"the piano is not firewood yet..." a bit of a late post, but maybe still useful as the New Year unfolds?

“The piano is not firewood yet, but the cold does get cold, so it soon might be that. I’ll take it apart, call up my friends and we’ll warm up our hands by the fire…” – Regina Spektor lyrics, “Firewood”

Christmas is less than two weeks away and the Winter Solstice is on Dec. 21. Getting past the shortest day of the year always seems like an accomplishment, as does completing all of those holiday tasks. These next 10 days or so are when the real frenzy happens for me because I try to get everything (or at least most things) done so that I can relax and truly savor the last few days before Christmas, then really languish in the day itself.  

The other day, I heard Garrison Keillor describe what I hope to experience with all this frantic prep work on “A Prairie Home Companion” from 2011. He said, “One of the best parts of Christmas is the part before it starts, where there are these whole patches of serenity that open up and you feel this peace…You sit and enjoy this quiet…You breathe it all in…that’s the peace of Christmas.”  

Striving early in order to experience the peace of Christmas later is a luxury of age. Years ago there was no peace at Christmas - only excitement, anticipation and stress. When the kids were growing up, the holiday season was hectic, often too busy, and making the money stretch far enough to make the dreams come true was a challenge.     

It seems like only yesterday my kids were lying under the Christmas tree in pajamas with feet, shaking their presents, giggling together, trying to guess what was inside. We kept the belief in Santa alive as long as we could at our house because we just didn’t want the magic to end…Baby Jesus, the Star of Bethlehem, angels singing on high…It’s so much easier to see miracles through children’s eyes.  

Now my kids are grown and a dinner, an overnight and a breakfast with them is all we get – not that that is not blessing enough – it is. It’s just that sometimes I miss the month of anticipation and laughter Christmas used to bring.

I’m not sure why that Regina Spektor song about the piano not being firewood yet hit such a chord in my heart. It’s not a very happy thought nor is it very “Christmassy.” It’s so poignant, though; the notion that something as beloved as a piano might have to end up keeping one warm, but at least there’ll be friends by the fire.

The same song has the lines, “Love what you have and you’ll have more love…though there’s still no cure for crying…Everyone knows it’s going to hurt, but at least we’ll get hurt trying.” Another sad, yet somehow uplifting thought…There’ll be more tears, but there’ll also be more love.

As you can tell, the holidays are an emotional time for me. Tears well up in my eyes and I find a lump in my throat more often this time of year. Everything is so beautiful and bright, yet fragile and fleeting. It’s the juxtaposition of glory and miracles against the frailty of a newborn, a special son whose mother knows his fate, while blessed, will not be easy.

There’s that bright star with its warmth and light, shimmering against the cold of the night…The riches the Wise Men offer, in the face of such poverty. One of the messages Christmas brings, so loud and clear, is that we are blessed with such bounty and yet, there is such need…Life is fragile; the future is unknown. The piano is not firewood yet, so as long as we are blessed to do so, let’s keep playing… 

Sandy Creek...thoughts, prayers and Christmas?

"These tragedies must end. And to end them, we must change." —President Obama at a vigil for the victims at Sandy Hook Elementary

Christmas is less than a week away and a few days ago 26 people, 20 of them  children, were massacred at an elementary school in Connecticut. How does one juxtapose these two realities? One doesn’t; at least, I don’t.  

I have no way to process tragedies like the one that happened at Sandy Hook. I can’t possibly imagine what those parents, teachers, families and friends are feeling. My thoughts just stop when I try to wrap my head around it…All I can do is pull my loved ones close and do what I can to create a few warm moments for every person and animal that I possibly can, as often and as generously as I can. Life is so brief and beautiful…

Since the massacre, we’ve been trying to process the un-processable, to express thoughts about the un-thinkable. The news is full of our attempts at this, as are Facebook, the blogs, private conversations and emails. One of the most comforting thoughts comes from Mr. Rogers.

He said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world.”

That thought has comforted so many that it has “gone viral” and been shared on Facebook over 100,000 times. Thank you, Mr. Rogers, thank you.

In addition to hugging and praying and sharing comforting thoughts, we, as a nation, are looking at guns – our love affair and use of them. Should they be controlled? If so, how? Opinions on both sides of this issue are firmly held and fervently debated.

A friend of mine, Matt Perry, shared his thoughts eloquently and knowledgably in his blog, The Poor Wayfarer. His piece is called “The American Disease,” a reference to the term an Australian Prime Minister gave our “overabundance of guns and mania equating gun ownership with freedom, allowing military human-killer weapons to fall into the hands of anyone, including the mentally ill.”

Perry hunts and owns “quite a few guns.” His position is that, “We can hunt and protect our homes with average deer rifles and shot guns, weapons that are difficult to conceal and which have a low rate of fire…What is the purpose of an assault rifle? It's to kill people…The design of an assault rifle is to simply, chillingly, kill people efficiently…And, when we talk of  ‘assault rifles,’ we mean any weapon capable of semi-automatic fire, chambered for high velocity rounds and capable of mounting clips up to 30 rounds.”

My friend’s most powerful point is this: “We currently live in a society where it’s easier to buy an assault rifle and an extended magazine than to get medications for mental illness…Hand in hand with our problems with gun control is our unspoken tragedy of untreated mentally ill citizens.”

And, that my friends, based on my observations during eight years as an emergency room social worker, is true. I can’t tell you how many families I worked with who were facing similar issues to those the Sandy Hook killer’s family faced. How to get care and medication for the escalating mental illness of a loved one who is an adult and does NOT want care?

I watched “Love Actually,” a Christmas movie from 2003, starring Hugh Grant and Laura Linney (among others) the night of the Sandy Hook massacre. It is my tradition to watch that movie while I wrap gifts and I was in particular need of comfort that night.

My favorite part of the movie is the opening line, when Hugh Grant, (the Prime Minister of England) says: “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.”

I couldn’t agree more.

It’s time to rethink our love affair with assault weapons and retool our failing mental health care system. It’s time for a fresh debate on gun control. And, this Christmas, perhaps more than ever, it’s time for us to hold our loved ones near and do what we can for those whom we can.

"fearfully and wonderfully made"

“You need to give what you do not have. The thing you do not have is certitude and so you should give certainty to other people as a gift.” – Pastor Liz from “A Prairie Home Companion”

Thanksgiving is over and those leftovers are, thankfully, gone. Christmas is rapidly approaching and after that, New Years. It is a season of great joy, deep contentment, ongoing thankfulness and much excess. From Black Friday to Cyber Monday to all those last minute Door Buster deals, we are invited to overspend and overdo, and it is a challenge not to.

“Jesus is the reason for the season,” is the thought I use to keep my spending in check when the bright lights of the superstores begin to blind me; that and an ongoing awareness of how blessed me and mine have been, year after year. In truth, there is nothing anyone in my family needs.  

The holidays are also a time of physical excess. We eat too much; we drink too much; we sleep too little; we wear ourselves out, only to beat ourselves up for doing so. Hence, the vehemence of those New Year’s resolutions – we just feel so bad about all those delicious things we’ve been eating and drinking and enjoying way too much.

Anne Lamott, an author I truly enjoy, struggles with excess, body image, shoulds and should nots. Her post-Thanksgiving post on Facebook began with Psalm 139:14: “I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Marvelous are thy works and that my soul knoweth right well.” 

“Fearfully and wonderfully made…” Hearing that soothed my still-digesting soul and silenced the clamor in my head about eating too much, having too much and being too well blessed. What a wonderful description of our fragile, yet resilient selves, “fearfully and wonderfully made.”     

In our very own community we are witnessing a huge example of being “fearfully and wonderfully made.” It is the story of Tripp Halstead, the little boy who was severely injured by a tree limb that fell on him while he was playing outside at his day care on a windy day.  I don’t know the Halstead family and I’ve never met Tripp. I am, however, Facebook friends with several people who get the daily updates Tripp’s parents post and reading about their journey has brought more than one tear to my eyes.

Initially, Tripp’s parents were told to say, “Good bye,” that their little boy’s head injuries were too severe to survive. But, he made it through that night and the next night and all the nights that followed. Tripp is still alive and has recently moved from an intensive care unit to a hospital where rehabilitation is the challenge ahead.  

As a mother, I can’t imagine what Tripp’s family has been going through. I marvel at how strong and hopeful they remain. The community’s response has been generous, heartfelt and impressive and the tide of prayers, donations and well wishes shows no signs of ebbing. It’s clear Tripp has pulled on our collective heartstrings. His recovery has become a community cause that reminds us of how “fearfully and wonderfully made” we are. I hope he continues to defy the odds.

Tripp’s story, the Christmas story, the holidays, in general, remind me of how fragile and wonderful life is. One of the ideas central to the Christmas mindset, indeed the thankful mindset all year long, is the notion that the best gifts come from the heart.  

Pastor Liz from Garrison Keiller’s “A Prairie Home Companion” gave a sermon on that recently. The topic was, “You need to give what you do not have.” She talked about the widow who gave her last coin to Jesus and how that, among all the gifts he received that day, was the one that spoke to him. Pastor Liz went on to say, “The thing you do not have is certitude and so you should give certainty to other people as a gift.”

Perhaps that’s why I cling to life so tenaciously, feeding every stray animal or person that comes my way, and making sure those whom I love are showered with love and care and every piece of something that feels like certitude I can possibly give them. We, none of us, know what tomorrow will bring; so for now, take this hug, that can of cat food, a warm meal and let it create a few moments of certitude for you, from me.      

Tripp’s parents had no idea what lay ahead when they dropped him off at day care that morning…None of us know what comes next. I wish Tripp and his family continued strength and recovery. I know the prayers of this community will stay with them. As Helen Keller said,

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”

Life is good; there is much to be grateful for, for we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.”   

goodbye to a dear old friend...

"There is no greatness where there is not simplicity, goodness and truth." - Leo Tolstoy

Our dog, Raffi, died a few weeks ago and that made everyone who knew him over the 11 long years of his life sad. There wasn't much that was special about Raffi. In fact, it was his lack of "special-ness" that made him great. He was a simple-minded fellow who barked too much, didn't mind very well and pulled WAY too hard on his leash, in spite of all the training tricks we tried...

He was also a loving boy who showed up every day of his life with enthusiasm and joy, ready to participate in whatever adventure (or non-adventure) lay ahead. Raffi didn't care if nothing at all happened or if something amazing, like a raccoon ending up in the yard, occurred. He lived every day to its fullest and the simple pleasure with which he did so could serve to inspire us all.  

When Raffi was little we called him "Chockie Pie" (for "Chocolate Pie.") He was a pound puppy, a chocolate Lab mutt, who we got to keep our big, fancy Rottweiler, Pru,  company, after her dog friend, Mona, died. Raffi didn't start out as the sharpest tool in the shed and years of being tossed about playfully by a Rottweiler didn't add to his mental acuity, but, that didn't matter. Raffi seemed to know he was never meant to be the brains of the operation and he excelled in his role as enthusiastic playmate and clown.

Our kids were in high school when Raffi was young, so there was plenty of love, toys, games and attention lavished upon him in his early years. One of his favorite games was "Red Dot," which involves chasing a red laser light for as long as someone is willing to point it. We played Red Dot Raffi's whole life, but it always surprised me when, years later, one of the kids' grownup friends would stop by and Raffi would immediately run to the toy basket and start barking, as if to say, "I remember you! It's time to play Red Dot again!" Raffi never let being simple-minded get in the way of keeping track of the things that really mattered...

Another surprising thing about Raffi was that he seized the role of "protector" early on and remained strong in it for the rest of his life, no matter how many other dogs passed through our lives. Definitely "a lover, not a fighter," Raffi was, however, steadfast in his ability to keep our home, yard and the other pets safe from intruders. Over the years, Raffi killed three rabid raccoons, countless rats and possums, and made sure other unwelcome creatures, like feral cats and stray dogs, knew to stay away from our yard.

Late in life, Raffi suffered from arthritis and clusters of large, inoperable, non-cancerous fatty tumors. Even with medicine and mobility aids, these things impacted his ability to get around the way he wanted to, but that didn't get Raffi down. He just kept smiling and striving, building up strength in the limbs he needed to help compensate for the failing ones...I've never seen a creature fail physically, over so many years, while so cheerfully embracing the challenges of maintaining his quality of life. Up until the very end, Raffi took his walks and went up and down the stairs to sleep in his bed next to mine. He kept barking; he kept eating; he kept playing with his toys; and, he kept protecting his yard and his dog friends.

How Raffi loved sitting in his yard at the end of the day, surveying all that was his - all that he had ever known, with a contented look on his face. And, later, when it got to be too hard to go down into the yard, how he loved sitting on the back porch in the evening sun, watching his world settle in for yet another night...

In these days of reality TV, YouTube, Smartphones and everyone's a rock star on their own right, Raffi's approach to life seems like a particularly valuable one. He had no illusions of grandeur; he never even tried to be the Alpha dog. He knew his place in the pack and he embraced it. Raffi seemed comfortable knowing that no one much was watching him and that chances were, even in our household of sometimes pretty ratty rescue dogs, the dog all eyes would be on, would never be him.    

Yet, he did his best to live, love, contribute, enjoy and make a difference in whatever dog-way he could, each and every day. The world might be a simpler, more pleasant place if more of us approached our days the way Raffi did, finding greatness through our own goodness, enthusiasm and simplicity  ...Rest in peace, old Buddy; you will be much missed.   

Storm thoughts...donate & be exquisitely kind

“God will restore what the locusts have taken away – whether that means storms and hurricanes, fires, disastrous childhoods or marriages, and in my experience this is always true. Keep the faith.” – Anne Lamott

Hurricane Sandy, the enormous hurricane turned super-storm that battered the East Coast this week, took nearly 50 lives, caused some 8.1 million people to be without power and resulted in the cancellation of over 12,500 flights. It is being hailed as one of the costliest natural disasters in U.S. history, with damage estimates exceeding $20 billion. Twelve states were hit hard, but New York and New Jersey bore the brunt of the beast, which will leave people mopping up, hoping to recover and trying to carry on, for months.

How do I wrap my head around that, as I sit watching images of the devastation on T.V., warm in my comfy chair, surrounded by snoring pets and the glow of a cozy fire? I can’t; I simply can’t. I’ve never been in a major disaster nor has catastrophe ever darkened my door.   

I’ve been blessed with year after year of good luck, good health and, in the scope of things, very minor challenges – yet, they, at the time, seemed like almost more than I could bear. My daughter’s appendix ruptured suddenly, with emergency surgery the result. My husband was out of work for nearly two years during the peak of the recession. Quite a few dearly-loved pets have died. I fell and broke my shoulder, recently. Other than that and a few hours spent without lights during past storms and some intermittent car trouble, there have been no occasions I have had to rise to. I am so thankful for that.

Watching this gigantic storm and its aftermath unfold in the news has me wondering how I would do, if I were ever truly challenged with a monumental life event. Would I rise to the occasion or melt into a pool of despair? I like to think I’d be one of those cool-headed people who go instantly into rational action mode, rather than turn out to be the Chicken Little yelling that the sky is falling, that I fear I am.    

Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors. She spends a good bit of time pondering spiritual matters in a very down to earth way. One of her Facebook posts this week was about Hurricane Sandy and her thoughts comforted me. Her advice is “donate, pray, breathe, wait for the water to recede, and be exquisitely kind – even to ourselves.”

She makes the point that guilt and useless mind-spinning about the woulda’, coulda’, shoulda’, what ifs don’t really help anyone at all; I agree. Unless I can get in my car and go contribute some type of action with a practical, tangible value, the best I can do for those dealing with the storm is donate, pray and be exquisitely kind to those I encounter in my part of the world, some of whom are struggling, too.  

Lamott’s pastor, whose wisdom she writes about often, says that anytime things get harsh, broken, strange, sad or crazy, something beautiful is about to be revealed. She talks about how it is in these dark, trying times that people’s outpouring of generosity is revealed, as is their ability to sacrifice for the common good, “which you don’t see all that often without darkness.”

One thing we do see, in the aftermath of disasters, large and small, is that people are resilient, generous, loving and kind. Another thing we see is that our collective sense of humor, eventually, always returns.  

I don’t know many people on the East Coast. A small group of my daughter’s best friends from college (an art school) live and work in New York City, so I know they have been impacted by this storm. It gives me comfort to think of them doing what they always do, in good times and bad, which is to breathe, dance, create something of beauty, celebrate what life and nature have most recently shown them, and exhale. Godspeed, RISD girls, and also to the so many others who have lost so much. May the “Gifts of Desperation,” as Anne Lamott calls them, abound.

my trip down the rabbit hole...

“Do you think I've gone round the bend?" - the Mad Hatter
"I'm afraid so. You're mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are.” - Alice, in Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland"  

A fall down some steps a few weeks ago landed me in a place that is as strange as the world Alice found herself in, after she fell down the rabbit hole. And, as in Lewis Carroll's book, Alice in Wonderland, things keep getting "curiouser and curiouser" for me.

The tumble down the hardwood stairway in our home crushed my right shoulder; this resulted in surgery to repair the mess. Since then, my life has been a slow-motion roller coaster ride of pain medications, other medications, and adjustment to living a one-armed life. I'm right-handed, which means I started out really useless, but with time and practice my left hand has made great strides towards dexterity.

I am not a patient person. I do not like to be around sick people. Personal independence is one of my greatest points of pride. Imagine how much fun it is for me to be the sick person who needs help, lots of help, all of the time, to accomplish even the simplest of tasks...

"Humbling" doesn't even begin to describe this experience and I'm not through it yet. All reports leave me in a sling for at least five more weeks and, with a bunch of physical therapy, maybe near healed again in six months. The long term forecast ranges from "near full recovery" to "permanent loss of some mobility."

When you have surgery, they send you home with a slew of pain meds and some pretty generous guidelines as to how to use them. I started out on the maximum daily dose - 12 pills, two every four hours. I have weaned myself down to five per day, which is one pill every five hours. The goal is to end up on Tylenol only, ASAP. But, as motivated as I am, this shoulder seems to have a mind of its own...

I read the package inserts and Googled the medications I'm on. The result was the clear knowledge that these little white pills are quite addictive, yet information on how to wean off of them is sorely lacking. When I called the doctor's office, his nurse's response was, "We prescribe these medications to help you manage your pain. We don't provide counseling as to how to get off of them..."

No wonder prescription pain medications (opioids, specifically oxycodone and hydrocodone) are the most commonly abused drugs in America. In fact, Americans, who comprise less than five percent of the world's population, use 80 percent of the world's opioids. Granted, chronic pain is the reason most who get hooked ended up down that path, but I can see how, post surgery, one could become overly fond of the soft edges and relaxed state these pills create.

Life on these medications takes on a very different pace and feel. There are no days and nights - only four hour periods which stretch across the days and nights. Dreams, fatigue and little spurts of energy occur around the clock and there seems to be little rhyme or reason to their pace. It's like the pain medication has replaced the sane and steady gatekeeper of my mind with a bad bouncer who'll let anyone or anything in, anytime, to join the party in my mind.

"Hey, Huge Pink Bear! What are you doin' here with my 4th grade boyfriend?...Yes, world peace is important, but it's appliance tax-free day and we need a new dryer...If dinosaurs are extinct, why is that Tyrannosaurus gently placing puppies on my bedroom windowsill? And, am I supposed to bring them in?" Good Lord, sweet reality! I never thought I'd miss you so much!

In this state, the past and present float in and out of each other, colliding gently at times, completely co-existing at others. I have Skype sessions with people from all different periods of my life, as if we're all here together. The other day, I had the nicest "visit" with an old friend I've not seen for years, her toddler daughter (who I took care of 28 years ago, while her mom worked ,) the grown-up version of the toddler daughter (who is now a 30-year-old Facebook friend of mine,) and her two daughters - ages four and one. What a lovely way to spend a nap!  

Earlier on, when the injury was new and the pain was really bad, my beloved Rottweiler Roland visited me one night, in a dream. He died in March, so one of the first things he did was make it clear that he was still gone - that he was just visiting, briefly, from dog heaven  because I hurt so much and he wanted to comfort me. He smelled just like he smelled in real life; his fur was as soft and warm as it had always been. It was so nice to see him and I was so sad, yet thankful when I woke up, wondering how any of that had been...

"You would have to be half mad to dream me up," said the Mad Hatter to Alice; and, he was right. Hopefully my time in the rabbit hole is almost over. As interesting as it has been, it's time for me to switch books, don my ruby slippers, click them together three times and repeat, "There's no place like home," just like Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz. After all, even the best of adventures must come to an end.   

now I know how Humpty Dumpty feels...

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..." - Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi

"Appreciate what you have"..."Seize the day"..."Live every day as if it were your last"...such cliches while everything is going well; such wise advise once things take a turn for the worst.

Last week I fell and broke my right shoulder. I would like to say it happened during a dramatic mountain bike accident or while performing some heroic act like saving a child from an oncoming car. Not so. I just slipped and fell down my long, narrow, hardwood staircase and landed squarely on my shoulder at the bottom. 

Now my arm is in an uncomfortable, itchy, ill-fitting sling and nine days into it, I'm still waiting for a coherent treatment plan to emerge. It seems that orthopedists are all very busy these days and my injury is considered a minor one...Thank heavens for medical insurance. If I didn't have Blue Cross and Blue Shield backing me up, I'm sure no one would care and I'd be in this nasty ole' sling for months.

Some people are comfortable in the roll of patient; others, I say, based on years of experience as an emergency room social worker, relish it. They recite their list of ailments, surgeries, accidents and medications as if it were the only litany their lives will ever generate. I, on the other hand, hate doctors, their offices and hospitals with an unreasonable fervor. I don't know why this is. I don't remember any childhood trauma that could've made me this way. It's just the way I've always been.

As a child, I was well-blessed and lucky to never have been seriously hurt. As a young woman, I opted to have my kids at home (under the watchful eye of two experienced midwives and with my MD a phone call away) rather than go to the hospital. As a mother and now aging adult, I have always paid great care to keeping me and mine healthy. And, now that my kids are grown, I am proud to say they are not only health-oriented, but a bit doctor-phobic, as well. It's not that medical care doesn't have its place. It's just that self help, healthy living and the willingness to ride out a fever can serve one pretty well, too.

I am not naive enough to think that good luck and the watchful eye of the Good Lord haven't had a hand in my family's many doctor-free years. I don't know why some families are blessed with good health, while others are challenged time and time again with illness, cancer, accidents and disease. There's no making sense of it. We can only remain thankful for the good times and trust He is with us in the bad...

Back to this shoulder - there is no question it has ruined my Fall plans. Now that the weather is nice again, I had long lists of yard projects, garden work, hikes, bike rides and little trips here and there, all spinning around in my head. So much to do! Where to begin? Now my list is the same every day: "Try to do what needs doing using one arm and one hand." Since Mr. Clark works out of town all week, this is a special challenge. Thanks to good friends with generous hearts and willing hands, I am making do, but by the end of the day, it's easy for the pity party to begin...

In spite of myself, this shoulder is also teaching me some valuable lessons. Humility and patience have never been my strong suits. I value independence above many things, which means I don't accept help readily or gracefully. I like control and feeling like I'm in the driver's seat. It's not easy for me to roll with the punches, take things as they come or ask for help. Thanks to this shoulder, I am learning to be a more humble, more patient and more accepting of what fate throws my way. I am also learning to accept help readily and with sincere thanks.      

Based on my Google research (in lieu of responsive orthopedic care...) I've got a long row ahead of me. If this bugger needs surgery, well, there's that...if not, life in a sling long term is no picnic, either. It sounds like either way, I'll be lucky to hang any ornaments on my Christmas tree this year. But, no matter. By the time the holidays roll around, I like to think the lessons "Shoulder" has taught me will be worth the price I paid to learn them.   

Lorin Sinn-Clark is a writer for the Barrow Journal. She can be reached at lorin@barrowjournal.com