Summer is my favorite time of year. Warm days, later sunsets and earlier sunrises all provide the canvas on which we can build days that are perfect for making memories. What are some of your favorite summertime memories?
 
For me, when I think all the way back to my childhood, I remember the simple things. Playing in the park a block away from our house as a kid, fishing for carp at the Ypsilanti Dam with my dad and two younger brothers, and playing softball with friends.
 
While I no longer live in my hometown, we get back there often in the summertime because we have a cabin nearby. Last weekend, it was a drizzly Saturday night, so we drove in from the lake for ice cream. I was feeling nostalgic, so we took a little detour, driving by the house I lived in during my grade school years.
 
The house hasn't changed much, other than the color, even though we moved away from there in the late '70s. It looks smaller now, and a huge, second garage sits on what was once the perfect baseball diamond in our backyard—perfect for little kids that is. My dad built the first garage. The memories are fuzzy, but I remember finding little treasures in the dirt when the grass was cut into strips of sod and rolled up to make way for the new building. I also remember that garage becoming the perfect setup for wicked games of anti-i-over!
 
Going back even further in my memories, I remember a terrifying drive away from that house in the dead of night, streetlights shining through the rain splattered car windows. Mom was very pregnant with my brother, which would have put me at just shy of three years old. The river, behind the houses across the street from us, was flooding. We needed to get out. Dad stayed behind. I'm told the water flooded our basement, reaching the top step, nearly touching our main living area. Dad had to knock in windows, maybe even part of one basement wall, so the pressure wouldn't collapse the whole structure. He saved our house while Mom drove our little family to safety.
 
To look at it now, you'd never know.
 
My old mini-van, now with over 200,000 miles on the odometer and reserved for easy trips like this, drove slowly down our old street and then rounded the corner toward Klaus Park. There, along a dense growth of trees and grasses, was a large doe, munching on tree leaves. She glanced our way, unconcerned, and went back to her dinner. It was such a peaceful scene on a damp Saturday evening in a quiet neighborhood.
 
I spent countless hours in that park growing up. There is a spot, in the back of Klaus park, where two rivers meet: the James River and the Pipestem River. For as long as I can remember, there's always been a bench there, where a person can sit and take time to enjoy the view. As so often happens in my writing, bits and pieces from my life find their way into my stories, and this bench is no exception. I had this very bench in mind during two different scenes in my third novel, and it was fun to stop to see it again and snap a few pictures.

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We continued on with our lazy drive through the park, no one else around on such a wet evening. Next stop for photo ops: the beautiful walking bridge spanning the river and the older playground equipment near the front of the park. I wonder how many times I walked across that bridge or rode my bike over it as a kid?
 
I couldn't help but compare the old playground equipment, the very ones I climbed, rode, bounced, and slid down on as a child, to the brightly colored, molded playground equipment of today. I'm a bit surprised no one has felt the need to rip the old equipment out due to "safety concerns." Personally, I'm glad they remain in the park. Not everything needs to be plastic and new.

​It felt a bit odd, being back in that old neighborhood we left so long ago. We moved when I started seventh grade, but I still have so many snippets of our days in that first house deep in my memories. And most of the memories are of times spent outside, in the summertime. There was a new flower garden in the corner of our yard. A swing set in the backyard and a big old tire wedged between some trees and filled with sand. We played in that sandbox for hours. I even remember a heavy, red canoe, propped up against the side of the house. We'd play around and under that old thing all the time but I don't ever remember it in the water.
 
Do you ever go back to your first home, even to just drive by it?
 
Our kids have only ever lived in one house. I can't help but wonder what they'll remember when they look back to their grade school days. We live on the river, and we've fought floods, but we've never had a basement full of water. There's a park at the end of our street now, too. The old playground equipment that was there when we first moved in has been pulled out, replaced by a more modern, very likely safer version. It's a wonderful setup, and little kids in our neighborhood are lucky to have it. They'll never experience the burn of sliding down a metal slide that's been heated by the summer sun, and that's a good thing, but still…
 
Home—it plays such an integral part in our lives. Home is also a critical component in my third novel, coming out next month. Maybe that's why I was feeling so nostalgic. Homes come in many different shapes and sizes. "Home" can be an apartment, a small house, or a large one, a simple or an elaborate dwelling. But a home is so much more than just a building. It isn't only a place. It's a feeling. It should be our safe place; somewhere to rest, and eat, and live, and love.
 
And since today is Father's Day, I wanted to give both my dad and my hubby a shout out for all you have both done in keeping a roof over our heads.  Thank you for helping provide homes for our family. For fixing, for saving, for building, and for maintaining the various places we've called home through the years. We couldn't do it without you.
 
And to all of you fathers out there: Happy Father's Day!   Kim

How often do you actually write something down on paper? In our fast-paced world of emails, texts and gadgets, do you ever stop to think about the ramifications of recording so much of our lives only in the electronic realm? As the online world continues to evolve at a rapid pace, will essential bits of history be lost forever? Are things becoming too generic?
 
The benefits of electronic communication are many. Speed, convenience and efficiency are all improved. Less of the world's forests are lost to the production of paper. The list of benefits is long.
 
But there are almost always pros and cons to everything.
 
There is something to be said about the ability to hold something tangible in your hands. Something that won't be lost among the massive amount of online information. Photographs, books and personal correspondence are all things we can now enjoy in electronic form, but I think we need to keep a balance.
 
How information is passed on from one generation to another has been evolving since the beginning of mankind, but the leap from physical to electronic formats is a giant one.
 
When we write something down on paper, it bears our own unique handwriting. When we dash off a note in an email, that small piece of personal flair is lost.

​Handwriting itself is an evolving art form. Personally, I love old documents bearing beautiful penmanship. Imagine for a minute the amount of practice that had to go into learning to create such intricate, stylistic writing. When I was a child, we were required to learn cursive. I’m thankful for this. Many kids aren't even taught to write in cursive anymore. Taken a step further, when they don't learn how to write in cursive, they can't read it either.  I found this gorgeous workbook at an auction. The pages are full of someone's practiced letters.
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For years, I've been tossing various greeting cards we've received into a box. There is a box for each of us, and at this point, they are overflowing. During my more practical moments, I consider tossing all of it. After all, the boxes take up space. We seldom go back to look at what is in them. But if I take a step back from the urge to purge, I think the best answer is to weed through them and keep the special ones.
 
A card or note from a loved one suddenly becomes more precious when the sender is no longer with us. Gazing upon a quick greeting they dashed off in their own unique style links me back to the person they were, and I'd hate to lose that, no matter how much space I'm giving up to house the memories.
 
My mom's sloppy handwriting was legendary. Now when I read things she wrote to me over the years, and I still struggle to make out the words, I can't help but smile. Those cards provide me with a tangible link back to her. I'll never again be able to pick up the phone and talk to her, but I can feel her presence in those notes.
 
My dad, on the other hand, is an artist. His handwriting is unique, bold, and I'd recognize it anywhere. Similar to so many things he's created through the years, it's all him.
 
Have you ever written in journals? Maybe you kept a diary when you were a kid. If you did, and you're lucky enough to still have it, stashed somewhere among your old mementos from earlier days, pull it out and take a look. Revisit yourself, back when it felt like you had your whole life ahead of you. What was important to you back then? Did those things evolve into your core values or were they fleeting thoughts of a child?
 
Or maybe you have journals from five, ten, or twenty years ago. Take a few minutes to glance through them to remind yourself of what your life looked like back then. What's changed? If those journals were a way for you to record your hopes and dreams, has the reality of the years measured up? 

Similar to the reminder we get when we attend a funeral, that life passes much too quickly, reading our personal thoughts from fifteen years ago can serve as a wake-up call to make the most of our time. Maybe it can even serve as the impetus to get going on that one thing you always dreamed of doing.
 
Can we get the same kick from something we recorded in an electronic document ten years ago? Could you even find anything you put in an electronic format ten years ago? I doubt it.
 
Today's blog isn't meant to bash the convenience and efficiency of online communication. Both my day job and my writing career revolve around it. But it is intended to serve as a reminder that putting things down on paper still has merit. And if you can record it in beautiful, practiced handwriting, even better!
 
I touch upon this issue in my fiction series. Each book is about how family members expand on the legacy left by their great aunt, Celia. She is dead now, and the only form of direct communication they still have from her is in the form of letters and journals. If not for those written documents, it might be as if she never even existed.
 
Maybe today's finally the day you should sit down and dash off a handwritten letter to a loved one. Or what if you take a few minutes to record your thoughts on how important your family is to you in a journal they'll find when you are gone? Think about how priceless that could be. There's no time like the present!   Kim
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Once a year, I feel a twinge of loss as I set the clocks ahead one hour. Spring is near, we are enjoying longer days in North Dakota, and it's time to spring ahead to Daylight Savings Time. So why the twinge?
 
Intuitively, I know it's silly. I haven't really lost an hour. Clocks are just another way to measure time, like calendars. These measurements serve a vital purpose without which the world would dissolve into chaos. Measurements of time allow us to coordinate our lives with others.
 
While it would be impossible to "do" life without these measurements of time, the ticking of the clock does evoke an endless array of emotions. Too often we fret that we "don't have enough time" to do all the things we want (or think we have) to do. We're constantly "running late," or "counting down the days," or even worrying about the ticking of our "biological clocks." It's enough to drive us crazy with anxiety and a sense of scarcity.
 
I've decided to do my best to flip this notion of time scarcity on its head. Now when I turn the clocks ahead by one hour, I'll let it serve as a reminder to appreciate the hours, days and years I've already experienced and those yet to come. No more moaning about another birthday. Instead, I'll strive to appreciate the opportunity to celebrate another trip around the sun and for the experiences gained during the rotation.
 
I've always been intrigued by little remnants of history. I love old trinkets left over from special times in other people's lives. They spark my imagination. 
 
There is a small alcove in our house where I display my collection of vintage purses. I can't explain why, but these little beauties give me joy. There is absolutely nothing practical about them. Maybe that's what makes them special to me. A life filled with nothing but the practical would be painfully bleak and colorless.

I like to imagine the type of women that actually used these purses, decades ago. What kinds of parties did these purses travel to and what was a woman wearing when she looped one of these over her wrist? Perhaps one of these pretty little bags was part of a young woman's wedding trousseau. Maybe another was a gift from a soldier to his sweetheart when he returned from war.  
 
Who designed these miniature works of art? The intricate metal scrollwork on some of the purses is breathtaking. Some are covered in row upon row of beading, likely done by hand. How were these created, so many years ago? 
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​I'm purposefully including a picture here that displays a bit of damage on one of my favorites. I could have passed up the purse because it wasn't perfect. Or I could have turned it to the other side when I took this picture so you couldn't see the flaw. But I choose not to pretend they're perfect because I think we all might be just a little tired of the illusion of perfectionism. I know I am.  
 
A few missing rhinestones or a loose thread and missing beads likely mean the purse was well used, enjoyed by someone on special occasions. They are still gorgeous creations, made all the more special because of their history. 

,​Nestled among my purses are two small angels. My grandmother gave these to me many years ago. Grandma used to put them on her Christmas tree. When I first got a place of my own, she thought I'd enjoy having these to start my own collection of ornaments. She gave me a set of four. I used them on our trees for years. Somewhere along the line, the blue and the green angels disappeared. I didn't want to chance losing the remaining two, so now instead of being tucked away for eleven months of the year with all my other ornaments, I keep them out where I can enjoy them, and they won't accidentally be lost among the tree branches.
 
Similar to my purses, these pretty little angels give me joy. I need only to look at them to remember many of the special times I enjoyed with my grandma as I was growing up. Just like so many of the women in my life, she shared priceless wisdom and love with me.
 
Experience is teaching me that hours are nothing more than markers as we travel through this life. We should seek out and partake in those experiences that bring us bliss and make the hours disappear. The hours aren't truly lost.
 
Maybe some of the small trinkets that accompany us on our own adventures will bring joy to someone in a future generation, too, long after we're gone.
 
Each of us will start to show some wear and tear as the years click by, just like my pretty little purses, but we need to stop thinking of the wrinkles and imperfections as problems and instead wear them as a badge of honor. What a blessing to sport laugh lines and wrinkles around the eyes when they are a testament to life, love, heartbreak, survival, and laughter.
 
Make the most of every hour and fill your life with experiences that will deepen your laugh lines.    Kim
 

​When was the last time you noticed a pretty sunset?
 
Gorgeous sunrises and spectacular sunsets serve as bookends to each day. Sometimes the colors are soft and muted. Other times the sky glows with a vivid beauty even the most talented painter would be challenged to recreate. 

Clouds will occasionally obscure our view, but we know the beauty is there, behind the cloak. It doesn't matter if it's a bitterly cold winter day or a hot, stormy summer evening. Regardless of the season, sunsets are here to remind us of the splendor of life.
 
My favorite colors are pink and aqua. Last night's sunset glowed with those particular, cotton candy hues. Thank goodness the beauty of the evening sky stopped my daughter in her tracks. I'd have missed it if not for her.  

No matter what your favorite color is, you'll find it in a sunset. If not tonight, maybe tomorrow. Be patient and keep an eye on the sky. And enjoy the wait.
 
Sunsets can signal when it's time to enjoy some of those extra special moments in life:

• bonfires
• movie nights
• family dinners
• an evening out with friends
• a night in with someone you love
• story time with a precious child

Sunsets, like so many beautiful things surrounding us, are often missed or taken for granted. We forget to appreciate their awesomeness. Maybe that's why some are grand enough to take our breath away—it makes them harder to ignore.
 
My daily commute covers very flat terrain. There's nothing to obstruct the beauty, except occasionally my own mind. I forget to look. To really see the beauty in the skies.
 
Sunsets are fleeting. Some slip quietly away, unnoticed. Others are charged with heat lightning, sparking off on the horizon.
 
Is there anything more awe-inspiring than mile-high thunderheads at dusk, glowing bright-white against a turbulent navy, shot through with streaks of lightning?

Perhaps the one thing that can top a summer thunderhead is the rare northern lights, glowing and undulating in icy air as darkness falls.
 
Sunsets are a reminder that endings can be beautiful and not something to be feared. They are part of the constant rhythm to our days.
 
    ***Beauty, rest, stars, rejuvenation, energy, light, opportunity, beauty, rest and on and on***
 
Sunsets are absolutely free to everyone blessed with sight and a line of vision to the sky.
 
My post today contains fewer words and more photographs. Photos I've captured in my everyday life when I've felt inspired to save the glory at dusk. Similar to the painter, my words cannot do justice to the artistry of nature.
 
What if we measured our lives in sunsets instead of years? What if we strive to feel peace at every sunset?
 
Friends, keep your eyes on the horizon when the sun dips low and enjoy the transient display.   Kim