are already such a presence in my life. But sometimes a girl needs her mom, even when that girl is a woman, even when her mom is nowhere in sight. I have not wanted to give up on my blog, but looking back over previous posts, I see that I have only written and published two since Christmas and have two drafts started but have not found the time or the wherewithal to return to them to complete the thoughts. Notices come and go telling me that there are new readers, but I know that there has not been anything new to read. Knowing that is about all the energy that I have had. So I thought in the midst of a very sorrowful afternoon that perhaps I could accomplish a few goals with one fell swoop. Write to you about what I am feeling, get a post done and in the process, perhaps the feelings and thoughts that I want to share with you, might help someone else. At least that is the hope that I am going with, what I am telling myself and you.

I know that it was not easy for you to be alone, with just my brother and me, with dad out at sea, your family over 400 miles away and dad’s family less than sociable. It was, if I can quote you, “lonely as all get-out.” We never saw you cry. But I heard you, through the vent in the floor. I heard you hitting the keys on your typewriter, writing letters to dad or your sisters. And sometimes I heard you cry, I heard you sob.

During the years that I was a single parent, and my three kids were so little, sometimes I would call you when I was having a hard time. But I didn’t say why I was calling, I said I just wanted to talk. I would call you a second time, as though I had forgotten something and we would talk a bit more. When I called back the third time, you knew. “What is wrong?” you would ask. What do you need? So, I guess you could say this is my ”third phone call.”

When you were dying, those last few weeks, because it happened so fast, I did not cry in front of you either. But when I was driving home from the nursing home in Baltimore, to our house in Pennsylvania. I cried, thankful to be alone in the car and wishing for a place that was more private than that. I wanted to find a place in the woods where I could feel safe and let loose and scream and ugly cry.

That is where I am right now. I just need a place where I can cry it out and feel safe in the process, and be undisturbed, if not understood. It is not how I feel all the time and I would say that I am not depressed. But there are situations that weigh on me and the severity of those situations and the weight of them is sometimes daunting.

This may sound odd, and I don’t mean it to sound uncaring, but in all of my current sadness, it is not grief for you or missing you. It is hard to miss you because you are like a constant presence in my life. Through memories, life lessons, storytelling, I have told and written so many stories about you and dad, but you most of all, that I never truly let you “rest in peace.” And except for the harsh reality of your death and funeral, I never felt that I had to say goodbye, never felt that I needed closure. I did grieve your death, and when you died it felt as though something had been surgically torn out of me, without benefit of anesthesia. Now, my overwhelming response is one of gratitude for the life we shared, for your love and lessons that I never had to say goodbye.

Rather it is the living that I grieve. You know your son, how when you would call him, he would say, “Oh, hi mom, I knew you were going to call, I had a headache.” And it always seemed so callous, but he was sincere. I learned in recent years that if I wanted to have a conversation with him it was always a better conversation if he called me, than if I called him. He had to want to talk, be in the right frame of mind, or it just wasn’t what one hoped for in a conversation. One day last year I dialed him by accident, “pocket dialed” with my cell phone that just had a mind of it’s own. When he answered the phone he said, “Yeah, what do you want?” When I told him I had called by accident, his response was, “Good, I didn’t want to talk anyway!”

Looking back, I realize that he had a lot of things going on in his life that did not lend themselves to being social. Then things changed and we had some wonderful conversations. When we talked, he told me that he missed me, that he loved me and was proud of me. I can’t begin to tell you how much those words meant to me, they were a balm to my soul. But in the interim, he had had at least one stroke and his ability to communicate, to grasp the right words or to string words together has gone rapidly downhill.

We had a vague hope of meeting up in Onset this past spring but he was long past the ability to travel alone. He is not answering his phone because of the large number of nuisance calls. I get that. But sometimes I call his number, just to hear his voice, to hear him say his name on the automatic answering machine, because that is the best I can get.

And then there is R, who has not had a stroke, but seems to be losing ground, with so many competing physical complications and now keeping track of things; numbers, days, answers, other things. Sometimes in the doctor’s office, when the doctor asks him questions, he can’t answer, he looks at me. I am mouthy and I have a good memory for certain things, dates, procedures, so there is a lot that I can answer. I wish I could describe that look though, because it is a look I see more often now. A look when he is trying to remember something or trying to figure something out and can’t quite get there. There are two things that happened recently that brought me to this place of wanting to go into the woods to ugly cry.

We were out of town on a short trip to visit family and while we were at the store he had an event that led us to spend the evening in the emergency room. It was a big blood sugar crash in a person who is a very careful diabetic. Although in 30 plus years he has had occasional blood sugar lows, they had not happened to this extent, when we were out in public. But it was the look, the physical weakness and the near vacant look that caught me unawares, in a place I am used to seeing strength.

The other lapse was when I had asked him to cook something that was second nature for him, but he kept putting it off. I was getting worried that the meat would go bad before he would get around to cooking it. Then one day, he admitted, that he just didn’t remember how he used to do it. I think it took four days until he did it but in between was that look not so much a vacant look but one that seemed to be a plea for help. I am not sure. But it was haunting. And it was enough for me to want to find some place to go and have a good cry. Maybe my reaction would be different if I was the type of person who could yell or scream or swear or slam things but that is not me.

I know that everyone has problems, mine are not unique. This is just a telling of the situation that drove me to write to you, because I know that you would understand that sometimes a girl still needs her mom, and sometimes a woman needs a good cry. And my hope is that being so open about my current situation and emotions, might help others who also struggle, wanting someone to talk to, wanting and needing an old-fashioned good cry to know that it is okay.

Mom, please don’t worry about me. I have good supports and coping skills (have you seen all my bread pictures?) I have a few good friends who accept me for who I am, I have meaningful work, a deep faith in God and a heart full of gratitude, much of it with your name on it. And I am

not holding back the tide,

Love,

Michele

Copyright 2024-2029 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com

75

My mother was sensitive about her age. At least she would not tell anyone how old she was, until she reached 70 and realized that she really did not look her age. Then she was proud to tell people that she was 70 years old. I have never been a good judge of age, so I don’t know if it was true or not. But I was glad for her that she was finally free of that constraint.

My parents were so close that my brother and I, perhaps smugly, thought that when our dad died after a fairly brief illness when he had just turned 60, that she would just collapse into nothingness. It was hard to imagine her surviving without him. Looking back now, I realize how foolish that was. Dad was in the Merchant Marine most of his life, mom survived all the years she had to manage on her own; while he was at sea, she was the one who ran the business, paid the bills and did a lot of the work on site.

Two years after Dad died, after living in Massachusetts for almost 30 years, she moved back to Baltimore where she had grown up. I joked that she spent her first 30 years in Baltimore, her second 30 years in Onset (Massachusetts) and returned to Baltimore for her third set of 30 years.

What I admired about her most in her 70’s though, was not the freedom with which she finally proclaimed her age, but the freedom with which she lived it. She did not languish as we had thought she might, rather she blossomed. She did things she had wanted to do, simple things in which she seem to take great joy. She took swimming lessons, she bowled in a league, she organized Christmas parties for the apartment residents in the Assisted Living Center, she did volunteer work and attended daily Mass during the week.

Her Fridays were my favorite days because on Fridays she and one of her sisters went to Mass, then they had breakfast at Dunkin Donuts, went bowling and then met me at my office to take me to lunch. I jokingly called it “Old lady lunch day” knowing how much I would miss it when the time came.

She helped me in the years I was a single parent, way more than she should have, so much so that I am embarrassed when I think about it now. She helped to buoy my spirits and in other ways too kept us afloat, stretching the gap between what I earned, what I received in child support and what it took to make ends meet. She was an active presence in my life, my best friend, and in my children’s lives. She has been gone now for 31 years, and I often joke that I tell so many stories about her that the poor woman can’t rest in peace.

The one thing that she did in her 70’s that worried me every time she did it, was making the drive from Baltimore, Maryland, to Onset, Massachusetts. It was about 425 miles one way. It is not that she was a bad driver, although she was an anxious one. I spent a lot of my childhood and teenage years as a passenger in the car with her and she would get really anxious if she thought she made a wrong turn or missed an exit. And those roads were not fun, lots of two-lane roads in between the turnpikes, bridges and tunnels. The local trips from home to New Bedford for shopping were not so much but every year there was at least one trip to Hoboken, New Jersey to meet my dad’s ship when it came in, or when it was leaving and then on to Baltimore to visit her family.

She prayed every time we crossed a state line, an “Our Father, Hail Mary, and a Glory Be” and one of the few spontaneous prayers, “Thank you dear Jesus, for bringing us safely through Rhode Island, please bring us safely through Connecticut” or whatever states we were traveling. I have maintained a Protestant version of that prayer tradition to this day. That was a real gift. Unfortunately, I have also maintained her white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel on long trips and then wonder why my hand hurts the day after a long drive.

I understand why she did it though, made those long trips to Onset in her 70’s. Even though Baltimore was her home before Onset was, and the one thing that held her in Onset was gone, my father, yet something drew her back. Again, and again. If she was anything like me, or if I am anything like her, it wasn’t the cemetery that drew her back, but the memories and the place and yes, seeing a few friends who still lived there. She always made the trip alone, hence the reason for my concern. But I can imagine the places that she went. Besides to see her friends Mary and Emmet, she probably drove to Point Independence to look at our old house and check out the state of the cottages that my dad had built.

She might have driven to the Massachusetts Maritime Academy in Buzzards Bay to park near the dock and watch boats go through the canal or drive a few miles further to one of the overlooks or parking areas to just sit and look at the canal. When we were little sometimes, we would go for those rides, she would take us for ice cream cones and then park someplace where we could sit and look at the water. So, it is easy to imagine her retracing those steps in her 70s. Perhaps at some point during her visit she would stop on the pier in Onset and look at the beach.

No matter how old she was, she was determined to make the trip as long as she was able. I think she felt drawn, or driven to a particular sense of home that was defined by their life together that was contained only in memory that was enlivened by place. And maybe even those trips to the canal, to simply gaze at all that water, when she was missing him so much that it hurt, was a way of embracing something that is way too large to be contained in the meanness of the grave.

I suppose I think these things and wonder, because on those occasions when blessed to travel home to Onset in my 70’s, I feel similarly drawn and driven to a place where I knew the love of my family, the security, and the challenges. And I go to all those places that my mother probably visited, the house in Point Independence, the lot that my grandmother’s house used to be on, the pier in Onset, the Maritime Academy, every place along the Cape Cod Canal where one can park and watch the water on its way from one entrance to the other, watch the boats glide in the water, and hear the gulls call to one another, and the traffic as it rushes by on the road behind the park.

I come home to Onset for many reasons, a re-set, visit with family, friends and classmates. But it is here in this place where I grew up with my parents and brother that I most profoundly feel their presence and absence, wrapped in love and memory. Here in this place, there is solace and balm, hope, and joy. Here in this place, I find acceptance that is often too elusive elsewhere. It may be that part of what draws me here and leads me to think they are the same places she visited in her 70s, is because they are places that she brought us when we were young, and she was sad.

Like my mother before me, I will make this drive as long as I am able. I too pray with the crossing of each state line. I am not an anxious driver, but one who tires easily, so I travel with audio books, drink a lot of coffee and snack too much. And when I get to my destination, wonder why my hands hurt so much. Every time I get to go home to Onset, from my home in Pennsylvania, I try to go with some plans, hopes, and lots of open space around my plans. I go, always knowing it might be my last trip and trying not to be greedy. And on each last day on my stop at the Onset pier, I always hope for one more trip. Even at 75.

Not holding back the tide,

Michele

Copyright 2024-2029 Michele Somerville, The Beach Girl Chronicles and https://msomervillesite.WordPress.com