Yesterday, my husband and I drove our younger daughter back to her college town to help her move into the house she is renting with several friends for her senior year of college.

We know we're blessed; still, we felt a bit sentimental as we pulled out of Athens, Ohio, our daughter's college town set in the foothills of Appalachia in southeastern Ohio.

So, my husband and I decided to stop at the gas station on the outskirts of town, ostensibly to get gasoline for our trip home, although our tank was just over half full. We didn't really need the gasoline, but we stopped at that gas station anyway, mostly because the stop delayed pulling away from the town too fast. Also, candy bars. That particular gas station has a nice selection. Never underestimate the healing power of candy bars, even for 50-something parents.

That particular gas station, on the corner of State Route 32 (also known as the Appalachian Highway) and a narrow country road, also has something else: pumps. Gasoline pumps, of course. But also an old-fashioned hand-powered water pump, right by the side of the road. 

We'd noticed the water pump before and wondered why it was there. Yesterday afternoon, we found out.

As we pumped gasoline into our automobiles, a horse-and-buggy clip-clopped up the road to the pump. An older Amish man got out. My husband and I knew that Amish folk live in the area--we'd once had a rather harrowing late-night experience of coming up on two Amish horse-and-buggies trotting along the Appalachian Highway as we came around a bend. Fortunately, we slowed in time and passed them safely.

But we never made the connected between the hand pump at the gas station and the Amish, until yesterday, when the Amish man got out a bucket, pumped it full of water, and gave his horse a long drink. His wife stayed in the buggy, rearranging a few things in a built in box in front of her. A buggy version of a glove compartment.

For a moment, the afternoon seemed to hang in surreal stillness. My husband pumping gas for our automobile. The Amish man pumping water for his horse. Me fiddling with change to get candy bars. The Amish woman fiddling with whatever was in the buggy box.

By the time I came out with our candy bars, the Amish man had finished watering his horse. The horse, buggy and Amish couple disappeared up the narrow country road. We headed up the Appalachian Highway back toward our home a few hours away in southwestern Ohio. We munched our candy bars, and commented on the kindness of the gas station having a water pump handy for the Amish, or for anyone else who might just need water.

As we fell into silence, then, I thought for a moment how the sight of a horse and buggy seemed to make time stop. Then I though about how of course, it doesn't. Though we can pause, to refill in whatever way we need to, soon enough we must travel on.
 

NOTE: This piece originally appear in my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
I stare at the last of this season's apple cider, which I have poured into a wine glass. I've chosen such a fancy glass for what most view as a modest beverage in honor of the cider itself, knowing that once I've imbibed it, I won't have the chance to enjoy cider for another 10 months or so.

I contemplate the deep amber color of the cider. I sniff the crisply tangy yet sweet aroma. Both color and aroma evoke in my mind's eye the scenery along the drive to the orchard where we always buy cider every fall, the Crossroads Orchard, west of the Miami River, nestled on a country road between Miamisburg and Germantown. I see the trees, turning yellow, orange, red, their colors so brightly beautiful against a sky burnished to a deep blue from a summer's worth of hot days, that it hurts, just a little, to look at them.

Then there's the drive back...

NOTE: This piece originally appeared as part of my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
My husband and two daughters want to spend a recent Sunday afternoon at a corn maze.  It'll be fun, they assure me.

I do not think this sounds like fun because I am, I openly admit, directionally-challenged.  I once ordered a AAA Trip-Tik in order to make the journey from Dayton to Lexington.

"It'll be a good learning experience for the kids," my husband tells me, knowing I'm a sucker for learning experiences.  "The challenge of a puzzle, using your wits..."

So I decide to be a good sport and go with my family to the corn maze.  I even leave behind the cell phone, the compass, and the backpack with flares and emergency provisions.  After all, my husband DOES have a good sense of direction.

When we arrive at the local corn maze, my nine-year-old decides we should split up into teams.  Her dad with her younger sister.  And her with me.

Fortunately, my nine-year-old has inherited her dad's sense of direction.  So I'm calm as we enter the maze and begin our quest: collect map pieces from mailboxes hidden in each of the twelve section of the maze until we've put together the whole map.  All is going well until my nine-year-old suddenly stops.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"We're lost," she says, pointing at the mud puddle in which I'm standing.  "That mud puddle.  We've seen it before."

Apparently, in a maze, a sense of direction is only useful for helping you know when you're lost.  As the adult in the situation, it's up to me to figure out how we can work our way through the maze.

Just as I'm about to ask her to climb up on my shoulders and scream for help, a pair of young boys come whizzing by, whooping and hollering.  "We got lucky!  We found the piece for section two!"

Blind luck!  Now there's a plan!  "Let's just keep walking until we find the mailbox for this section," I say.  "How long can it take?"

Thirty-three minutes, it turns out. 

A young couple comes by, notes our discouraged expressions, and says, "If you're looking for the map piece for section three, it's right over there."  And gives us directions.

"That's cheating," my nine-year-old scowls. 

"Uh, huh," I say.  "Follow me."  We get the next piece.

Now we've tried a sense of direction, blind luck, and cheating to get through the maze, none of which are particularly effective.  Or satisfying. 

I remember what my husband said.  This is supposed to be a game, a puzzle in which you use your wits, right?  Fine.  If I'm going to freeze to death in the middle of a cornfield, I'm at least going to go down like a good parent and turn it into a life lesson.

Plus I'm out of ideas.  So I say to my nine-year-old, "You like games.  How do you go about winning games?" 

She thinks for a minute.  "How about—we use logic? We can use the map pieces we have to get to the bottom of the next section, then work our way to the top, always following along the right..."

That's just what we do.  Eventually, after about two hours, we find our way through the maze with a completed map.

As we exit, I say to her, "Honey, you really learned something today.  Life is just like a maze.  You can try blind luck or cheating, but using your wits is really the best way to get through.  Isn't that neat?"

And she looks up me and says, "Mom?  Can we get hot chocolate?"

I have to admit, when the six flats of band flowers arrived two days ago, my heart fell.  That's the first time I've felt dread upon seeing flats of flowers arrive on my porch.

The high school's marching band kids come around mid-winter, with cheery brochures depicting pretty pink and red and yellow blooms. Now, I know I'm not much of a gardener. But every year, I buy flats of support-the-marching-band flowers. Flats and flats and flats.

This mid-winter was no different. In fact, I bought from not one... not two... but THREE marching band kids. (A clarinetist, a color guard member, and trumpeter, for the record.)


Why? Well, by mid-winter, who isn't a sucker for a cheery brochure filled with pictures of pretty flowers?

Plus, I'm a sucker for kids who come up to my door trying to look cool, even indifferent... yet still looking a bit hopeful, even eager... as they pedal Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn and coupons-I'll-never-use-for-stuff-I-don't-want-at-merchants-I-never-visit for wrestling/cheerleading/track/football/cross country. And flowers for marching band. After all, our daughters (one now in college, the other a recent college graduate) were those kids, plying our neighbors and friends and relatives who were ever-so-kind and patient. So I figure it's my turn to do the buying, now.

And, yeah, I'm a little sentimental. Our kids are long past the stage of selling stuff for their activities. And as much of a pain as it was to help them coordinate it all, I miss those days. During our oldest daughter's junior year of high school, I was even in charge of the marching band's flower sale. (She played trombone.) Nothing says spring like a high school gym literally filled from bleacher to bleacher, basketball hoop to basketball hoop, with flats of begonias, petunias, impatiens and marigolds.

Nothing says oh-God-why-did-I-agree-to-this like contemplating those flats and knowing I was in charge of making sure we had enough of every single variety to match every single order... those orders, by the way, numbering in the thousands.

But I'm still just a wee bit sentimental about those days.

So, I bought flats of flowers. And more flats. And more or less forgot about them until... they showed up on my porch.

And my heart fell.

A few years ago, our bathroom—like our house, like me—was 51 years old. The bathroom needed to be updated.

So we were tearing out and replacing most everything, except the cast iron tub. After all, it's a cast iron tub, and I think with just re-glazing it will be as good as new, except the plumber and contractor—both men—tell me that the handles and faucet are corroded and need to be replaced.

I know that either man, fairly enough, will add the price of his time for getting the replacement parts for me, and the purchase will delay the work another day or so. I want to save time. I want to save money.

So I ask for a list of the replacement parts, say I’ll get them at Lowe’s or Home Depot.

They laugh. Explain: these aren’t Lowe’s or Home Depot parts. These are plumbing contractor supply store parts.

OK, I say, where’s that store? These are nice men, gentlemen, who call me ma’am, and ask about my day, eat their sandwiches on the porch (though I tell them to bring their lunches inside; it’s chilly outside), and work efficiently and quietly. But suddenly, there’s a bit of a knowing look between them, a bit of a smirk… ladies can shop at Lowe’s or Home Depot, sure. But only real men can shop at a plumbing contractor’s supply store.

Now, I’m not a real man. In fact, I’m a real lady. Dressed in kitten heel ankle boots, cute with my tights and skirt, on the way out for real lady errands: lunch with other real ladies and picking up writers’ group white wine at the liquor store.

But in spite of being 51-years-old, I suddenly remember being told I couldn’t take woodshop in 6th grade, couldn’t learn the punch-card computer in 7th grade, and despite placing higher than every girl AND boy on the math placement test in 8th grade, being shooed away from taking higher math or science in 9th grade, and stopping with math or science all together after 10th grade.

Now, I’m sure not going to be held back from something so simple as buying parts at a plumbing contractor’s supply store because I am woman. Hear me roar.

So I demand the list, which the men give me, along with a bag of the old bathtub plumbing parts and directions to the plumbing contractor’s supply store, located in what remains of the warehouse and machine shop district of my industrial hometown.

After lunch and picking up the white wine, I find the plumbing contractor’s supply store. I walk in and am immediately confused, for indeed this is not a hardware store, a la Lowe’s or Home Depot or even a cozy Ace. 

This is a bar. 

A few days ago, I went shopping for the just-right dress for an upcoming important occasion--our first-born's college graduation. I quickly found the just-right dress, nice but not too dressy for a crowded, sweaty sports arena on a late-spring afternoon.

Then I spotted another dress.

It was pale blue. Fitted bodice. Peplum waist. A-line skirt. Not the usual, loose-fitting style I go for, but so, so pretty.
 
It wasn't quite right for wearing to graduation. I didn't need a second dress.

On the other hand... both dresses were on sale. I even had a 50% off coupon. More importantly, I felt a sudden longing to try on something a little different, in both hue and style, from what I usually wear.

So I tried it on. The blue brought out the sparkle in my blue-green eyes. And it fit like a dream. I even thought, I look HOT in this dress. And I never think that about myself.

But then, as I stared in the mirror, a horrid feeling came over me. Not about budgets or the foolishness of buying a dress for an as-yet-to-be-determined event. But about the fact that the dress was also... sleeveless.

I have decent enough arms. I mean, they're attached, and they function, and my skin is smooth, but I'll admit it, I'm a bit chubby. Which means my arms are a bit chubby. Not particularly muscular.

I started to hang the dress back on the rack with its mates, but it was so pretty, that I just... couldn't. I toted it with me to the register. Maybe, I thought, if the coupon covers both dresses...

It did, but I was still wavering. "Sorry," I said to the check out clerk--a slender, beautiful sixty-something woman with a terrific smile. "I'm still trying to decide. I don't really have an occasion in mind for this dress."

"I do," she blurted. "I've been staring at this dress for days. It's so pretty! And I have a wedding to attend in a few weeks."

Now, most women hate the idea of showing up at an event only to discover another woman is there in the exact same dress. (Well, not the exactly exact same. That could be awkward. And crowded. But you know what I mean.)

I didn't know the clerk. There are no wedding invites on my social calendar. So the likelihood of us showing up at the same event at all, what's more wearing matching blue dresses, is pretty slim. Nevertheless, I was about to put the dress back after all--and trying to think of a non-awkward explanation--when she leaned forward and blurted again, "But I can't wear it. Because of my arms."

She looked so sad, so shamed.  So I did some blurting of my own. "What's wrong with your arms?"

Her eyes widened. "They're... they're flabby. They look... old."

Now, there was something about the notion of this beautiful woman, who'd lived long enough to no doubt experience and survive and grow from life, feeling so ashamed about her body--just as I had moments before with my worries about chubby arms--that incensed me. I wasn't angry at her. I was angry for her. I was angry at the cultural voices that whisper in the backs of the minds of middle-aged and older and chubby and not quite perfect women that only young and beautiful counts. Only the young and beautiful and--oh, God, please, the smooth and firm and slender, too!--need feel comfortable (so whisper those voices in slithery, demeaning tones) in lovely arm-baring dresses, no matter that women of all shapes and sizes and ages might be and even feel beautiful in such clothing, if only we could ignore those silly voices.

Well, I thought, screw that.

So I said, "My arms are chubby." I pushed the dress toward her, determined to buy it. "But I'm wearing it. Proudly. And you should too. Shouldn't we get to wear what we want sometimes, without worrying about what other people think, without hiding ourselves because, hey, we've lived awhile, and maybe it shows here and there?  You've probably survived a thing or two, just like I have. That merits an occasional reward, right?"

Her eyes softened she stared at the dress. She said, "I've survived cancer. Almost a year now."

I couldn't respond right away. Finally, though, I said quietly, "Congratulations. You will look beautiful in the dress. Your arms will look just fine. I hope you get the dress."

She nodded, smiled, and said, "I think I will."

I don't know if she did or not. But I hope so. What's more, I hope that I'll wear mine to some future occasion, and this woman will be there too, in her copy of the blue dress. I hope we recognize one another, and that we laugh, two women happy to see each other wearing matching sleeveless dresses. And I hope we hug one another with our bare, beautiful, powerful arms.

UPDATE 3-25-2014: This post has proven very powerful to women... more than a thousand have read it, it's been shared on the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop blog, and soon after its publication, women across Facebook began discussing the post and sharing photos of themselves in their own sleeveless dresses! To that end a new Facebook Group, Embracing the Power of Bare Arms, has formed as a rallying point for women to share their own 'bare arms' stories, photos and encouragement.

By now, I write mainly because story-telling-with-words is a major part of who I am. It also makes me a saner, better human. Most days.

I've always heard the advice that good story-telling requires truth, so I won't lie; I'll admit that I want validation that this story-telling-with-words that I've made my life's work isn't just the equivalent of shouting into a void and hoping to hear an echo of my own voice. I want validation that I've reached, even touched, people, in some core way.

Validation, though, demands proof. So it's easy--and yes, human--to equate that validation with sales, high rankings, good reviews. And yes, I want those things. I wanted them yesterday, and I want them today, and I'll want them tomorrow.

But last night, I was a guest at a university class for teachers working on their master's degrees for teaching middle school and high school reading. I was so honored that the class read MY ONE SQUARE INCH OF ALASKA (a second year in a row!) and wrote papers about how my novel might be taught to teen readers. It was certainly complimentary and validating and delightful to hear teachers discussing my work--its theme, character motivations, imagery, and so on.

But then one of the teachers, who'd been quiet throughout, spoke up...