When I was eleven, our school band needed new equipment—and that meant selling candy bars door-to-door. In a neighborhood like mine, I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, so it wasn’t hard. But I saved Mr. Hermes house for last. Mr. Hermes was a neighbor several homes down from my own. He had a meticulous lawn and manicured shrubs, and he wore what seemed to be permanent scowl. I knocked. The door opened slowly. Mr. Hermes looked down at me with the same authoritarian expres

Live as long as I have and you’ll gather quite a few Thanksgivings to reflect upon. This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, 1989—the first year we spent in what we believed would be our forever home. Tom, dressed in his wedding tuxedo of all things, is carrying in the turkey from the old outdoor oven my grandmother gave us. And yes, he’s also on the phone. That phone line was our tether to a livelihood—constant, necessary, even on Thanksgiving. Selling apples meant the holi

My granddaughter has recently started peppering me for stories from when I was a young girl. It’s been fun to look back and share some of my foibles, lessons, and laughter with her. One afternoon, we were sitting at her dining table while she munched on a few of my homemade biscuits. Watching her enjoy them reminded me of another story—a biscuit story from long ago. I was about ten, and I belonged to a 4-H club that focused on cooking and sewing. For the county fair, I decide

Okay, I’ll begin with a quick poll. Would you prefer to enjoy your family and friend gatherings around a crowded table, or would you prefer to dine with a bit more elbow room? There’s no wrong answer—just a personal preference, and that’s absolutely fine. I grew up in a small home with a two-seat kitchen bar for breakfast, and a dining table where Mom, Dad, my sister, and I sat each evening. But when the holidays came, both sets of grandparents, and my great-grandfather would