B is for Brother—and All Those PB&J Adventures

After I picked writing about my brother as my second April A to Z blog topic, I searched my archives to see what I’d already said about him. What I thought might take fifteen minutes took half the morning. He appears in fourteen posts, with six of them devoted entirely to him. I was shocked, but it also sparked an idea for a gift I might make for my nieces and nephew. If I gather everything I’ve written about him into one place, add a few photos and a handful of bridge‑paragraphs, I could turn those memories into a short soft‑cover book. At Blurb Publishing, twenty‑five pages keeps you under the price break for small runs, which means I could print enough copies to give one to my great and great‑great nieces and nephews, too, who are old enough to remember their great and great‑great grandfather. (Is there a prize for how many times you can use the word great in a sentence? There should be. Figuring out the lineage was not easy for an old brain like mine.)

My brother and I started life during WWII, and some of the antics we grew up with—think Happy Days episodes—might seem ho‑hum to others who lived through the 40s and 50s. But in an age of helicopter parents, some of the things our parents allowed would seem extreme or even akin to child neglect. For example, several years before I was even a teenager, we could pack peanut‑butter‑and‑jelly sandwiches, grab bottles of pop, tell my mom we were going to walk around the entire lake, and she’d simply say, “Be home before dark.” What didn’t dawn on me until adulthood was that she could probably see us from the shoreline of our cottage as we made our way through alternating cow pastures and woods. Not that it would have helped if we’d gotten into real trouble. Few housewives of the era had cars while their husbands were at work, so the quickest way she could have reached us was by rowboat—assuming it wasn’t too windy. This was long before cell phones or even a landline at the cottage. When we weren’t circling the lake, we were walking five miles to the nearest store for ice‑cream cones or playing at a fort we’d built on the far side of the woods behind our cottage.

As kids, my brother and I were close, but as adults we drifted. Jerry married young—too young—and I went to college. They had the kind of marriage a lot of people have when they marry right out of high school, where both partners eventually look around and wonder if they’re missing something. Nineteen years later, they divorced.

One conversation from my mid‑twenties stands out. Jerry was trying to figure out why I seemed to have no interest in getting married. Most girls in that era listed marriage as their number‑one goal. So did I, if I’m honest, but I was stubborn and wouldn’t have admitted it short of being waterboarded. I’d had a few serious relationships, and he couldn’t understand what was “wrong” with me for not taking the next step. I didn’t tell him the first guy turned out to be an in‑the‑closet gal‑guy. And the second — well, that’s a story too long for this post, not to mention it took me a decade to figure out why exactly that relationship fell apart. 

In the last two years of his life, when Jerry moved into my continuum‑care community, we grew close again. Even though he was in the Memory Care building and I’m in Independent Living, I could see him a couple of times a week and most of the time we could still talk about our childhood, our parents, our marriage and his children. We understood each other in that way only siblings can. He had a good sense of humor, loved his kids and our parents fiercely, wrote great poetry, and was a dedicated caregiver to his second wife, who had early‑onset Alzheimer’s and didn’t make it easy.

And I still miss him because some people leave a space that never quite closes, and maybe that’s how you know they mattered. ©

A is for April—Where My Story Always Seems to Circle Back

 

According to Dictionary.com, a glutton for punishment is “someone who habitually takes on burdensome or unpleasant tasks or unreasonable amounts of work. For example, Rose agreed to organize the church fair for the third year in a row—she’s a glutton for punishment. This expression originated as a glutton for work in the late 1800s, with punishment substituted about a century later.”

I’ve decided I must be a glutton for punishment myself, because I signed up for the “April Blogging from A to Z Challenge.” My first time. While I don’t consider writing “unpleasant,” posting every day is something I haven’t done since I started blogging back in 2004, after my husband’s stroke, when daily highs and lows gave me plenty of fodder. (Well, I take that back. I did the NaWriNoMo challenge in 2013 and 2015. That’s the challenge where you try to write a 50,000‑word novel in a month. I reached the goal once, a first draft I haven't touch since.)

If I understand the rules correctly, here’s how the April A–Z Blog Challenge works: we commit to posting every day except Sundays. The first day’s topic begins with A, the last with Z. All 26 posts connect to a theme of our own choosing. Mine is: “The humans, habits, hidden joys and heartaches that shaped my world.” I apologize in advance to long‑time readers if I revisit a topic or two I’ve written about before. I may have eight-plus years of memories to draw from, but some of them stand taller in my brain, waving their arms and shouting, “Pick me! Pick me!”

I’m starting with A is for April because it has always been an important month in my life. My brother and I both arrived in April, and while I’d love to claim my parents planned it that way, I seriously doubt that in the late 1930s and early 1940s they had many “family planning tools” at their disposal. Some questions you just don’t ask your parents.

And some questions you do. After my mom died (in April in the '80s) I grilled my dad for his memories of raising two kids during WWII, and those conversations became a few chapters in first family history book.

Most of us think of April as the month when the world comes back to life after winter leaves everything colorless and bleak. The daffodils poke up through cool soil, the grass greens up and we rake away the wet, matted leaves so we can dream over the seed catalogs arriving in the mail. As journalist Hal Borland put it, “April is a promise that May is bound to keep.”

But back when my brother and I were toddlers, my parents were dealing with shortages, ration stamps, and blackout shades in case of air raids. Dad was deemed essential in an essential industry, working 14–16 hour shifts making patterns and prototypes for airplane parts and munitions. Mom bought our birthday and Christmas presents at the Salvation Army Secondhand Store. She also cared for two additional toddlers during the week while their mother joined the Rosie the Riveter movement, taking a man’s job in a factory after the "men folk" went off to war.

Fast‑forward to April 1970, when I met my husband. He was also born in April, and we were married in April. We planned to get married between our birthdays so Don would never forget our anniversary and we could celebrate all three occasions at once. But as an 18th‑century Scottish poet said, “The best‑laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” The courthouse was booked, so we had to wait until the following week, and to this day I can never remember the date. In widowhood, remembering the month and year feels good enough, especially since I no longer get boxed, sugary‑sweet Hallmark cards or give Snoopy cards when I could find them. (Note: don’t assume those fancy-ass cards reflected Don’s undying love and devotion. He’d sign them on a Post‑it note because I collected greeting cards and he knew they’d be worth more unsigned. There’s a dichotomy in there somewhere if you care to dig deep enough.)

So there you have it—my first post in the 2026 A–Z Blog Challenge. It clocks in at 923 words (or 629 if you don’t count the first two introductory paragraphs). The Challenge requires 200 words per post. My weekly Wednesday posts usually run 1,200 to 1,500, so I shouldn’t have any trouble there. I’ve got a rough idea for every letter except Q. I’m thinking of asking you (my readers) to send me questions I can answer.

If you’ve got one, let me know. ©

Armageddon, PAP Machines, and Other Bedtime Stories

 There are seasons in life when the practical and the existential collide in the oddest places—like a hospital sleep lab, a mortality table, or a phone that won’t stop ringing because someone you love remembers the past more clearly than the present. What begins as a simple medical test can open a trapdoor into bigger questions: how we measure a life, how we outlive the people who shaped us, and how memory—our own and others’—keeps tugging us backward even as time keeps pushing us forward. This is a story about breathing, dreaming, aging, and the strange comfort of knowing that even the actuarial “house odds” can’t quite account for the human heart….AI

 

Tomorrow I’m spending the night in the hospital for a sleep study. I flunked the at‑home test—apparently I’m not breathing in the “safe zone.” My sleep doctor said I stop breathing or am breathing very shallow on an average of 64 times an hour. 30 times an hour is considered severe and over 60 times is considered life‑threatening. (And here I though I'd slept exceptionally well the night of the test.) Several times after surgery, anesthesiologists have told me I’m a shallow breather, so I’m not surprised to learn I sleep the same way. I’ll be getting one of the PAP machines—whichever kind the test tomorrow night determines I need. I just hope I can actually sleep in a hospital setting so they can get what they need.

On one hand, I’m looking forward to getting the machine, knowing I’m less likely to die in my sleep. On the other hand, it’s oddly empowering to know that if Armageddon breach our shores—perhaps in retaliation for us electing a president who brought his own version of Armageddon to so many other countries—I could simply refuse to use the machine, pulling my own plug so-to-speak, and cross my fingers I don't wake up. (Can you believe what the U.S. led oil embargo is doing to Cuba? Last I heard Mexico and China were both attempting to deliver ships full of desperately needed food and medical supplies, while our president seems to be waiting to sweep in like a vulture to pick the bones of the died.)

Back on topic: Thinking about sleep inevitably leads me to thinking about dreams. Will the machine affect my dream life? I dream of my husband so often that some mornings I don’t want to get out of bed, even when my bladder is telling me I'd better get up if I know what's good for me. He’s been gone fourteen years, but with his nightly visits it doesn’t feel that long. He was the best friend I ever had—and that includes my best female friend since kindergarten, who has been calling several times a day since her family moved her into memory care a few weeks ago.

She lives in another state, and before her move we touched bases maybe seven or eight times a year. From what I can tell, she has major short‑term memory issues, but her memories of our childhood friendship are still intact. It’s been fun to revisit our past antics with her. But I’ve had to start turning my phone off at night so her early‑morning calls don’t wake me. She’s called as many as seven times in a day, just like we did when we were kids, but now she doesn't remember talking to me earlier in the day. And I’m not sure if she remembers her husband who died a few months ago.

Memory is funny that way—what stays, what slips, what returns in dreams. Many widows (myself included) remember our spouses vividly, but we tend to put on rose‑colored glasses. Disagreements tend fade, and what remains are the character‑revealing moments: the times they stood by us or held us together during the hard times, the times we laughed, traveled, made love or simply sat together in companionable silence. Sunday mornings with newspapers and coffee were always special, even when the dog decided to lay down in the middle of the spread-out paper. At least that’s my experience. When I’m awake, I remind myself Don was nowhere near perfect. Even in my dreams he’s not Princess Charming rescuing me from my daytime woes. More often than not I’m chasing after him and our last dog, begging them not to leave just because I have to get up and pee.

And once you start thinking about the people you’ve lost, it’s hard not to think about how we'll eventually go. We’ve all read stories about spouses who die within hours or days of one another. Recently I saw a story about a man and his dog who died together. Their son found them side by side in a La‑Z‑Boy and thought they were sleeping; he even snapped a photo. Near the end of my dad’s life, I did the same thing—only I thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. He looked so peaceful, but so old, and his memory was unreliable. I remember thinking that if he had to die, doing it in his favorite chair with that peaceful expression was the way to go. When he finally did die in a hospice home the last thing he said was, “Am I there yet? Is this the Pearly Gates?” which made me laugh so hard I couldn’t stop. It was Christmas Eve at midnight and organ music was blasting from his roommate's TV. Aging has a way of turning these unexpected moments into mile markers.

When you get to my age every birthday is a mile marker and you can’t help wondering how and when you’ll start that journey into the Great Unknown. In my case, a young salesgirl once showed me the actuarial projections my continuum‑care facility ran on me before accepting my down payment. She wasn’t supposed to show them to potential residents and she may have lost her job for doing it. I had asked if she was absolutely sure I’d have enough money to live there, and she said, “Oh yes—see this mortality table? It estimates your life expectancy based on age, health and other factors. You’re going to live five years in independent living, two years in assisted living and two months in skilled nursing.”

In October I will have lived here five years, and don’t think that fact doesn’t weigh on me. The computer programs that make those actuarial projections keep the insurance industry thriving. In other words, the House always wins… unless it’s a Trump casino, which he managed to bankrupt along with a dozen other businesses. I just hope he doesn’t do the same with our country.

And now here I am, circling back to that sleep study. I’m wondering if they ordered a new mortality table that factored in a PAP machine, would it change anything? Will it help me beat the House odds? Or am I just grasping at straws? In the end, none of us really knows how long we get — we just keep breathing, dreaming and hoping the House doesn’t call in its chips before we've checked everything off our Bucket Lists. ©