It’s that special time of year again — when we all gain an hour of sleep but lose our sense of what century we’re living in. Yes, the clocks are changing this weekend, and with them, so is my mood.

I’ve never understood why something as simple as moving a clock hand can cause such widespread chaos. Every device in the house has its own opinion about what time it is. My oven says 6:00, the microwave insists it’s 5:00, and my phone—bless its digital heart—seems smug about knowing better than all of us.

And don’t even get me started on my internal clock. I’m up at 5 a.m.staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should start breakfast or write to Congress about abolishing this nonsense altogether.

Experts tell us to “use the extra hour wisely.” I’m not sure what that means. Does it count if I use it to reheat yesterday’s coffee and scroll through my phone trying to remember how to change the car clock? Because that’s what I always end up doing.

Some people treat the time change as a chance to “reset.” Not me. I’m just trying to figure out which clocks reset themselves and which ones are plotting against me. My husband takes the traditional approach — he just waits until April when I finally give up and let them all be an hour off again.

There was a time when I thought this was a simple ritual, a little seasonal quirk we all shared. But now, between smart homes, sleep apps, and circadian rhythm advice, it feels like the entire country is jet-lagged without ever leaving the house.

Still, there’s something comforting about the tradition. The earlier sunsets invite sweaters, soup, and the excuse to be in pajamas by 6:30. And when someone asks why I look tired, I can always sigh dramatically and say, “It’s this time change.”

Because really, isn’t that what fall is all about? A good excuse to rest, reset, and laugh about how none of us knows what time it is anymore.

Tags: #daylight savings time change sleep

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With Halloween drawing near, I reflect back on the house I grew up in. Strange events occurred over the years. The footsteps down the long wooden hallway floor. Wire coat hangers moving in the bedroom closet. The silver aluminum Christmas tree we used only briefly; it would still be lit up the next morning, even though it got unplugged the night before. Some nights, I could distinctly hear what sounded like heavy chains being drug across the roof. We had an old transistor radio in the kitchen. Some mornings it would be blasting away, even though, it too, got cut off the night before.

This house was built in 1921. An old home, yes…. with creaking floors, tall windows and ceilings, and with a personality all its own. It had character, and depending on who you asked, company at night.

Miss Howard, as the story went, was a schoolteacher who had lived here many years before my parents bought the house in the mid 50’s.  I have imagined her correcting papers at the kitchen table or reading by a lamplight in the front living room.  A tidy woman in sensible shoes, her hair pinned neatly back; her voice gentle but firm. By the way, this house is around 2400 square feet.

As a child, I never seemed to be frightened by the thought that she was walking the hallway at night. To me, it felt oddly comforting, like she was keeping watch…making sure her beloved home was still in good hands. I’d whisper to her often “goodnight”, just in case she was listening.

These days, I find myself missing that old house; it’s quirks, stories, and even those midnight footsteps. I was recently back in it after my brother’s passing last month. He had taken ownership of the home many years ago. Maybe the things that go bump in the night aren’t meant to frighten us, but to remind us that love and memories outlast even time itself.

So if you hear a creek or a whisper in your home this Halloween, don’t be too quick to blame the wind or old wooden floors. It just might be your own Miss Howard…keeping watch, as she always has. 

I moved away from this house in 1982. These haunted memories may have faded, but I’ll never forget them. 

Perhaps ghosts return not to frighten us, but because love left undone still searches for a place to rest.

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My husband and I have been going on vacation in Garden City for the last 5 years. It’s become a favorite getaway for us every May. However, we decided to take an additional trip here last year in the fall. We still came in May like before, but booked a second vacation in October as well. And we’re glad we did. Currently, we are here this week. The weather is amazing.

There’s something magical about the beach in October. Gone are the crowds, the umbrellas lined up like soldiers, and the scent of coconut sunscreen drifting through the air. What’s left is the pure, unhurried beauty of the shore; quiet, windswept, and healing. The beach feels older, wiser….like it’s finally taking a deep breath after a long, noisy season.

The ocean in autumn has a different personality. It’s moodier, deeper in color, and the waves seem to speak in a softer, steadier rhythm. I find myself walking longer stretches of sand, hands tucked into my jacket pockets, collecting shells that seem more special because fewer people have passed this way.

The evenings come sooner now, wrapping the beach in a golden hush. There’s no better place to watch a sunset than from a nearly empty shoreline, where the only sound is the whisper of waves and the distant cry of gulls. Somehow, the setting sun feels more personal this time of year—like it’s performing just for you.

Vacations in October are a reminder that rest doesn’t have to come with noise, schedules, or souvenirs. Sometimes, the best kind of getaway is one that allows space for reflection—to breathe, to listen, and to simply be.

As I sit with my coffee on the condo patio, the salty breeze blowing in my hair, I realize the beach doesn’t belong to a season. It’s just that in October, it finally feels like it belongs to me.

When the crowds fade and the waves quiet down, the ocean finally whispers its truest peace.

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Remember The Jetsons? That cheerful futuristic family who lived in the clouds, commuting in flying cars and being served dinner by a robot named Rosie? When it first aired in the 1960s, it all seemed so far-fetched—something our grandchildren’s grandchildren might experience. And yet, here we are, realizing that the future George and Jane Jetson once lived in has quietly moved into our own homes.

We may not have flying cars (yet), but we do have smart cars that park themselves and know when to brake. We don’t live in floating houses, but some of us practically do live “in the cloud”—especially if you’ve ever said, “It’s in my Google Drive.”

Rosie the Robot? She’s here too, just smaller and quieter. She goes by names like Roomba, Alexa, or Siri, and she doesn’t wear an apron. Jane Jetson could push a button to make dinner, and while I’m still waiting for that button, I do have an Instant Pot that does half the work—and an air fryer that makes me believe I can cook.

And remember those big, clunky video screens George used to talk to his boss or call home? Today, we just tap a phone and chat face-to-face with someone halfway around the world—often while still in our pajamas. The Jetsons called it futuristic convenience; we call it a Tuesday meeting on Zoom.

Even their doctor made house calls by video. That once-unthinkable idea is now called telehealth, and millions of people rely on it. Their walkways moved automatically, their jobs revolved around pressing buttons, and they dreamed of life made easier by machines. Sound familiar?

But here’s the interesting part: even with all their gadgets, the Jetsons’ lives weren’t all that different from ours. George still dreaded work. Jane still managed a busy household. Their kids, Judy and Elroy, had homework, teenage drama, and a dog who got into trouble. Technology changed everything—and yet, not much at all.

Maybe that’s the real message hidden in all that shiny, space-age living. We can fill our lives with smart devices and time-saving tools, but what we really long for hasn’t changed at all. We still crave connection, peace, and purpose.

And those things don’t come from a gadget or a screen—they come from a quiet place within us, where God still whispers, â€œBe still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

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I have a love-hate relationship with self-checkout. Mostly hate. Whoever invented these machines must have had great faith in humanity’s patience and even greater faith in technology that never quite works.

The concept sounds brilliant: skip the line, scan your own items, and be on your merry way. But in reality? It’s like being trapped in a bad relationship with a machine that doesn’t trust you.

I scan an apple. Beep. Success. I place it gently in the bag. Immediately the screen flashes, “Unexpected item in bagging area.” Unexpected? It’s an apple. That’s the most expected item in a grocery store. The machine acts as if I’ve tried to slip a flat-screen TV into my canvas tote.

And then comes the voice. That robotic, overly polite voice that could double as your mother-in-law: “Please remove item.” I take the apple out. Beep beep beep. Now it insists I return the apple to the bagging area. I’m standing there juggling fruit, having a full-on argument with a talking box, while the human cashier I didn’t want to bother is now watching me with pity.

Of course, the “attendant” is never really attending. They’re off reprogramming another machine that swallowed someone’s debit card, while I’m waving my arms like I’m hailing a cab just to get their attention.

By the end of it all, I’ve done the scanning, the bagging, the unbagging. I’ve typed in my phone number, declined the extended warranty on bananas, and endured three rounds of security verification that I am, indeed, old enough to buy cough syrup.

And what do I get for this hard labor? Not a discount. Not a coupon. Not even an “Employee of the Month” photo by the door. Just a receipt that reminds me I did the work of two people—for free.

Still, I’ll keep using self-checkout, because it’s either that or stand behind a cartload of groceries belonging to someone who still writes checks. Someday, I’ll learn my lesson. Until then, if you see me at the machine, don’t be alarmed—I’m just the woman arguing with her apple.

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Some people climb mountains. Others run marathons. Recently, I decided to do something really daring. I went to the DMV to get a Real ID. I would later discover once getting there, it is actually a duplicate license..for me anyway, as I had previously renewed my drivers license 2 years ago. This Real ID has a star in the corner, and it is required to board commercial aircraft, as well as being able to enter government buildings.

According to the instructions online, all I needed was “proof of identity”, a Social Security number, (they never asked for this when I was checking in.) Also a birth certificate and marriage certificate…(certified/raised seal on both), and 2 forms of proof of residency. These are real documents, not copies or images on your cell phone. I was contemplating on taking our family bible as well; just for added security.

I kept thinking before going in for this dreaded half a day adventure…”You could possibly still fly, but you’ll need to hitch your metal file cabinet of birthright and proof of residence documents to your carry-on luggage.” I figured in the end it would be better to just get it over with and trudge on in.

My husband had already obtained his Real ID a few weeks ago. Piece of cake for him, compared to my 5 hour adventure. They check you in outside to confirm you have a file folder a mile thick of required proof you truly do exist. I was escorted inside only to be given a ticket that their computer spit out instantaneously. I was then instructed to go on about my day and wait. Wait for their text to instruct me to come back inside. Oh, and while waiting outside, I had no signal bars on my phone. I walked out of the building at precisely 8:15 am. Of course the day I chose to conquer this feat, it was 90 degrees. 

As I walked back to my car, I was hopeful my text from them would come surely within an hour or so. Boy, was I wrong. It was 4 hours and 45 minutes to be exact. In the meanwhile, I ended up driving back home to chug down a quick lunch and grab an ice coffee. My husband greeted me outside asking me …”Are you finished?” 

So for now, I have a temporary Real ID (one on paper.) And I plan to flash it everywhere…the grocery store, the post office, and maybe even the drive thru at my favorite coffee shop. Not because any of these folks will need it, but because I survived the DMV. 

They say the actual Real ID license should arrive within 10 days. Now we wait yet again.

And as an added bonus, I can firmly say I now have PTDS  Post Traumatic (DMV) Syndrome.

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Just outside my kitchen window grows a Japanese maple; its branches arching gracefully as if it knows it is being watched. Day after day, I find myself drawn to it, not simply for its beauty, but for the way it quietly reflects the story of life itself.

Our former neighbor and (lifelong friend), Marie, planted this maple many years ago from a speckling stem. I know at one point, this tree was spindly and fragile. Today, it casts shade, shelters birds, and punctuates the seasons. What was once hope, that the tree would grow strong, is now part of my daily life.

In spring, the maple bursts with tender green leaves, delicate and full of promise. It’s a season of beginnings, when the world seems young and hope feels fresh. By summer, the tree is at its peak—lush, strong, and offering shade. It reminds me of the fullness of our own lives when we are busy building, doing, and giving.

Then autumn arrives, and the maple truly shines. Its leaves blaze into brilliant reds and oranges, a reminder that change can be stunning rather than sorrowful. Life’s transitions, though bittersweet, can hold their own kind of beauty. And finally, in winter, the tree stands bare—stripped of leaves, yet never stripped of purpose. It rests, gathering strength for what is to come.

This tree, in its seasonal rhythm, teaches me what no hurried schedule or calendar can; that life moves in cycles. Growth, fullness, change, rest—all are necessary… all are valuable. We don’t stay in one season forever. And just as the maple embraces each stage without resistance, perhaps we, too, can learn to trust the process.

When I pause at the kitchen window, I’m reminded that there is beauty in every chapter of life. We only need to notice it.

Thank you Marie for planting this symbolic tree so many years ago. Though you are not living next door anymore, the memories of yesteryear will continue to flood my days with pure joy.

“Maple leaves embody the delicate dance between life’s vibrancy and its serenity.”

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