After participating in Postcard Poetry Fest during July, I signed up for a smaller group of poetry postcard exchanges for each month of the year. It’s been thrilling seeing all of the ways that members of the group share art and poems. So far, I’ve colored postcards with color pencil, created fabric design postcards and made fall scrapbook sticker poems. I’ve also bought flower fairy postcards and written Have You Ever poems to go with them. I have a local friend who is diving in feet first, and she’d asked me to share some of the poetry ideas of others, so today I’ll do that! Postcard poetry ranges from plain white 3×5 index cards with nothing but black ink and a handwritten poem to elaborate collage work to vintage postcards to the traditional Wish You Were Here cards from various points across the globe. Each brings its own special smile and gets its own spotlight mailbox moment.
Here are some photos of postcards I’ve both sent and received. Proof positive that the smallest gestures, even the size of a postage stamp, can brighten someone’s day in unexpected ways.
If you are interested in becoming part of this group, Barbara Robinette has shared the following information for group members to pass along to others. I hope you will consider joining!
From Barbara:
The Purpose of the Postcard Poetry Group: To form and maintain a poetry community among poets by sharing our poems on postcards on a monthly basis sent through USPS mail. We need to continue to get the word out that we exist. Please invite other poets you know to join PPG by emailing
By the 30th of each month, I will email everyone the next month’s Name and Address Listing. Rules: Send 1 postcard to 3 (or more) poets of your choosing in either group. If you receive a card from someone you did not send to, please reply with a card. Hopefully, this makes sure everyone receives a postcard poem.
We spent Saturday afternoon with Briar’s brother and sister in law, sitting outside with them on their dock on Jackson Lake. The weather was perfect, and the breeze delightful. These are the moments I have looked forward to in retirement – being able to share time, unhurried, just breathing and being, without the pressure of work-related deadlines and duties.
Jay enjoyed some time getting to know his new family members in small doses as he develops trust in his new home with us. I can only imagine how challenging it is for dogs whose circumstances change abruptly, and my heart hurts for him when I think about how he must be feeling, constantly on the lookout for those he has spent the last 6 years loving.
a day at the lake
recalibrating our pace
in good company
As we were traveling, I saw a stuffed dog in a trash can along the side of the road and thought of the similarities to the situation. A loyal dog, there to comfort and bring joy, now kicked to the curb. And my heart felt heaviness and hope all at once – glad I can be there to save a dog who needs a home he can depend on. I’m so thankful that rescue organizations exist for dogs like Jay, and for all those who open their arms and hearts to be filled once again with the love of a dog who can help heal the ache.
Sometimes the most write-down-to-the-bone writing challenge comes from friends in a writing group: Let’s all write a poem about what really annoys the hellout of us, one among us says, throwing a gauntlet right at everyone’s feet. And don’t hold back. Tell everyone how you really feel. Write down to the bone, as Natalie Goldberg would urge.
I got my sass going and pulled out my pen and my notebook and let my mind go to a time I really wanted to jerk a knot in someone’s neck. It didn’t take long to feel my blood boiling in memory alone. That’s what writing does when it takes you back to the moment you need to just let something go or deal with it.
I’ll tell you what annoys me: when someone flippantly tells another person to smile. Especially when someone doesn’t know the personal burdens people are carrying, whether the directive comes from someone at work, a stranger in public, or anyone else who crosses a personal boundary and doesn’t know the challenges others are facing. It’s the most insensitive way to treat others, and seems to be a trademark habit of those who feel especially narcissistic and entitled.
I’ve had it happen to me on multiple occasions on the heels of my father’s death when the lines of grief had set in and seemed to hold a strong presence on my brow, but never more stinging and offensive than the time right after I’d gotten the phone call from the veterinarian that there was nothing more they could do for my beloved Schnauzer Fitz, and that I needed to begin thinking of a time when I could bring him in for his final appointment. Someone who professed to be “an expert on reading body language” walked by on the way to refill a coffee cup and said, “Smile. You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
As a matter of fact, I did have the weight of the world on my shoulders. And in that moment, for a “professional body language reader” to be so careless with that astute observation yet offer that remark, I wasn’t sure whether to cry, scream, or slam my computer shut and run out of the room. So I decided the best approach was to feel pity for the self-proclaimed professional heartless creature seeking caffeine. To be so filled with the gift of body language literacy and so devoid of sensitivity, the caffeine was clearly not the wake-up call needed.
Here’s a thought I wanted to share with the oblivious coffee drinker: use your body language reading gift with the utmost stewardship and assume someone might actually be distressed if they’re throwing off that vibe. It does no one any good to have a gift and not use it for good. Think of it like gun ownership, because it’s similar and can be worse: you wouldn’t show up to a sharpshooter’s competition waving a gun like a drunk Otis on Andy Griffith. Use your weapon to protect, build bridges, and help heal, not to kill. I can’t imagine that my late father, in his pastor days, would have ever looked at anyone with a distressed look on their face and inhumanely told them to smile. And I don’t expect people in positions of leadership to lack the lick of sense it takes to figure out the obvious and remain oblivious. It reeks of a football coach with so much lingering head trauma that when an injured player is writing in pain, they tell the player to get up and shake it off.
This got to be such an obvious thing with this particular coffee drinker that all those who’d been flippantly told to smile began sending messages of support to each other. Imagine the day I walked by a desk in an RV dealership and saw the sign: Director of Smiles. I tried to grab it and hold it up for the picture, but it was adhered to the desk. Someone before me must have tried to steal it. Now, it has become the regular image we share when someone has been told to smile.
Director of Smiles Tanka
Director of Smiles,
the sign reads, reminding me
my natural face
is who I am, not some fake
show of my humanity
I think Leigh Elena Henderson (I adore her and her expressive eyes that can carry on a full conversation all by themselves) gets it – – check out her viral Tik Tok on HR Manifesto.
A lot goes into a Gotcha Day – for both a rescue organization and a family adopting a dog. And sadly, for those who make the choice to surrender a dog they can no longer care for – sometimes through no fault of their own, and sometimes because they are heartless. It’s not my place to judge either, but instead to open my heart to the little victims who do not understand why their circumstances have changed. I left early yesterday to drive to a dog park halfway between my home in Williamson, Georgia and a foster’s home in Canton, Georgia to meet and adopt a miniature Schnauzer who had been surrendered to a rescue organization here in Georgia a month ago. We met at Sweetwater Park in Austell to determine if this was the right match, and I followed her to Hickory Trails Park in Canton to sign the papers once I knew he would get along and that my current dogs would accept him as a brother. I was part of the matching service, where someone shares exactly what they want in a dog to the adoption organizer and they start the search for the perfect match.
They say your dog of today is sent to you by your dog of yesterday, and I believe it. I believe my Fitz got across the Rainbow Bridge and knew how badly my heart was aching. I grieved him properly, but I hung onto this: I’d adopted Fitz from Schnauzer Love Rescue as a mid-life miniature Schnauzer in the range of 5-8 years. Dogs that are classified as “senior dogs” are some of the most challenging dogs to rehome, and Fitz was no exception. Rescue organizations know that it is also much harder to adopt solid dark-colored dogs because they do not photograph as well for cute pictures. Fitz came to us with ailments ranging from bad teeth that would lead to painful CUPS (Canine Ulcerative Periodontal Syndrome) and a badly broken but healing leg they’d somehow managed to save and road rash, which indicated he may have been thrown from a moving car. I’d followed Fitz, named Henry at that time, throughout his journey with his foster mom, Nancy Delf of Cumming. She kept me updated at every turn until the day Fitz was ready to join our family. And when he was, I had no hesitation signing the dotted line and pouring my whole heart into loving my Fitzie. I knew he was long past puppy stage and that he would have a shorter time with us, but I also knew that I had the love I needed for the little black Schnauzer who would become my soul dog in a matter of weeks.
Boo Radley came before Fitz, and he had been abandoned in a duplex in McDonough, Georgia by a family who’d up and left, leaving him there with a supply of food and water. He was in rough shape for a one-year old Schnoodle when the landlord showed up and took him to a rescue organization. He was severely matted and trembling. They couldn’t even tell what kind of dog he was. I first saw him in the back of a van an hour after intake, and it broke my heart. To this day, he is tormented by flies who manage to slip in the front door of the house and he shakes like a leaf if a smoke detector goes into beep mode or he smells the heat of a toaster. I’m glad I don’t know his full history – – it might break me if I did.
And then there was Ollie, who came to us shortly after Fitz. He was a young stray on the streets of Cobb County, and his foster mom in Gainesville never knew he could bark until I’d sent her a video of us playing ball and him getting vocal with his demands that we throw it again in a timely fashion, his way of saying none of this dawdling between throws! This dog is serious about his play time.
Ollie on Gotcha Day in Gainesville, Georgia
Surrender stories always break my heart. My brother’s dog, Kasa, had been shot in the foot (probably trying to steal a chicken to eat) and was living under a trailer in someone’s driveway in my own county when the frantic call for rescue came. Ken had lost his beloved Feivel, and his heart was ready to love a dog again. A Brittany takes a diehard dog lover with all the anxiety of that breed (we didn’t know that at the time), but if ever there was anyone who was going to be able to give Kasa a good home, it was my brother Ken, and he loves her like a daughter dog. My late dad’s dog, Kona, was a divine gift from my mother in Heaven. I’d had the flu and was sleeping in the other room to avoid keeping my husband awake all night. A post in the wee hours of Valentine’s Day that year caught my eye between coughing fits and sleep. A school counselor in Florida going through a divorce had a 6 month old Schnoodle he needed a home for. When I met him halfway between our towns in the Walmart parking lot in Tifton, Georgia, he was wearing a Florida State University t-shirt: a sure sign from my mother in Heaven that this was her doing. Let’s face it: no one gets a 6 month old Schnoodle for free, and I’m half convinced that I was entertaining an angel unaware since the man never said one word to me during the entire exchange – – he merely wept and handed her over to me through the driver’s side window. My brother and I delivered her to our dad and told him he had 24 hours to decide whether to keep her, or I would come back and keep her as mine. And as he lay dying in the hospital years later, he called her next owner (not me) to his bedside to explain to his friend Ann that he wanted her to keep taking Kona to the dog park she visited everyday and to stay connected with all her dog friends on St. Simons Island. She tearfully accepted Kona, telling Dad, “I’ll take her, and I’ll always have a piece of you because of her.”
You can’t make these stories up.
Which brings me to the 6 year old male 13-pound Parti Schnauzer whose name is AJ. Another heartbreaking rescue story by someone who’d ultimately made the best choice for a family pet. A single mother of two sons who’d raised AJ and had both gone off to school called the rescue to say she was finally an empty nester and didn’t want the responsibility of a dog anymore; she’d rather travel, and the boys were done with the dog that she’d never considered hers – – it was theirs. And they’d moved on with their lives. Schnauzer Love Rescue stepped in and fostered the dog through all his needed vaccines and skin sensitivities, and as all that was happening, my conversation with the placement coordinator was also happening, describing the match I desired: I didn’t care about the gender or the color, I just wanted a miniature Schnauzer or Schnoodle that shared many of Fitz’s personality traits. I wanted one who’d gaze into my eyes and trust me enough to let me hold him upside down, who’d fall asleep against my chest and who’d follow me everywhere and need me when Boo Radley was in my husband’s lap and Ollie was curled up not needing anyone except to throw his ball and give him treats. I didn’t have to have a dog fast. I wanted the right dog at the right time. I didn’t see that dog on the current available dogs on the website, so the wait began.
An email came a couple weeks later. I was on the train in Blue Ridge with my husband and his brother and sister-in law for their birthday month trip to see the first of the leaves turning, and I looked down to see pictures of the match they’d made for me, with his ears perked and his nub of a tail. He was smiling just like Fitz, and his eyes resembled Fitz’s eyes in a kind of unbelievable way.
I knew it enough then to set up the meeting, but when I got there to meet him, there was a confirmation sign, this time from Dad. It wasn’t a Florida State University t-shirt. It wasn’t South Carolina Gamecock garb (my team). AJ was wearing a Felix-approved Georgia Bulldogs collar. Proof positive that this match may have had all the algorithms of the dog organizers, but also the Heavenly kiss from my parents that was even more important.
AJ on Gotcha Day in Canton, Georgia
TheAJ Email Came on a Train
there we were at our mountain rental
celebrating family times ~
on the train, the email came:
we’ve found your rescue match!
the wait is over
I’ve picked him up
Gotcha Day
happened….
{{{ love }}}
And on the first evening, he slept on my chest and napped upside down in my lap. I think Fitz tipped him off with insider information on how to get more treats.
I have days of immense dog grief. I’m always missing my Schnauzer Fitz who was too sick to go on living and crossed the rainbow bridge back in May as he rested peacefully in my arms. There are some deep sadness days, the kind where you not only sniffle-cry, but your heart feels empty and hurts so bad that you wail a little in an ugly cry and hope no one hears. So I reached out a few weeks ago to our rescue just to ask…..to tell them and reassure myself that there’ll never be another Fitz, but…. is there a Schnauzer or Schnoodle who might resemble my soul dog in the way he gazed at me and studied my face? Is there one who will recline in my arms like a baby and need me to rub his belly and his ears and who’ll nuzzle my neck? Is there one who chases lizards and might growl a little in annoyance at my husband when he kisses me? Is there one who shakes it all off if he’s leash walking and it’s time to go and he doesn’t want to but I insist? Is there one who’ll steal my heart and stop the world when it all needs to slow down? Is it true that our dogs of today are sent to us by our dogs of yesterday?
Will he be our new
schnauzer? Is my heart ready?
He’s rescue-ready.
I got the email on Monday. They’ve made a possible match. I’m going to go meet him soon – hopefully today. It’s another boy.
I call Bethany my sister-in-law because what’s his is mine and what’s mine is his, and since she’s married to his brother, that makes her my sister in law too. When we saw that we would not be able to complete Part 2 of our Route 66 trip from Santa Monica to Albuquerque this year, we booked a quick weekend getaway to the mountains of North Georgia a couple of months ago to celebrate their birthdays this month. We’d flown to Chicago and rented a car to drive to Albuquerque and fly from Albuquerque back to Atlanta in June 2024, and we still talk about all the great memories we made on that trip. I can’t forget that coconut pie at the Midpoint Cafe in Adrian, Texas, but that’s an entire story for another day. And so we found a VRBO situated just outside Blue Ridge on a winding creek where we could relax and lower our blood pressure.
That’s why it was so meaningful yesterday when Bethany shared that she knew God had this weekend in mind, prompting us to plan the trip when we did, knowing we’d need to get away more now than ever. Things got real a couple of weeks ago when Kyle had a heart attack. When he’d picked Bethany up from the airport, he shared he wasn’t feeling well, and she’d recognized the symptoms. She took over the driving and took him straight to the hospital, where hours later, after his heart attack, the doctor showed them The Widowmaker images and assured them that they had done the right thing getting to the hospital when they did. Following surgery, he was released a few days later as good as new – even better, actually. Doctor’s orders were to take it easy for the next few weeks.
Nothing surprises God. He had Kyle in his hand, getting him to the hospital so he could be here to celebrate another birthday. Here in these mountains, we’ve eaten delicious foods, sipped coffee in the early morning, taken walks, and sat around talking and laughing as we’ve shared family stories by the fire. Today, we’ll ride the rails of the Blue Ridge Scenic Railway along the Toccoa River to see if we can spot the first leaves of fall turning their glorious colors. And we’ll each say a prayer of thanksgiving for the beauty of nature and the time together to enjoy it.
We’ve always heard the popular phrase, “Life is short. Take the trip. Buy the shoes. Eat the cake.” But when someone we love has a close call, you realize it’s not just some random saying on a t-shirt. It’s true. We get one wild and precious life, and the poet Mary Oliver had the right idea asking us what we were going to do with it. Today, we answer: we’re going to live it to the fullest and thank the Good Lord for the gift.
They waited on us while we shopped in Elegy
They stood on the bridge of the creek that ran behind our rental, Trout House, and watched for….trout!
When we drove a little over half of Route 66 in June 2024 with my husband’s brother and his wife, we took a lot of pictures. One theme emerged early into the trip: brothers on benches. Bethany and I would be shopping in a store or ambling along to check things out in the small towns along the way when one of us would suddenly spy the brothers deep in conversation on a nearby bench. We’d snap a photo just to timestamp the moments of our slow-paced trot across the nation, where the scenery changed by the minute but the desire to just sit and talk never did, no matter the GPS point.
Such is the case this weekend in the mountains of North Georgia on our getaway to celebrate Bethany and Kyle’s birthdays this month. The brothers are still finding benches, no matter where we go. And we’re still capturing the moments in pictures. It’s the conversation and not the landscape that remains the constant.
The only game/puzzle my father ever believed was not a “frivolous waste of time” was a crossword puzzle. And he did the New York Times puzzle religiously, in pen, breezing through Monday like a flat treadmill, and slowing down with the incline challenge each day until Saturday, when it was next to impossible. Yet he motored through, and he’d often leave several clues undone and ask my brother and me to help him finish. When he died in June 2025, I found many of those single newspaper pages folded into just the crossword section with the puzzles all completed.
I believe puzzles and games improve brain health, and it’s one of the reasons I wanted to learn to play Mahjong and to find a group so that I can play it regularly to keep my synapses firing. It’s one of the new joys I’ve discovered in retirement, and it makes me happy to have the fellowship with others as well. When I’m not in a group playing Mahjong, though, I do still enjoy crossword puzzles and the bravery to complete them in pen just like Dad did. Since I don’t take the New York Times, I do the Page-a-Day Crossword on the desk calendar and the puzzle on the last page of The New Yorker each week (a subscription that is a much loved gift from my aunt and uncle). I think of Dad and which clues he would be saving for Ken and me. The puzzles are listed as beginner friendly, moderately challenging, or challenging. And while some are brain bending, I don’t give up.
