Posts Tagged With: music

The stand after the fall

Nothing like a good fitness class to clear your mind.

I went to Vandie’s class today carrying the weight of my memories.

At first, those memories were heavy and indeed felt like lead weights.

I got mad.

I fought back – and kept pushing.

I forgot about the memories trying to focus on the class.

The music propelled me through.

I felt great – I had a bounce in my step.  I heard the music.

I enjoyed the beat and lost myself for a while.

My heart pounded like it would explode.

I was MAD!  NO!  I would NOT stop!  I pushed through.

Screw the pain – screw the past – screw cancer.

For then – for now – I am the victor – not the memory.

I was lost in fitness and it felt wonderful.

I still feel wonderful.  I realize it takes more courage to go back to fitness than it does to do fitness.

It is the stand after the fall that is the toughest part.

It is the living after the near-death that is the greatest challenge.

To return is to face your weakness – whatever it may be.

So – back I go.

And I’ll go again.  I WILL step out of the shadows of cancer.  Damn it!

Categories: cancer, determination, inspiration, journal, life | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Sentimental Journey Continues: The Christmas Season

The Snowman sits at his piano and pounds out three melodies:  Oh, the weather out side is frightful,  jingle bell rock, and finally have a holly, jolly, Christmas.  And David, my youngest son, still delights in watching the motion of this battery operated Hallmark toy.

Today, however, he didn’t do laps around the room.  David sat and reminisced about Nanna.  “It’s not the same, Mom.”, he said to me after the Snowman had entertained in his historical fashion.  The Snowman was so much more fun when he was at Nanna and Poppa’s house.

And then only seconds later, he and I were back at decorating the tree… Nanna’s artificial tree that she had given to us when she down-sized to a foot-tall model that sat on her stereo cabinet.

Was this the same tree that sat in a box for years in our basement?  Hmm.  David thought it was much smaller than he had remembered it being at Nanna’s house.

Yes, it is the same tree.  It’s just that now, this tree is the tree that Nanna gave to us – and that makes it special.  More special than a tree that we could chop down ourselves.

As David and I assembled the pieces, spread the malleable limbs,  and then wrapped the lights around it, we talked about Nanna and Poppa.  “What I like most about Christmas David …. is tradition”.  Tradition anchors us to our roots, our memories, our heritage.

“What I like about Christmas, Mom, is family.” , said David.

God bless him, that little boy.  His Christmas list that I opened to read today asked for hugs and kisses.

He is a sentimental little guy, our son, David.  I love to spend time with him – and I love lighting the tree with him – and talking about his memories of Mom and Dad.  I feel much more reassured that their memory will live on through our children when we remind out children about the wonderful things we shared.

This is the first time that we will not share it with Nanna and Poppa… yet they are everywhere … when I open my heart to them.  They are in the tree, the wreath, the photos, the children, the decorations… the list goes on.  Christmas is a season of memory – of tradition – of hope – and holly – jolly … or so the Snowman says.



Categories: Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Beautiful Dreamer…

Do you remember it?

I do.

This is the song Mom sang to me when she tucked me into bed.

How lucky was I?

And her voice far surpassed Bing’s.   And the best part was that she didn’t remember all the words so she made them up.  And that makes all the difference to me now.   That was  “her” song.

Check it out.. Beautiful Dreamer  at:


Categories: Family and Friends, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , | 3 Comments

I Just Called to Say…. I Love You

“I just called to say I love you,

I just called to say how much I care. ” (Stevie Wonder

I remember this being another one of Dad’s favorite songs and he would sing it full kilter as he strutted his stuff around the room.  Mom would giggle and roll her eyes almost as though it was expected – and then join in with a broad smile that just would not be suppressed.


Dad, I can’t tell you how many times this week I’ve thought, “geez, I should call Dad”.

Tonight – you should be there to take my call don’t you know? I have so much to tell you.  You and Mom would have listened to me toot my own horn and actually been proud.

I don’t do that in front of anyone else for fear that they would think I was full of myself.

You and Mom were always proud of me – and were anxious to hear my stories – and I told you a lot.  My cheer-leaders.

I wish that if I were to dial your number that you would pick up.  I remember Dorothee saying the same thing that when you heard the phone ring – you’d hope that it were Mom.  Good grief.  What I wouldn’t give to get a call from you tonight.

I gave some of your things to Janine today as she had a good place for them – and I gave back the books that she had loaned to me – to help find you peace.  I still had a difficult time talking to her.  I guess it’s been two months since I lost you – but it’s only been two months.  So much has changed, yet, so much is the same.

I am having a great year at school so far, Dad.  You’d be so interested in the stories. I have so many wonderful students that are so keen to move their lives forward.  There are so many strong individuals who are just so anxious for a better life.  I can only hope that I can cheer them on as you and Mom were so good to do with me.

I talked about Mom and you in class today – I hope you don’t mind.  I think sometimes the frame of reference helps my students to see me as human.  I didn’t cry, though.  I only cried with Janine.  Well, and now that I’m talking to you.

You would be so proud of Ben, Kat, and David.  Each of them would fill you up with stories and adventures and you know you would have to prompt the boys – but Katya would be like a loose cannon – she is so good at telling me stories.

What an exciting time it is in our family – and I can’t share that with you…

But the “tic-tic-tic – swish – tic-tic-tic – swish” of the typewriter keyboard brings me back to reality.  Life goes on.  “When can we get a new ribbon, Mom?”  “Where is the key for Number one, Mom? ”  “I have to do a presentation about me, Mom, next week – what should I say?”

Dad, I wish you were here.  I know that you and Mom are still “with me” – but sometimes it just doesn’t cut the cake, if you know what I mean.  A voice would be nice.  A hug would be better.  Any physical contact would declare to me that you are still with me.  And yet – I know that it is not going to happen.  The phone call is not going to come.  You and I both waited for Mom’s phone calls.  So did Jamie.  We still do.

Dad – I wish you would just call to say, “I love you.”.

Stevie Wonder, don’t you know, would not be so pleased with you… guess we are going to have to make that song popular too!  And just when our crew thought it was safe to come back into the water after Snow Bird!  In all honesty – there is now a huge following of that song – thanks to you, Dad.

(Mom – no one knows the words to those Russian songs… or else we’d be singing them too!)

Good- night Mom and Dad.


Nice to talk with you again.

I love you.


Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

One Day It Will Be My Turn

I’ve had many sleepless nights since my Dad passed away, trying to decide what to do.  The questions seem so big and so endless.  The one question that has perhaps plagued me the most is… What do I do with his house… with Mom’s house… with the Dancing Nannies’ house… my quiet sanctuary and get away? This was the oasis where we met – our home away from home.  This was where meals were prepared, conversations were had, and sleep-overs abounded.  This was where Ben and Katya and David learned how to swim, to cook, to play cribbage, to dance.

Do I keep my father’s house or sell it?

Keeping it allows me to hang on to Mom and Dad a while longer.  The house is “their” home and it is full of memories.  How can I sell it and allow someone else into their own piece of Heaven? How can I move things that my Mom so carefully put into place so that it was “perfect” for her own style and taste?  The image of the “beautiful lady” that hangs on the wall screams a memory to me.  Mom loved this print that she saw hanging in Auntie Helen’s house so much.  Auntie Helen bought her a copy of her own and sent it to Mom.  Every morning at the breakfast table, Mom would admire the beautiful lady.

How can I move the Royal Dalton figurines that Mom had collected over the years?  They are a collection. Each holds a memory.  One came from Mom’s mom and was so carefully guarded over the years.  I remember that wherever “Autumn Breezes” was I had to be very careful to not knock it or bump it.  Every time I dusted I was cautioned, “Be careful with my figurines”.  Each time someone sat in the chair next to them, they were told, “Watch your elbow”.  In spite of every precarious living movement that family and guests made – the figurines have survived.  Here they sit – on the bureau – all together.  How can I pull them apart?  How can I randomly decide their fate?

The white birch painting by Jacqueline Algee… maybe she wasn’t so famous, but she was a friend of Mom and Dad’s.  Her paintings are wonderful.  I remember Mom commenting, “How beautiful those birch trees are!  They remind me of the farm.”  Her favorite tree was the birch.  How can I take it down from the wall facing her chair?  Will it be appreciated as much in any other home?  Do I give it to someone else or keep it so that it can re-create discussions in my own home with my own family?

And those dishes!  They are so carefully tucked away in the cabinet.  “They are hand-painted, Stacey. You can’t buy those dishes anymore.”, I remember so clearly was Mom’s message to me.  “One day, they will be yours.”  I’d really rather Mom than those dishes – but somehow the dishes had out-lived her. What will they be when they are removed from that cabinet?  Where will they go?  Will they bear witness again to so many wonderful dinner conversations as they did in our family growing up?  Will they sample such good meals as my Mom prepared for them during Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter?

The stereo cabinet.  What of that?  When Jamie, my brother, was younger he was into wood-working.  This cabinet was a gift from him to Mom and Dad.  Dad had cut down this beautiful tree when we lived on the property – black walnut – or cherry?  I don’t really know as Mom changed the type of wood each time she told the story of how Dad chopped the tree and then took it to a local mill to have it dried and cut. Jamie took the wood and formed it into “this” cabinet that Mom cried over when paramedics moved and broke it while trying to get Dad to the hospital after one of his episodes.  Tessie’s husband fixed it – months after Mom’s death – and it just felt like all was right again.  On top of this stereo cabinet sits a display of Mom and Dad’s travels:  the man from Quebec, the character from Marguerita Island, the Samovar from Mom’s brother who brought it back from Russia… and finally the photos of our kids growing up.  My children were displayed on the cabinet and Jamie’s on the end tables.  How can I split up this display of memories?

I went to the house yesterday (to be honest it is a condo, but it feels more like a house) as the first step in my journey to negotiate the decision.  I was alone.  I poured Dad a glass of wine and had one myself.  His pink chair was gone and so the ceremony didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into his bedroom, but the sheets were piled on the bed beside his and the comfort quilt from the church had been removed and washed and so the visit didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into the pantry where “Mom” had stored everything in God’s little acre, but some things were missing and there were empty spaces where the food steamer and the salad spinner had been – and the pantry had seemed to loss some of its charm.

After some time, Ana walked in.  And it suddenly felt much more like home.  Could it be that it was not the contents of the house that held the meaning as much as the people?  Where were Mom and Dad?  They seemed to be in the print, the figurines, the dishes… the cabinet.  But when Ana walked in – I knew they were still living in her and in me and in our relationship that had been forged through their lives.

My father’s house will be sold and the contents will be moved and the move will be very painful for me.  I will be closing the door on apartment 1001 on day soon.  I will be walking down the hall to Dad’s room, pausing to peek into Mom’s room to see if she is still asleep.  It will be, one day, my turn.  Image

Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Apartment 1001

This post is dedicated to my big brother, Jamie.

And so another Wednesday dinner at Apartment # 1001  has come and gone.  Last night’s dinner at 1001, however, was not like any other.  It was the absence of our parents and the addition of Jamie that made it extraordinary.

It began as any other Wednesday night – the kids and I arrived first.  Dorothee offered Dad and I a glass of wine?  Dad said to me, “Are you having one?”

“Yes, Dad”, I replied and then queried, “Are you?”

“If you are.”

And the dance began.  Wine was poured,  dinner was prepared, Ana arrived, Mary Anne, Megan, and Jonathan arrived… and we sat down to eat.  I sat in Mom’s chair – as I always did.  Dad’s chair was left free.   We all chatted and talked about our days, talked about the food, adjusted the meal as it was too spicy for young Megan, and went back for seconds.  And then the weirdest thing happened.  We were all expecting it – but not knowing what to make of it… Jamie arrived.

He was not a regular Wednesday night flyer.  His entrance was a relief.  He became part of the Wednesday night dinner crew last night.   It was so right and yet so wrong.   It was not that Jamie was there that was wrong – it was that neither Mom and Dad were there that was so wrong.  And Jamie was attending a Wednesday night dinner to say good-bye to apartment 1001 – and the memories of Mom and Dad.

And the memories raced towards us like a torrent of rain.  Photo album after photo album came out of closets and nooks and crannies.  Mom had laboured over those albums for years… and each photo was lovingly placed neatly in an album with a “caption” placed below to help whoever was looking at the albums identify the figures and the actions.  Mom always asked, “What good will these albums be once I’m gone?  No one is going to look at them.   You will likely just throw them out.”  She had no idea how powerful her work had been.  Looking through these pages felt like I had swallowed a blanket full of pins and they were ripping me apart from the inside.  Talk about bitter sweet.  The memories was so beautiful – but I just couldn’t take it.  I had to stop looking at the images.

How had Dad done it?  His digital photo frame still sat poised and at attention for Dad in his pink chair.  Night after night, Dad was transfixed by the photos Jamie and Mary Anne and others had added to the frame.  Some were old and some were new.  Dad watched them all.  I just couldn’t do it… not yet.  But I couldn’t not look at them either.  Once again, I was frozen.

Out of the pages came the photos.  Jamie had his work cut out for him as it was decided it was now his job to scan the photos and convert them to digital images so that they could be shared by all.  The most difficult part about the whole process, however, was answering the question, “What do we do with the originals?”.    There was so much history in our hands – how can one simply throw the originals away?  It seemed / seems almost sacrilegious.

And then it was time to say good-bye to apartment 1001.  It wasn’t until Jamie was putting on his shoes ready to go that I caught the distress in his eyes.  This was to be Jamie’s last time in apartment 1001.  Crap.  I had to turn away.  Jamie went down the hall to Dad’s room and on the way, pausing to glance at Mom’s room as Dad had so often done.  Mom had been gone from that room for a year-and a half but if you looked carefully enough and closed your eyes, you could see her laying calmly in bed – smiling and waving at you.  She would have normally been up – but this Mom was a tired Mom.  She needed a rest.  Jamie proceeded down the hall.  I stopped following him with my eyes in an effort to respect his private moment with “Dad”.  It was a significant time later that Jamie emerged.  It was a sad Jamie that emerged.  The moment was solemn.  He had said his good-byes…. again.  It was in Dad’s room where my brother and I had buried the hatchet with each other – with Dad as our witness.  It was in Dad’s room where Jamie and I had given Dad morphine to help him through his final journey.  It was in Dad’s room where Jamie and I had sat on either side of him and held his hand while he slipped the surly bonds of earth and moved to be beside his Paula – our mother.  Intense.  It had all been in apartment 1001 where Mom and Dad had lived – and Dad had died.  And it was time to leave.

There was only one thing to do at that moment.  And I did it.  I sang Anne Murray.  “Beneath the snowy mantle cold and clean… ”  Dad was back.  Jamie rolled his eyes.  The Dancing Nannies laughed.

And that was that.  The door closed behind us as Jamie and I left apartment 1001.

The ride home was full of story-telling.  There were stories that I could just barely remember and I felt so fortunate that Jamie had become the new raconteur of our childhoods.  He became the inspiration for stories yet to be re-told.  God certainly does work in mysterious ways.  When the door to apartment 1001 closed, a window opened.

Funny how that night at dinner, on the tenth floor, a little bird flew up to the balcony window and hovered there in an effort to get in.  I was shocked.  I had never seen a bird up that high before – maybe the odd seagull soaring, but never a little bird like this one.  And that it was just hovering trying to check out what was happening inside?  Was that Dad?  Who knows.  I guess all in all, he really didn’t need to come to be with us in the form of a bird because he was already with us – in our hearts forever.

I remember one of my last conversations with Mom when she was in the hospital.  I asked her, “What will I do without you Mom?”  Her answer was simple, “I’ll always be with you.  I’ll always be here in your heart.”

For my brother, it was TTFN Apartment 1001 – in his heart forever.

Categories: Duff History, Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Leroy Brown…

Just when you think you have escaped the music you didn’t like – a funny think happens.  A gentle wind breezes by (thanks Alice) and melts the ice so that you can feel again.  I used to “hate” this song.  I used to also hate “Snowbird” by Anne Murray. But – it is funny how music can evoke such emotions to help you rise above your own and appreciate it for another value.  Leroy Brown was one of Dad’s favorite songs to dance to – now, Mom never like it – FYI – but I still remember Dad swinging his arms and feet in tune to this music.  Hope you enjoy – I know I never did until I lost the one who appreciated it most.. and now.. well.. I sang along to it today.   Please don’t hate me. (grin)  TTFN!

Well the South side of Chicago

Is the baddest part of town
And if you go down there
You better just beware
Of a man named Leroy Brown

Now Leroy more than trouble
You see he stand ’bout six foot four
All the downtown ladies call him Treetop Lover
All the men just call him Sir


And it’s bad, bad Leroy Brown
The baddest man in the whole damned town
Badder than old King Kong
And meaner than a junkyard dog

Now Leroy he a gambler
And he like his fancy clothes
And he like to wave his diamond rings
In front of everybody’s nose
He got a custom Continental
He got an Eldorado too
He got a 32 gun in his pocket for fun
He got a razor in his shoe

(Repeat Chorus)

Now Friday ’bout a week ago
Leroy shootin’ dice
And at the edge of the bar
Sat a girl named Doris
And oo that girl looked nice
Well he cast his eyes upon her
And the trouble soon began
Cause Leroy Brown learned a lesson
Bout messin’ with the wife of a jealous man

(Repeat Chorus)

Well the two men took to fighting
And when they pulled them off the floor
Leroy looked like a jigsaw puzzle
With a couple of pieces gone

Categories: Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Those Were the Days ….

Duffy’s Tavern.  That was what our friends called our home.  The doors were always open to guests – either familiar or unfamiliar.  It didn’t matter how well we knew people, they were welcome and treated as a guest. 

There were many songs that were sung in our home, but I think one of Paula’s favorite (and naturally my favorite too) was, a song about friends, laughter, and dreams:  Those Were The Days. Enjoy. 

Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And dreamed of all the great things we would do

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la…
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I’d see you in the tavern
We’d smile at one another and we’d say

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la…
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la…
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

Through the door there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh my friend we’re older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la…
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

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My father always said that when you die, if you can count the number of good friends on one hand, you were one of the lucky ones.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with family and friends.  I don’t think there was a single week-end on the farm when friends didn’t drop by for a visit.  Of course the Triple – B (bonfire, body-builder, and billy burgers) probably helped influence that drop-in visit, but nonetheless – they came. I’ll have to include the pool on that list – but it wasn’t part of the Triple-B! (wink)

It seems that the older one gets, the less visitors one has.  I guess it’s difficult to understand me sometimes as it isn’t as easy to articulate as it once was for me.  I was known for my songs, bagpipes (which were instantly produced by plugging your nose, tilting your head backwards, and striking your throat with the side of your hand while humming a tune), and my jokes.  But these days, I prefer to sit and listen.  My new role suits me just fine – you know, “wise old owl sat in an oak, the more he heard the less he spoke…”?

Anyhow, a very good friend of mine, Martin Langmuir, came to visit me yesterday.  It was one of his routine visits to me. Martin and I met over 30 years ago at Air Cadets.  He was a young then too. There was something about Martin that allowed he and I to develop a very close relationship.  He was tall and skinny and I, well, I was a member of SAC (short-ass-club). Martin and I would train our cadets every Thursday night and once the kids all went home, I’d teach Martin the protocols associated with enjoyed a beverage in the Officer’s Club.  It’s not so easy to develop the ability to place one’s foot up on the brass rail effectively.

I guess another reason Martin and I were able to become such good friends too is that Paula welcomed him into the family almost instantly.  He, of course, liked good food.  And the rest, as they say, is history.

As I mentioned, I don’t talk as much as I used to and I get awfully tired quickly.  Last night, Martin came and shared a glass of wine with me.  He chatted and I simply listened.  I don’t think we need words as this moment.  Funny how a simple memory of the times when he and “Cathy” summered in the cabin in our woods can flood my mind with thoughts.  I wish I could say what I wanted to say to Martin, but it’s just too difficult to express memories into words when they are so emotional.  Martin and Cathy took such good care of that cabin-in-the-woods.  It’s still there, by the way.. a little worn out, but the memories seem to spill out of it.  If only those walls could talk, boy they’d have some stories to tell.

If I could say what I wanted to say to Martin it would be to say how thankful I am to have had such a great friend for such a very long time.  He has seen me through some very good times and is supporting me through some not so good times.

Martin’s weekly visit is something I look forward to – it is something I get ready for both physically and mentally.  I want to be “there” for him, my friend.

Last night Martin reminded me of the “obstacle course” that we built in the back 40 for the air cadets.  There was a well, rope course, stump-jumping kind of thing, and more but I don’t recall the challenges at this point.  The cadets would be required to camp (survival training) for the week-end in this same location.  They were, for the most part, pretty good.  It is kind of funny that their survival training was simply how my family and I “lived” in the woods while our house was being built. Martin and I had a lot of fun teasing the boys and scaring them at night by making scratching noises on the tents.  We pretended we were bears… I think some of them still believe there were bears that they had to hide away from during survival training to this day!

Only Martin and I can share all the memories that belong to us.  The hard part about losing a friend is that you have no one to share those memories with.  They become exclusively yours, and, although still very precious, because you can’t share them with someone, they don’t come to life as much.  I wish for my friend Martin to know that I have always appreciated his friendship and the memories that we carry together.

To you, Martin, I raise my glass and say, “The dew may kiss the butterfly, a man may kiss his wife good-bye, the sparkling wine may kiss the glass, and you my friend… farewell”.  (Not really farewell yet -but Martin, I know you always got a kick out of this one!  Martin, my good friend, thank-you.  Long may your “lum reak”  (chimney smoke)!

Categories: Family and Friends, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments


It was two years ago, today, that I wrote this post on behalf of my father. The image that is the most powerful remains the one of my Dad smiling. He didn’t know, at this point, what I was writing. He was “out of stories”, as he put it. Yes, I just sensed what I felt he would say. Funny how you can get to know someone so well that you can communicate by just being.

My Dad’s smile was famous in his building. He was known as “Smiley” by all the women. Of course, my Mom saw the other side of the smile on occasion! grin. Nonetheless, Dad’s reputation earned him a very flattering nick-name. He was proud of this nick-name.

So many times, Dad made others smile. He told me – near the end – that he thought he had figured out his purpose. When I invited him to share his insight, Dad was hesitant. Finally, he said, “I think my purpose was to make people happy”. I thought that was so wise. I thought it so appropriate, remembering the reputation he had earned as an “entertainer” because of the long string of jokes that he would tell around the bonfire all night long. Honestly, the jokes and the songs would never end. I thought it so right – for a man who earned the nick-name, “Smiley”.

Two years later— I hope you enjoy this repost as a tribute to my Dad.

– Stacey

Original Post:
One of my wife, Paula’s favorite songs was composed by Charlie Chaplin and her favorite rendition was sung by the man with the golden voice, Nat King Cole:  Smile

I’ve re-copied the lyrics for your reading pleasure (feel free to sing along in your head as you read if you like!)

As I have reached yet another mile-stone in my life and feel myself with less and less energy, I have felt it important to smile.  And that’s what people who meet me comment on.  I’m glad I can make them smile.

Smile, though your heart is aching

Smile even though its breaking

When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by

If you smile through your fear and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You’ll see the sun come shining through for you


Light up your face with gladness

Hide every trace of sadness

Although a tear may be ever so near

That’s the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what’s the use of crying?

You’ll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile


That’s the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what’s the use of crying?

You’ll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile!



Dad's smile earned him a bit of a reputation!

Dad’s smile earned him a bit of a reputation!

Categories: Duff History, Life's Lessons, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

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