Welcome to the Cancer Club

When a summons from the Cancer Club invades your emotional inbox, you avert your eyes, bow your head, and begin whatever passes for prayer in your world; Not me. Not now. Please.

When the phone call comes that confirms you've been inducted into the club against your will, you'll do just about anything to resign. Get me outta here! I want to go on with my life. I have PLANS, dammit!

But a cancer diagnosis isn't negotiable. If you have it, you deal with it. You stick it out. Not just your tongue and your attitude, but your perseverance. Your grit. Your spirit. I've seen too many friends die from cancer, and I am not saying they died because they didn't have enough gumption to fight it. They did.

Oh dear, my friends who died from cancer fought like crazy, fearsome spirited battles against their invisible and ultimately, invincible, enemy. Even determined troops of friends, families, and medical experts couldn't swing their battles. Dying from cancer isn't the victim's fault. It's not anybody's fault. It's just part of life, the dying part. You gotta go somehow, some way. You don't get to choose. (Except in Oregon, and some other states, you can choose to die earlier than the disease, whatever it is, dictates.)

I've also known many more who have beaten the disease, chief among them a Spartan cancer warrior  named Mike Amaranthus, who was diagnosed in the prime of his adult life with stage 4 esophageal cancer. He worked incredibly hard for his victory, and I hope to tell his story no matter what happens with me. (He's six years out from diagnosis, disease-free. He does something to fight cancer every three hours. Would you like to know what? Me too.)

Me? I am early in this game, a new club member. I'm not sure I'll have to stay and test myself against such a formidable invader. I hope not. I hope I can scamper on with my Ordinary (wonderful) Life and file this episode along with other bullets dodged, lessons learned, disasters avoided.

Here's a quick synopsis. And by the way, please don't refer to my experience as a journey. I love to travel to foreign places, but not this one.

December 10, 2015: routine annual dermatology exam. Small reddish raised mole-like spot found on lower right flank. I'd noticed it because it itched. Had it a few months, maybe longer. Shaved off for biopsy. Doctor states it appears to be a basal cell carcinoma. No sweat. Had  a couple removed previously. (Melanoma lesion arose from a a Spitz nevus. Rare in adults.)

December 11, 2015: I forget about the biopsy. The "lesion" looked nothing like melanoma images, and I was not worried. The doc said someone would call me in a few days with the biopsy results. A couple weeks later, I made a mental note that no one had called, so assumed everything must be fine. We continued with plans to help out with grandchildren's holiday child care during Christmas break in Reno, a 5-6 hour drive from our home in Southern Oregon. 

December 29, 2016: Beautiful bright blue sky day in Reno, out and about with the grandchildren. No reason to expect a lightning bolt. My cell phone barks. It's the dermatologist. In a rambling, almost apologetic fashion, he informs me, 19 days after my biopsy, that I have melanoma. He can't mean me, can he? Is he looking at someone else's pathology report? There must be a mistake.

He goes on about best and worst case scenarios: WORST -  the skin lesion that was biopsied could be a metastasis from somewhere else in my body. Metastasis is a hideous word. I have melanoma, and it may have already spread? Can you give me a break here, please?  BEST - The lesion was classified T1, which means it was small and found early. The surgeon, during a consult on January 6, said there's an 85 to 90 percent chance that the excision margins will be clean, as will sentinel lymph nodes that will be biopsied at the same time as surgery. If everything is cancer-free, I'm done. Except for skin exams every three months for a long time. (That metastasis thing weighs heavy despite the surgeon's favorable guess at odds.)

January 19, 2016: Surgery day, which begins in the nuclear medicine lab at the Rogue Regional Medical Center in Medford, OR, where I'm injected at the site of the melanoma lesion with four doses of radioactive dye in preparation for a sentinel node biopsy. If it wasn't me laying there scoping out all the technology employed on my behalf, it would have been interesting.

Isn't it just weird that I documented this? The bright light in the lefthand image is the melanoma site where a radiologist injected four doses of radioactive dye. Soon, the techs (and me, immobilized but comfortable beneath a giant scanner) can see the dye "draining" up into lymph nodes in my right armpit and breast. The sentinel nodes are those that collect the most radioactive material, and are the most likely places that the melanoma may have spread. The brightest two are taken during surgery later in the day. 

I watched the screens as lymph nodes in my armpit basin lit up. The techs seemed pleased that the images were clear, providing a good map for the surgeon to take the brightest nodes, those to which the melanoma may have "drained" malevolent kill-her cells.

Later, after surgery, the surgeon met with PK to say that things had gone well, there was "nothing obvious" to report, but that I should definitely not travel to South America the next week. (As planned Jan. 27-Feb.23. Plans be damned.)

January 24, 2016: I enjoyed a leisurely walk along the river this morning with seven girlfriends. Most of us have been friends for 40 years, or more. But just two know about the "problem" and are sworn to secrecy. Do I think if I don't tell people, it isn't really happening?

Up until this moment, providing I gather the courage to press PUBLISH, only family members and a few close friends, and some random people, know something bad may be lurking.

I understand now why people who get a grim diagnosis need time and space to process before they share what's going on. They don't want to talk about it because they have not yet accepted that it's real, and they are already consumed emotionally and don't want to dig deeper into the rabbit hole by having people ask them questions and look upon them with pity, or define them by the disease.

Not knowing the pathology results from surgery and lymph node biopsies is hell. WHY does it take so long!?

If the results are positive,  I will be a certified member of the Cancer Club. If negative, then life goes on, but not with the same spirit of invulnerability that I've always possessed. What was I thinking? Pretty sure I was going to live to 100, even if reluctantly.

It has been four business days and six actual days since surgery. We should know this coming week what lies in our immediate future. When I say "our" I'm talking about PK and me as a unit. He's  been incredibly supportive and suffers as much anxiety about this as I do. It's not quite so lonely having him with me. It's like we're holding hands beneath a cliff where a huge black rock is balanced on the edge. Either it will roll the other direction or crush us. Unless we somehow leap out of the way in the nick of time. That's hope for ya.

PK is more private than I am, and before I press "publish" I've made sure he's OK with this.

I guess I'm ready to say to the wonderful people who continue to read my blog, and to many dear friends, that I've been diagnosed with effing cancer, and that you may be hearing more about it.

Waiting for medical test results feels like a log has lodged sideways in your head, and an anvil is pressing on your neck, and your heart is trying to jam its way through your chest, and you think you're about to blow a gasket because you just want to know, dammit. 

I know one thing for sure, though. I'm not alone. And neither are you.

UPDATE:

Quick and Easy Low-carb Pizza

It makes me hungry to look at this. It required about 10 minutes to assemble and another 15 to bake.

Here's the key: Low-carb wraps or tortillas. These are available at most grocery stores in small-town Oregon, and they, or similar products, are likely  available anywhere in the USA and Canada. If you have a bit more time and an adventurous spirit, try cauliflower pizza crust. Unbelievably good! Zucchini pizza crust is also great, but requires more ingredients and a bit more prep time. Don Pancho ingredients include, in this order: water, whole wheat flour, oat fiber, wheat gluten, safflower oil, wheat bran, oat syrup solids, baking powder, and salts. No trans fat. 8 grams net carbs and 7 grams dietary fiber, 110 calories.

               My ancient pizza pan with holes makes all the difference  

          in producing a crispy crust. You can buy something similar here.
NOTE:DO NOT USE A PERFORATED PAN FOR CAULIFLOWER CRUST!

There is no set recipe for this quick meal. Assemble whatever ingredients you have on hand and get started. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Here's what I usually use:

• marinara sauce, reduced for a thicker spread
• pesto 
• chopped onions
• chopped peppers
• whatever leftover meat is on hand, usually no-nitrates cooked sausage, seasoned cooked hamburger, chicken, turkey
• kale, torn into pieces and microwaved on high until wilted, about 1 minute
• shredded Parmesan and/or other cheeses

Quality marina or pizza sauce is important.  This happens to be homemade from
last summer's tomatoes, but jarred commercial sauces are also good and can be
doctored for more flavor.

Spread pesto first, if using.

Add kale, spinach, or other cooked veggies. If using spinach
be sure to drain it well, squeezing out excess water.

Load it up with raw chopped veggies and meats. This one is topped with chopped raw onions and peppers, cooked kale, a bit of leftover sausage and turkey. I wait until after the pizza has been in the oven for about 10 minutes before applying cheese. Bake with cheese on top for another 5 - 7 minutes. The cheese should be well melted and the crust edges browned. Parmesan is always good, but I also use pre-grated cheeses straight out of the bag.

One pizza serves two along with a big green salad. Give it a try!

Cauliflower Crust Pizza (gotta try to believe. BUT do not use a perforated pan.)
Zucchini Crust for Pizza

Who Wants to be 100?

Note to email readers: Things look better if you click on the blog title to get to the website.

January 2, 2016
My mom would have turned 100 on January 1, and I miss her. I always thought she'd make it to the century mark, but she died in early September 2013, almost exactly six months from when I wrote this post in March of that year, after she'd relocated to a foster care home.  She entered hospice care soon thereafter. Stumbling upon it today brought back bittersweet memories of her final months, and even though it is old news.....maybe you can relate. Especially if you have a parent or two in their 80s or 90s. Or, if you are personally staring down those ages, and, given how we know that time runs at a hot pace, those years are not that far away.

March 2013
This week I'm moving my mom from assisted living to adult foster care. She'll get more one-on-one attention—exactly what she needs. She hates to be alone, and believe me, regardless of a manic and motivated activity director and kind caregivers in a facility occupied by 40-some residents, she has been most often alone. If not in her apartment, which she avoids, then sitting in the lobby or dining area, or navigating the long hallways in her wheelchair. Most evenings, I'm told, she yells for help, when all she really wants is company.

I'm glad that she knows how to ask for what she wants. No one wants to be lonely. No one deserves it. The loneliness of our elders is described in a heartbreaking song by John Prine. If you haven't heard it, please listen. I cry every single time, because I have seen those "ancient hollow eyes."

Since 2008 when PK and I moved her to Oregon from Minnesota, my mom has been a large part of my ordinary life,  and I visit four or five times a week. Still, I feel terribly guilty that she's yelling for help while I'm home just a mile away. Children of aging parents might relate. You love them, but you have a life.

Waiting. Endless waiting. She's waiting for me, mostly, as I am her only nearby family. But also for something to break the monotony. She can't read, watch TV, do the needlework she loved most of her life, play cards, or chat with other residents Her isolation, due to losing her sight and hearing is heartbreaking and haunts me. (It haunts me still, in 2016)

How has she lived so long? As doctors often remark, genes have a lot to do with longevity. Although her father died of appendicitis during kitchen-table surgery in 1920, her mother prevailed until age 98, even surviving surgery for a blocked colon at age 96. Her name was Dorothea, and what a trooper. I don't think anybody was more surprised at getting old. Gardner, painter, ceramicist, mother, wife, fisherwoman, clam digger, cook, poker player, thigh slapper, life lover. When she died at 98, it was a miserable process that began with a stroke that made it impossible for her to swallow. Let's not go there.

I'm approaching 70, inching closer to 90 as the previous decades recede into photos and memories. Amongst assisted living residents, I see surprise, sorrow, and resolve about the aging spiral. These people are old, but they're still present and wondering what the hell happened. They too were dancers, singers, artists, soldiers, cooks, circus performers, parents, grandparents, writers, investors, academics, recyclers, thinkers, lovers. They were lovers. Now they're survivors, some daring to peek around the corner at death and others refusing to accept reality. Some are diminished by dementia, which is, in a way, a protection. Who wants to be fully aware of the losses? Dementia blunts the hard truths and the sharp edges of hurt and need.

Back to my mom, LaVone. She has a greedy sweet tooth, and always has. But eating an outlandish amount of sugar hasn't drilled any holes in her life boat. So much for the sugar-free theory of longevity. In fact, except for being nearly blind, almost deaf, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from extreme osteoporosis, she is the picture of health. She takes one mild prescription drug, low-dose aspirin and not much else. When caregivers attempt to give her prescribed anti-anxiety pills on nights that she calls out for help, she tosses them over her shoulder! Gotta love that spirit.

A year ago her young doc pronounced her sound, and noted that "her blood work looks better than mine." Ten years ago she had a panic attack and ended up having a cardiac workup. The cardiologist said she had the "heart of a 26-year-old." As of New Years Eve 2013, when she fell and spent five hours in the ER and had a battery of tests, all of which cost $5,000, (!!!!), everything still looks good.

Except, of course, for the vision, hearing, and mobility, which constitute quality of life. But vision, hearing, and mobility are unnecessary, apparently, for living to 100+, which I predict she will achieve. Dementia? She's been diagnosed as "mild."

She is 98 years and 3 months old. What's with the months? She told me around the time she turned 90 that the ninth decade is like the first, except rather than reaching achievement milestones, she'll be in reverse. Losing ground rather than gaining.

Well, she didn't say "achievement milestones." But her meaning was clear, and she was correct. We all know this happens, but seeing a parent age at warp speed is horrible. Well, hello. Seeing your very own self age at what seems to be warp speed is also a delicate topic. Isn't it?

My sister, Monette, on the right, with her son Micheal, and daughter, Lisa. That's

me with the lavender shirt. My father and mother share a headstone at Fort Snelling,

a military cemetery in Minneapolis.  We visited their graves in June 2015.

Looking back at the photos and words about my mom's life in Oregon, which she began at age 92, I see the bigger picture and remember all the good times she had, especially the first few years. After age 96, not so much. Several months before she died, she told me she was "ready to go, any time."
I have not written yet about my wonderful father, Floyd Strube, who died at 93, from kidney failure? We're not sure. One day he was on hospice care. The next day, he was gone. My mother always thought they killed him with morphine at the nursing home where he spent his final weeks. The last time I saw him, on a visit to Minnesota from Oregon, he complained of severe shoulder pain. He couldn't walk. He could barely chew food, as his dental appliances no longer fit. But one of the last things I heard him say? I want to go home. He did go home. If there's a heaven, he's there.

Other posts about time passing:
Time is too long for those who wait....
Happier times at age 93
The end of life...
But let's not forget about Pauline! Is 90 the new 70?

Christmas Cookies That May Be Better For You

Flourless choco-nut gems are not sugar-free but using a sugar substitute cuts the carbs and doesn't wreck the flavor.

This recipe came from the For the Love of Food blog.

I miss the carb-bomb labors of love Christmas treats my mom used to send every year all the way from South Dakota in TWO large batches: frosted melt-in-the-mouth sugar cookies in cut-out shapes; ginger and peanut butter cookies; Russian tea cakes; Chex mix, and the family favorite—Special K Bars which, in addition to the highly processed cereal, included peanut butter, a load of the dreaded high-fructose corn syrup, and a bag of chocolate chips melted on top.

Alas, over the past decade, I've become a serious carb-avoider. During my most dedicated periods, I try to limit myself to fewer than 30 unrefined carbs a day, which equals around two slices of bread. Notice I said "try." My intentions are noble but I often fail. Like at a party the other night. I won't go into details, but some failures are massive. Even a couple days of eating like a stereotypical overweight American makes me cringe at the scale, sending me straight into carb-correction mode.

I guess it's worked; I am not skinny, but my weight has fluctuated only a few pounds, up or down, from the day it dawned on me that refined carb reduction was my best bet for combatting creeping weight gain.

Still, I miss the cookies and went on a hunt for lower-carb alternatives. This post is sorta late to do any good for this holiday season, but I think these two recipes are transferrable to various celebrations throughout the year, and maybe even for lunchbox treats.
I have to admit I also reverting to one of my mom's type cookies, the nut-and-butter-rich Russian tea cakes, to bring to a post Christmas visit to our son and family. I know somebody there who loves them!

On to the goods!

As you can see, this oft-repeated recipe has gone through some revisions since my sister first sent it to me a few years ago.  These are really really good, even with substitutions.

Flourless Espresso Chocolate and Nut Gems

• 4 oz. bittersweet chocolate (or semisweet if you can't find bittersweet) chopped into medium chunks
• 1/2 stick unsalted butter
• 2/3 cup sugar, Splenda, or another sugar substitute. I get 22 rather than 24 mini-cupcakes using Splenda.
• 2 teaspoons vanilla
• 1 1/2 teaspoon espresso powder (sub instant coffee if you must)
• 3 large eggs, beaten
• 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 cup ground walnuts or other nuts. Optional.
• 2 tablespoons powdered sugar. Optional.

Preheat oven to 375. Coat mini-muffin tin, or tins, with cooking spray. I used coconut spray, even though my 24-c tin is supposedly non stick. Combine the chopped chocolate and butter in a microwave-proof glass bowl and heat for two minutes, then one minute at a time, stirring after each minute until melted. Alternatively, use a double-boiler. Whisk in sugar or Splenda, vanilla and espresso powder, then whisk in eggs until well combined. Sift cocoa powder over the top and whisk until smooth. Stir in the ground nuts. Spoon mixture into mini-muffin tins, filling nearly to the top. Bake until cookies have risen, 8-10 minutes. Cool in pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then carefully remove from tin to a cooling rack. Sift powdered sugar lightly over the "gems."

I was able to find a 24-mini muffin tin; two 12-ers will also do the trick. Note

 two empty spaces due to using Splenda.

Walnuts ground up in a food processor. Discovery! When processing walnuts

in my Cuisinart, most of the bitter membranes in the nuts ended up on the

sides of the bowl and were easy to wipe out. 

ONE MORE! LEMON HEAVEN!


Lemon coconut cookies are lemon heaven, according to cavegirlcuisine.com, where this recipe originated.

Lemon Coconut Cookies

• 1/3 cup coconut flour
• 1/3 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
• 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 3 tablespoons lemon zest
• pinch of sea salt
• 3 tablespoons butter or ghee, softened
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 cup raw honey

Cool the dough for a half hour in the refrigerator. (My addition to the recipe!)
Preheat oven  to 350. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. (Do not skip this step!)
Mix all ingredients until well blended. Place one tablespoons of batter at a time on the baking sheet about two inches apart. Place another piece of parchment paper, or wax paper,  over each mound of batter in turn, pressing with the bottom of a glass to flatten to about 1/8 inch thickness. Bake for 12 minutes. Let cool for five minutes then transfer carefully to a cooling rack. Cookies that aren't immediately consumed should be stored in the freezer.

Note: These cookies are a bit fragile. Handle with care. They're great eaten right out of the freezer.

Other lower carb, may-be-better-for-you desserts

Berries Crisp - you'd have to use frozen this time of year, but still great!
Avocado, chocolate and peanut butter pudding or pie. Fantastic. You have to try to believe. 

Dialing Back Christmas

The swaddled trees symbolize, sorta, what I've done with Christmas; wrapped it up. But wait! There's hope.

Soon after the Halloween pumpkins disappear, the Thanksgiving turkeys have been devoured, and Black Friday has sucked in an army of discount-sock buyers, I curl into an inert lump with a sign on my butt saying, "Wake me when it's over."

I am so done with Christmas, which, of course, is an unacceptable noun in our Happy Holidays culture. This national vocabulary revision occurred over decades, during which I morphed from a child bedazzled by Santa, Jesus, Christmas trees, and sugar cookies, to a 30-something mother successfully replicating the elaborate Christmases provided by my cookie-baking, gift-making, party-giving, decorating-dervish mother, into an, ahem, older woman, adverse to most things Christmas.
It wasn't always thus.

For about a dozen years, PK and I hosted a Christmas Eve celebration with numerous local families whose close relatives lived far away, as did ours. Visits from Santa and the elves—who arrived atop the local fire department's truck—loud off-key carol singing, extra special recipes, outrageous feasting, funky family performances, and delighted young children, made Christmas eve a memory-making fun fest.

Then the kids grew up, and when teen eye-rolling occurred, it wasn't quite as much fun. Our tradition faded over a few transitional years, as things do, when their time passes. As our annual party gradually faded away, so did my enthusiasm for decorating, baking, hosting, and for damn sure, gift giving.

Decades ago, my one and only sibling and I agreed to a binding no-gift policy, although we fretted together annually over gift options to honor our parents, who never indicated they weren't interested. My mom decorated for Christmas, and she sent cards, with my help, through age 98. She died before she turned 99, but I'm sure, that had she lived, we would have continued to consult her ever-dwindling card list, write greetings,  and slap stamps onto festive envelopes.

As for gifts, I can't remember the last time PK and I exchanged them. We don't need or want anything except to travel, and to spend time with our grandchildren, so what's the point of buying something that the other person doesn't need and likely doesn't want, and can certainly do without? And forgets? Giving out of obligation isn't really "giving." What's the point?

Exactly. There is no point, except to buy into the crazy shopping culture built up around the season.
Over the past 30-some years, my attitude about the "season" has deteriorated to nearly complete rejection, especially for most of the trappings and expected behaviors. The season of obligation? Of credit-card maxing, terrible sweaters, sugar bombs, pajama overload, nauseating Muzak carols, and plastic toys? No, thank you! I know I'm not alone.

An aging relative said in a recent email:

Christmas is coming so fast and I am not ready and have no excuse. It is a lot of work for one day. I think we need to go back to the true meaning of Christmas instead of making it a season.   

A long-time friend announced:
We're getting out of town, out of the country, away from all this craziness.

Another, whose house is usually ablaze with lights:
I can't do it anymore. It's too much work and my electric bill goes way up.

On the other hand, I got a "holiday letter" this week from a longtime friend, JoAnne Heron, who said this:

It will take an extra dose of intention to make holiness a part of the season, knowing that there is so much desperation and environmental degradation in this world. One has to work hard to be positive and have perspective in this blessed time of year… diligent, to absorb and live the lessons of the Child for whom this season was named. And really, the only way I can deal with it is to take responsibility for myself, to love fully, to create beauty, tread lightly on the earth, and be as kind of possible to all. 

Her words gave me pause, and I reviewed the decades to see what Christmas behaviors/traditions I might resurrect, what made a difference to others and also made me feel good and right with the world. And, what I can once and for all shed.

What I'm Over 

Obligatory gift giving 
I make exception for the grandchildren, who have no unmet needs except, perhaps, the continuing adoration of their grandparents made manifest in wrapped packages. We must do our part. It is our privilege to spoil them.

Shopping of almost any kind, (except at local family businesses and for groceries and gas) between Black Friday and December 26 because the traffic is crazy, parking lots are ram fests, people are stressed and cranky, the piped in Christmas music is nauseating, and it's all so outside of what the pure Christmas spirit is all about.

Christmas trees.  No more for us. Our property is already festooned with at least 30 now-mature former live trees. We've never purchased a harvested tree, but applaud friends who've made hunting down their own tree in the forest a family tradition. The fake tree doesn't cut it, either.
We've taken the past couple years to decorating house foliage, this year, a snake plant.

A  house plant doubling as Christmas tree.

Christmas music.  I once loved traditional Christmas carols. Years ago I bought a used piano so I could play carols for our Christmas Eve party, but sold it about 10 years ago. Carols piped into nearly every shopping space has ruined them for me. Last year I attended a sing-along Handel's Messiah concert, and even that didn't induce the Christmas spirit, although I'll always love the Hallelujah chorus. In closing, I have one thing to say about commercial Christmas music: Alvin and the Chipmunks.  Go ahead and click. I dare you!

Christmas cards and letters. I gave up the card business years ago, although I assisted my elderly mother for the last seven Christmases of her life in writing notes on cards and addressing envelopes. She loved getting cards. I still love getting Christmas letters, even if they're smarmy or bragging. Every single one, whether emailed, snail-mailed, or delivered in person, is read and read again.

However, I may have written my last one. Here's the deal. I write this blog and also post umpteen photos of our travels on Facebook. I don't need to do any more communicating. Life has been good, and our sons and grandchildren are spectacular, and even though I don't mind if others boast, I need to get over it myself. My past holiday letters have too much family chest thumping, although innocent. If I were to write a letter this year, I'd mention that PK did require a hip replacement, but it went so well, it's hardly worth mentioning. Especially if your hip replacement wasn't the best, as his was. And if your children and grandchildren aren't as magnificent as ours are, well, what the hell's wrong with you? See what I mean?

What I'm Keeping

Charitable giving.  Non profits want to take advantage of the holiday spirit, plus tax time is coming up for those charitable gift deductions. Be generous. Local non profits desperately need your support.

Giving out of pocket to homeless and others.  Bedraggled people begging at freeway ramps or around shopping centers are people just like us, but whose stories we probably can't fathom or know. A woman near a shopping center last week displayed a sign saying something like, "I'm not trash. I am down on my luck." I rolled down the window and handed her a bill. She cried as she thanked me.

At any point in most of our lives, it could have been us not being "trash".  Give, give, give. Street corners, soup kitchens, school backpack drives, gift trees, toy drives, food collection points, gifts for nursing home residents, for housebound people, for families living in cars or people sleeping on cardboard over heating vents. At no time of the year is the disparity between what "we" have and what "they" have more apparent or sobering. Hand a $20 bill to a downtrodden somebody standing with a sign in the cold rain or snow and see how that makes you feel. You won't miss the $20, but you'll make his or her day and provide a meal or two. Or maybe a beer or two? Not for us to judge.

Baking - I made sugar cookies decorated with colored frosting for years. Baked Mexican wedding "cakes" and stirred up rich dark chocolate fudge. The grandchildren don't know this, but their parents do. And the parents say no to sweets. But I decided to defy them. My wonderful mother, every Christmas, sent boxes of homemade treats. I still have some of her packing tins. We're all trying to escape sugar and flour, but I'm going to search for healthier treats and our grandchildren may someday remember their Christmas treat-providing grandma!

Countering evil in the world. That's a formidable job, given the vitriol and fear that's surging in the global consciousness, but if millions take it on, maybe a vibe will gather in the ether and a giant tuning fork in the unending universe will vibrate waves of harmony toward earth. Part of contributing to this harmony is being a good friend, a loving partner, parent, and grand parent. It's also about being non judgmental, forgiving, generous and remembering, even if you are without religious faith, to love your neighbor as yourself, to be kind and tenderhearted. As John Lennon sang,  Imagine.  We can live as one.

Lights!  Nothing to argue with there. Put 'em up, even if you believe in nothing but the flickering human spirit. Light up the winter darkness, illuminate your living room or kitchen or bedroom or yard. Combat the gloom with brightness and color. If you admire Jesus, remember what he said about forgiveness and loving your enemies. Carry the light.

And hey, have yourself a merry little Christmas!

This is it! Christmas at our house 2015. One room decked out in lights. A houseplant serving as a "tree", a few candles, some incense, fresh greens, and blues, jazz and rock n' roll on the sound system.  And in our hearts, perhaps more kindness, more understanding, more forgiveness, more tuning into universal goodness because we know it exists, call it what you will.