For me, I love to exercise in the water! As a kid, I spent endless hours in the pool or at the beach. And since my old body often groans after exercising, I have found that water walking and water aerobics provide the perfect place to get in my extra steps and a cardio workout. Oh, and the Y also has a jacuzzie jets in the therapy pool, and a steam room in the women’s locker. Win! Win!
Daily prompt
“I hate this stupid thing, and I’m sending it back!”
That pretty well summed up my feelings about my first “real” cell phone. From the beginning, that shiny little contraption felt more like a nuisance than a necessity. I hated the idea of being tethered to a device that buzzed, chimed, rang, and seemed to demand my attention at all hours.
Before that, I had managed just fine with inexpensive flip phones, the kind I used mostly for vacations or emergencies. I’d pay a modest monthly fee, keep the phone tucked away in my purse or glove compartment, and think very little about it. They were simple, practical, and wonderfully unintrusive. Eventually, I’d forget to refill the minutes, the service would expire, and that would be the end of that. Truthfully that arrangement suited me just fine.
And oh, the horror. At one point, some of my eighth graders discovered I carried what looked suspiciously like a burner phone. Naturally, they decided this was hilarious. One of them grinned and announced that I looked like a drug dealer. I just gave them the teacher look—the one that could stop nonsense in its tracks—and said, “You watch too much TV.” They laughed, and I did too, though I still had no intention of becoming one of those people with a phone permanently attached to their hand.
Back then, I liked life the old-fashioned way. Phones, in my opinion, belonged on the kitchen wall, right where they were easy to find, hard to lose, and simple to ignore when I didn’t feel like answering them. I never worried about leaving the house without one. In fact, I preferred it. There was something freeing about being unreachable.
But life has a way of changing our minds, whether we want it to or not. After a medical mishap that rattled all of us, my daughter decided enough was enough. She informed me that it was time for me to get a real phone. Otherwise, she threatened that she would simply buy me a Life Alert. I wasn’t exactly inspired by either option,
Still, I’ll admit, for a moment I found the idea of a Life Alert mildly entertaining. I imagined pressing the button and having a truckload of handsome firefighters come rushing to my rescue. But Leslie was quick to ruin that fantasy. She informed me that if I kept pushing it for no good reason, eventually they’d send the sheriff instead. That was a total buzz kill.
So, with all the enthusiasm of a child being marched into the principal’s office, I reluctantly accepted my fate. It was time for this dinosaur to step into the twenty-first century. I didn’t have to like it, though, and to make matters worse, my new smartphone immediately proved itself to be far smarter than I was.
In those early days, my family found my struggles highly amusing. So did my students. If I accidentally opened the wrong app, lost a text message, or couldn’t figure out why the screen had suddenly gone dark, there was always someone nearby ready to laugh first and help second. To be fair, they did help this Grammy learn her way around the mysterious little machine, even if they enjoyed the show along the way.
Little by little, I became less suspicious of the thing. What began as a forced relationship slowly softened into something like friendship. Against all odds, I grew to like my phone—and eventually, if I’m being honest, I grew to love it just a little.
After all, who wouldn’t appreciate having a camera always within reach, ready to capture a sweet moment, a mountain view, or a grandchild’s grin? I discovered the joy of listening to audiobooks whenever the mood struck. I abandoned my old alarm clock without a second thought, because the one on my phone was infinitely more convenient. On road trips, I no longer had to squint at paper maps or hope I had written directions down correctly. With a tap, I could find my way anywhere. My favorite music traveled with me too, turning an ordinary drive or workout into something a little more enjoyable.
And then there were the texts from my kids—those quick little messages that somehow made the miles between us feel smaller. Those may have been my favorite part of all.
So yes, much to my own surprise, that phone I once threatened to send back has become a trusted sidekick. It turns out this old dog could learn a few new tricks after all. And, I’ve decided that nobody puts Baby in the corner—or, in my case, back on the kitchen wall.
Oh, and this picture? Captured on my iPhone.
As an inspiring writer, I find great joy in discovering wisdom from published authors. My latest read, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, has been a truly sensational experience. I love how she intertwines her life experiences with insights about writing. Her sense of humor and creative teaching style have given me the freedom to let go of perfectionism.
Having grown up in a household that often demanded 110 percent, it’s been challenging to write without the looming pressure of getting everything “just right”—a mindset that often kills inspiration. Thanks to Lamott’s guidance, I’ve learned to simply type to the end, no matter how imperfect the words may be. Later, I return to my work, carefully revising and perfecting those phrases that once frustrated me. This shift in my approach has been transformative.
Years ago, a college professor recommended Bird by Bird, but I’m only now getting around to reading it. It’s been lighthearted, encouraging, and deeply impactful. One of Lamott’s quotes resonates with me: “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance.”
I’m finally learning to dance without looking at my feet—a liberating and joyful experience.
From an early age, reading and writing were essential to me. My mom taught me to read when I was four because I loved books. Writing quickly became just as natural. I kept journals, wrote poetry, and found joy in crafting words. But the real magic began when I started college. Professors encouraged my writing, I earned scholarships, and poems and articles were published. That period marked a turning point in my life.
After college, however, life took unexpected turns, and my writing was set aside. It wasn’t until one summer, when an old back injury forced me onto bed rest for weeks, that I rediscovered my passion. With only so much Netflix to watch, I turned to researching my family tree. I uncovered fascinating stories about my ancestors and decided to put it all into writing.
Shortly after, I started a family blog. I wanted a safe place to preserve my stories and memories—and honestly, I knew it would be the best way to keep my writing organized (something I’m not always great at). Since my daughter was homeschooling, I often wove the stories of our ancestors into her lessons. It was exciting to add our ancestors to her history lessons.
Over time, my blog grew beyond what I’d ever imagined. I found myself enjoying writing again. I joined writing challenges and began experimenting with poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. Today, I have over 1,500 subscribers.
Last year, my daughter gifted me a subscription to Storyworth, prompting me to share even more family history and personal stories. Soon, I’ll have a family book filled with these memories—an experience that gave me the push I needed to keep writing.
Alongside blogging, I began working on a novel, though progress has been slow. Frustration crept in, and I found myself hitting pause. During this time of reflection, I decided to pursue another master’s degree. This summer, at the age of sixty-three, this grandmother will return to school to earn a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. It’s a dream I’ve had for years.
Last year, a new language arts teacher joined our school, and we quickly became friends. She shared her excitement about her MFA program in creative writing, and her passion was contagious. Inspired by her enthusiasm, I decided to take the leap and finally pursue my long-held dream.
So, this summer, I will follow my heart’s desire once again and return to the classroom—not just as a teacher, but as a student of creative writing.
Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash
If I could build the perfect space for reading and writing, I would design a room with large windows that let in soft, filtered light from the nearby pines. The trees would sway gently outside, casting a peaceful, natural glow throughout the space. On one wall, a fire blazes in the hearth, providing warmth and an inviting ambiance. In the corner, a plush, overstuffed recliner would beckon, its cushions soft and cozy. I’d settle into it, pulling a warm comforter over my legs, ready to start the day. Balancing my laptop on my knees, the soothing crackle of the fire would be my backdrop as I begin my writing, the words flowing as the world outside quietly fades away.
Next to the chair, a small side table would hold my morning coffee, the rich aroma of the brew sparking creativity. It would sit within arm’s reach, a comforting ritual to help me ease into the day’s work. With the fire’s warmth, the calming view, and my trusty coffee by my side, I’d be perfectly equipped for whatever thoughts or stories might emerge, ready to write the day away.
The last thing I did for fun was have an evening out with the girls. I’m lucky to be part of an amazing friend group from work. This crew is hilarious, kind-hearted, and always generous with their time. They make even the busiest days at work feel memorable and full of laughter.
Tonight is our Christmas party, and I can’t wait! I know we’ll have an incredible time together. This little group feels like family, and I truly consider myself blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful people.
Merry Christmas! 🎄✨
Any time I can spend in the mountains, I’m filled with joy. One of my favorite spots is a charming hamlet I love visiting year-round. It’s a hidden gem with plenty of outdoor areas perfect for walking my Muttley Crew and for capturing nature in all its glory through my lens. The Beulah Valley, tucked away in Colorado, is especially magical—its four seasons put on an ever-changing, spectacular show.
Wildlife thrives here—mule deer graze peacefully, foxes dart through the underbrush, squirrels chase each other through the trees, and birds flit through the air. Though visitors might not always catch a glimpse, there are often other critters nearby: bears, mountain lions, raccoons, and more. The land is alive, even when it feels quiet.
The fresh mountain air, mixed with the earthy scent of ponderosa pine, creates a sense of calm and serenity. The soft sunlight filtering through the branches feels almost therapeutic. It’s a reminder of how important it is to step away from the busy pace of life and find a quiet place to rest, relax, and recharge. The mountains have a way of helping you reconnect with yourself, and I can’t imagine anything more rejuvenating than that.
Unexpected Teaching Journey: From College Grad to Women’s Prison Instructor
Never in a million years, as a grandmother, did I ever believe I would begin my teaching career in a women’s prison. It was not my first choice, but fresh out of college and separated from my spouse, my limited options and looming debt reminded me that I could not be picky. While I enjoyed living in a rural community, teaching opportunities did not come along often. And my old truck was on its last legs. Whenever I traveled outside the county, we rumbled along on a wing and a prayer. So, after subbing for three months, I jumped at the chance to work evenings at the women’s prison.
Before I could begin teaching, I had to spend time at the training academy. Days were spent in class, listening to lectures on law. Others were spent in the old dormitories of the former boy’s school, searching for contraband. When the day came to begin self-defense classes, I was more than a little nervous. The instructors paired the class with people of the same height, and my partner was a young kid half my age. I told him, “Be gentle with me; I’m a grandma.”
Nodding his head, he sweetly smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before we began sparring.
Listening to our instructor, we threw punches and kicks until I just wanted to find a secluded corner somewhere to hide and rest before I collapsed from exhaustion. Although I lifted weights and worked out, this granny was no match for the young man.
To add to the commotion, the instructor began barking orders like a crazed drill sergeant. He marched right up to me and screamed in my face, “Hit him harder!”
Flabbergasted by his order and demeanor, I stepped back and replied, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
He loudly laughed, and the room grew quiet. Everyone stopped to watch the trainer as he criticized and mocked. In true military fashion, he began to berate his student, me. He cooed in a sickly, sweet little voice, “Oh, is that what you’re going to tell your little inmates? Huh? I don’t want to hurt you?”
Everyone laughed, and I fumed. I pushed all doubt from my mind, ready to prove my mettle. I ignored the aches and pains; at that moment, I was determined to show Ole Sarge that I was more than capable of defending myself.
The young man and I began exchanging jabs again as everyone watched. The trainer continued to shout instructions to block, jab, and kick. Although I did my best, Ole Sarge didn’t think I was up to par. With more conviction, he again started screaming in my face, “Hit him harder.”
At that moment, all I wanted to do was punch the instructor. He was relentless. I was tired and hot and sweaty, but he continued to scream at me. In frustration, I finally gave all I had and punched the kid square in the face.
To my absolute horror, he went down and didn’t move. And he did not respond to any commands. In shock, I realized I had knocked him out! Frozen, I stood motionless as people rushed to the young man’s side. Although he was not out for long, time had slowed to a crawl, and my heartbeat quickened, and I began to tremble when he finally responded, “I can’t see.”
At that moment, I wanted to disappear as all eyes turned to look at me. Tears welled. What had I done?
Within seconds that seemed like an eternity, his sight returned, and the angry young man jumped to his feet. He glared at me, and through clenched teeth, he growled, “A grandma, my ass!”
Relief washed over me. The young officer stormed off, refusing to work with me. The “drill sergeant” mumbled, “I should take a break.”
Before Ole Sarge could change his mind, I rushed from the auditorium, found a dark corner, and slumped to the floor. While I listened to echoes of grunts and Ole Sarge barking orders, I tried to relax as I again questioned my sanity. At least this round was over, and soon it would be forgotten, or so I thought until I showed up for my first day of teaching.
Walking along a path to the school building, a smiling officer approached. “Are you the new teacher?”
“I am,” I replied, returning his smile.
“Glad to have ya here, teach, or should I say Bruiser?”
He laughed as I groaned.
A group of inmates overheard our conversation, and one of the ladies asked, “Why do you call her Bruiser?”
Laughing, he told the woman, “You don’t want to mess with her. She knocked out a kid half her age…”
I sighed. Well, if nothing else, my teaching career was clearly not going to be dull. I had walked into the women’s prison as an uncertain, newly minted teacher, hoping simply to survive the job. Instead, I walked in as “Bruiser,” apparently capable of knocking out a man half my age before even taking attendance. Not exactly the reputation they cover in teacher prep courses. As I unlocked my classroom door that first day, I had to laugh because somewhere between student loans, a dying truck, and a wing-and-a-prayer attitude, I had managed to become the most unintentionally intimidating grammie in the building. And just like that, I knew one thing for certain: this was going to be one unforgettable ride.
High School
On my Own
Married
Divorced
College
Career
As a citizen, I believe it is vital for all Americans to vote in political elections. Our collective voices matter, especially if we want to see progress and change. And as a woman, I recognize the importance of this act since we were not given the vote until June 4, 1919. So once again, I will send in my ballot and vote for the candidate that I believe will best serve our country.
Photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash
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