Stretches of time to sit and write were as rare as hens’ teeth when I worked full time, but now that I’ve retired, they are frequent and savored like a warm croissant drizzled with cinnamon honey butter. I’ve recently completed my late father’s unfinished novel with a fellow writer, a family friend more considered friendly family. Writing groups, monthly challenges and yearly challenges are springing up everywhere. Even though the official site closed down last year, November is still Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month), and alternative sites and resources are in full swing, Poetry Outdoors is happening, and one of my favorite Substackers, Tammy Evans, has a Flash Fiction challenge going on as well. Writing opportunities are everywhere! The Audrey Gidman prompts for November are always inspiring, and I could spend all day at home in the drizzling rain just writing.
First things first, though.
The countdown to Christmas is on now that Halloween is over, and I’ve found the perfect tea I couldn’t wait to share. It’s the mint hot cocoa of tea, and I found it in The Fresh Market in Peachtree City earlier this week when my sister in law and I went shopping for Mahjong sales in Heirloom Market next door. On a whim, we walked over to take a stroll and see what trouble we could find in The Fresh Market. I’m making the switch back to decaf, and I needed tea and coffee.
This tea is the perfect writer’s tea. I think the minty taste and aroma might actually wake up my brain more in the wee hours when I rise to write, before the dogs get stirred up and I help get my husband out the door to go to work. If you’re in the market for a new fireside drink with a zing of mint to awaken the senses but you can’t decide between hot chocolate and tea, here’s your answer!
What, really, is a shell? Is it a nest-wing of comfort? Is it a book of wise lessons and sage advice? Is it a warm blanket? A home? A roof that doesn’t leak? A hole in the base of a tree? A fence? Is it a place of solace like a fort or barricade? Does it keep something safely in or keep something out? Is it self-serving or sharing?
I’m pondering shells today. I recently rescued a six year old miniature schnauzer whose owner surrendered him when her boys left for college. She wanted to travel. My new dog’s former shell crumbled, but I took him into mine. As I hold him and stroke his soft fur and feel his playful nose-nudges, I have to wonder: will the boys and their mother feel the empty shell syndrome when they come home for holidays and realize that there’s a lot of love missing? Will they rearrange the furniture as they put up the Christmas tree and realize when they discover a forgotten toy that he was part of a family he’d loved and now he isn’t there to chase the ball anymore and nestle in their blankets as they kick back and watch a movie?
Have their hearts hardened, or will their shells soften when they realize the grief impact of their mother’s decision to teach her sons that love is a one-way street just for when it’s convenient?
I’ve been reviving my bird garden for the coming winter months, for when the insects aren’t as plentiful and the shrubs all die down in the cold. We’re those people who toss handfuls of birdseed onto the blanket of pristine white snow, knowing the birds will make the seeds disappear faster than bags of bread when a hurricane nears. When the last of the hummingbirds have flown south, that’s the time I stock up on different seeds and fill the suet feeders with berry-laden block cakes.
And the salt licks, too, are fully replenished, sitting on the tree stumps the deer use like an office water cooler to gather and gossip about news of coyote sightings and Great Horned Owl conversations heard between the northwest and southwest corner trees. The foxes and bobcats haven’t been spotted lately, but we know they’re back in the thick trees on the dirt road side of the farm. The possums are welcome, keeping the lawn free of ticks that would travel inside on the legs of our dogs, but those armadillos are party crashers, showing up without an invitation, eyeing our new air conditioning unit like it’s a football player needing tackling. They succeeded, indirectly, in taking down the last one. And I don’t like them now for a new reason: they traipse across Fitz’s grave, and I just know if he could raise his little head up out of the ground, he’d take them down hard.
And so it’s time for the talk with Jay. I’m going to have Ollie, our dog who actually gets it, try to explain that back here in the woods on the farm, we welcome creatures and critters and yes, even the Slytherins. The Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws must appreciate the dark art types if we are to fully embrace the wild things of the farm. We live by Aldo Leopold’s iconic line from A Sand County Almanac: There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot.
October afternoons here in middle Georgia on the farm have been nothing short of sheer perfection as Mother Nature blows gentle cool breezes across the sun’s warmth. I have pulled out the camp chairs just to sit outdoors rereading Gladys Taber books while the dogs run and play in the fresh air. As we were listening to the Ella Langley station on Pandora today, I happened to look up and see Jay wallowing in the joy of the sunshine, basking in the love of a forever home.
It’s true what they say: give dogs the 3/3/3 timeframe. Three days to adjust to their new surroundings, three weeks to learn the routines and expectations, and three months to accept that this is their new home and family. We are only at the three week mark, but somehow I think he is beginning to feel part of the family already.
Part of it may be because of “chicken time.” My brother and sister-in-law have chicken time every night in their house. Their dogs get a strip of chicken jerky, and it’s such a hit there that we brought that nightly treat here using the Member’s Mark chicken jerky strips in the blue bag I get at Sam’s Wholesale Club. It’s the dog equivalent of having a place at the family dinner table; they know they belong when they get these treats.
Oh, to be able to express this happiness of love and sunshine with such exuberance! Blessed are we.
Yesterday, I shared a little about the Poetry as a Healing Art series that began this week as part of The Stafford Challenge. You can still sign up (registration is free) for the remaining sessions here at this link. Dr. Deborah E. Grayson led us in some prompts on Tuesday evening to inspire writing as therapy. One was a soundtrack of our lives, which I wrote about yesterday, and today I’ll share three more inspiring ideas from Tuesday evening’s session.
Dr. Grayson asked us to consider where we find healing and to write about those places in response to the “salty times” of our lives – such as divorce, death or illness of a loved one, or loss of a beloved pet. Many people responded that in addition to poetry, healing is found in scripture, in reading books, in art, in nature/gardening, and in playing or walking with pets. I agree with all of those and would add coffee and conversation with friends and loved ones as well. I love travel and seeing new places and parts of the world and find that travel often offers new perspectives that can bring healing.
She also inspired us to create a Prescription for Loneliness. My first go-to is reading. I find that when I read, I’m keeping company with characters and authors. My book club sisters and I meet each month to talk about our reading, and that’s a lovely time shared with others! Getting outside with my dogs also keeps me in good company when my husband is at work and would be #2 on my prescription list. I shouldn’t admit this, but Hallmark movies somehow make me feel like I’m a nicer person, and those have a medicinal effect on loneliness too. Grayson explained that all of these items on our brainstormed lists can be used in poetry, such as list poetry.
Finally, our concluding activity was to spend a few moments and write a list poem. We could use our Prescription for Loneliness ideas, our Playlist of our Life ideas, our places we find healing, or we could write one like poet Andrea Gibson made in the days before she died after a long battle with Ovarian Cancer in July 2025. Her poem was entitled A List of Things that Don’t Suck, to Make Your Day a Little Brighter. I’ll begin my own list with 3 that come to mind:
Things that Don’t Suck
A rescued dog who rolls belly-up in the grass, kicking his legs toward the sky in happiness in the autumn sunshine and you think you see him stop for a second to offer you a smile of gratitude.
A playlist of great songs made especially for you in retirement, sent to you by your daughter.
Last night was a fabulous kickoff of the Poetry as a Healing Art series that is being sponsored by The Stafford Challenge. These sessions are free, and you can visit this link to register for the remaining sessions if you are interested. Dr. Deborah Grayson led the first session and took us through the many ways that poetry can heal hurts, instill hope, and inspire creativity.
Of the many activities and prompts that she led us through, one of my favorites was making a soundtrack of our lives. The chat thread lit up with so many fabulous songs, and I’ll bet there were 200 songs listed by the entire group of participants in attendance.
Earlier in the day, my daughter sent me a Spotify playlist to enjoy in retirement, particularly while I’m working on creative ventures such as painting our decoupaging. You can click here to listen! She’s so thoughtful and creative, and she knows I love all these songs.
What a treat to have music and those in our lives who share lyrics – which is, of course, poetry – with us to celebrate the moments of our lives. Poetry IS a healing art, and one for which I remain ever so grateful.
For Mallory and everyone reading today, go to YouTube and listen to a song from my playlist just for you:
I Love by Tom T. Hall ~ enjoy it!
take the time today
to create a soundtrack of
your life ~ share a song!
‘
I took a picture right as my daughter shared the playlist, and she replied: perfect timing! She knew I would be in the middle of something creative right at that moment when she sent it.
Matt Forrest Esenwine is a New Hampshire-based author of a dozen children’s books and our host today for the third day of the October 2026 Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com. You can visit the website and click on Open Write to read his full prompt.
Matt shares his process here:
Here’s all you do: pick an object, any object (most boring object ever – or not!), and begin thinking of ways to describe it. Once you have your list, scan through it and see what words/images/feelings you are drawn to. That’s your basis for your poem.
I’ve been decoupaging candles with pressed wildflowers lately – something my mother taught me how to do, and it keeps her memory close. I decided to write a haiku about the ones I have created. While I’ve been creating some flameless ones for my grandchildren from their birth month flowers to use as nightlights, I think smaller ones placed as seating card holders at a wedding reception would be a lovely wedding favor for guests to take home after gracing the tables with light during the gathering. They look wildly romantic, and the ones with faint pink take my breath away.
I used to love making pressed flowers for bookmarks and decoupaging plain white candles and decorative soaps when I was younger. My mother taught me how to take newspaper and fold it to match the pages of a heavy book and use that as a press. About six weeks later, we’d use tweezers to take the petals and stems and arrange them over a flat surface using Mod Podge. I think our hobby started back in the day when women carried hexagon-shaped wooden purses decoupaged in collage, with tortoise-shelled handles. Macrame purses were all the rage at that time too. As I was looking for some photos of the ones I’d possibly blogged about before, I did a quick search and discovered I had created a list of 50 things I planned to do in retirement from November 2024, and pressing wildflowers was one of them. How did I forget that list? Check it out here. The dream hasn’t changed much!
During the middle of last week, I called my sister in law to see about coming to get some zinnia clippings from her wildflower beds to press between old newspapers. Off I went, clippers in hand, and came home and pressed a paper sack full of greenery and flower petals I’d collected. In 2008, I participated in a teachers’ study along scientists doing research in the field in South Georgia, and I became the owner of my own plant press and field guide for the plant studies of native species. Still, I use newspaper and not the fancy acid-free white poster-thickness paper that we used throughout that summer in Americus, Georgia at the Jones Ecological Research Center.
For the first time, I’m pressing fresh basil, since a recent bouquet gift had an abundance of this fragrant herb. One thing that never changes: native Georgia ferns are my go-to greenery in any arrangement.
I’m marking my calendar for mid-November to check the plant press and create some decoupaged pillar candles for a Thanksgiving centerpiece. As we have lost mothers over the years, we light candles to remember them on Thanksgiving, and this year I have something other than the plain white tea lights in glass jars in mind. 🙂
Sensei Susan, me, and friend and fellow Mahj enthusiast Christian
I’ve never played pickleball, but I’ve heard that the craze is so fast and furious that new players kidnap all their friends and drive them to the courts, taking extra clothes and gear and even letting complete strangers use whatever equipment they need to join in the game with zero awareness of any rules as they walk onto the court all bewildered. There, they hand them a paddle and explain all about the kitchen and who can go into the kitchen and who should stay out of the kitchen and a hodgepodge of rules that sound like the Charlie Brown teacher to a bunch of head-scratching people who suddenly find themselves in a surreal moment they didn’t choose, pinching their forearms and wondering how they actually got there. And then, these same clueless people now caught up in the madness are the next wave of new players grabbing all their unsuspecting non-pickleball-playing friends the next week and bringing them back for an initiation into the cult sport.
That’s a lot like Mahjong, only with far fewer physical risks of injury for the older folks who do not need additional help finding the ground and suffering injuries. My husband’s father experienced this when he played pickleball and ended up with knee surgery and months of physical therapy. But where crossword puzzles and Sudoku have been the traditional seniors’ choice for cognitive exercise to stave off the inevitable decline of functional brain cells and memory, Mahjong emerged onto the American scene like an Asian tsunami across the globe and up through the cracked-earth dust of history straight outta ancient China and settled in the homes of women who are now going broke buying tablescapes and four-layered theme tiles they store in Michael’s clear lidded candy jars in the china cabinets where their great grandmother’s heirloom dishes used to be displayed. Husbands everywhere are begging: Please, someone, make it make sense! It’s like a CrackDragon tile walked up to the New York Times puzzle page and said, “Hold my beer.”
It’s true. The latest trend in real estate in Texas is the Mahjong room, and if a home doesn’t have one, the wife tells the husband she wants to “look further” for one that does. Because, well, ….the whole group of friends must have a place to play on proper precisely-measured square tables that doesn’t involve a flashmob-style takeover of a Chicken Salad Chick on a random Tuesday at 10 a.m. There are entire YouTube video series sessions that feature how to store mats by rolling or hanging, how to read the official NMJL card, and how to choose tiles based on size to fit your racks and pushers (which are, by the way, sometimes deliberately selected not to be all “matchy-matchy” with the tiles and mat and tablecloth and lamp and dice dish).
And let’s talk about trinkets. Most often they’re tiny ducks or other little pinkytip-sized animals that are collected as trophies upon a Mahjong win that is declared valid with no opposition from the players at the table who have checked the exposed tiles against the card. These ducks are sometimes kept in a little pouch, so when your sensei who taught you to play Mahjong and lives two and a half hours away is preparing to come for an afternoon of games and will “bring her bag of ducks,” you don’t have to read that twice. You understand there is no typo there.
Even more, you understand that what seemed illogical the summer before you learned to play the game now makes perfect sense. It’s gospel, yet it can seem like learning a whole new language in two humorous Mahjong 101 and 102 lessons. It can be deep and carry life lessons, like that scene in Crazy Rich Asians. Even Julia Roberts plays, and insists that the craze is about making order out of chaos because it’s not a gambling game, and it’s not a drinking game. Folks who were complete strangers in the grocery store and bookstore and at church a few months ago suddenly become best friends. These same folks will drive hours to play away an afternoon, and they’ll bring Mahj gear and give it to you as a gift, along with their bag of ducks. They will talk strategy and explain reasons for pivots, and everyone will eat snacks and laugh all afternoon and send each other YouTube videos on game strategies, tips, and obscure rules and, of course, all the things they are putting in their Amazon cart. You’ll understand that while winning is fun, it’s just as much fun to lose because there is no losing where there is so much fun that you don’t even realize your brain is exercising and that you might not be the extreme introvert you once thought you were.
You’ll thank the good Lord you didn’t wait another day to retire, because you look forward to each day you can play with new friends, old friends, and your sister in law across the farm. And you’ll feel sorry for all those pickleball players who think they’re all that and a bag of chips. Because you know the real truth about what a kitchen is for.
Bethany, Christian, and me – photo created by Christian
Our sensei brought these flowers and basil she grew in her own garden when she isn’t mowing grass in straight lines or playing tennis or teaching Mahjong
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.
