From Lori, With Love

Roses are red ...... Love Is A Word .......... Love is a word that can't be explained or defined. For words can't capture beauty And words can't capture feelings And words can't capture the heart. Only love can.

Rocking Through the Days of Motherhood For almost 15 years, the little blue index card hung conspicuously above the landline phone attached to the wall in my kitchen. Whenever I talked on the phone, I glanced at the inspirational words that danced across the small rectangle of paper, hoping they would lodge in my brain and settle in my heart. On the best of days, the words echoed my certitude in my calling as a full-time mother. On the worst of days, the quote served as my b

A LONG AGO NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION FROM COLLEGE DAYS! My alarm goes off, I greet the dawn. With a lazy sigh and a big wide yawn. I step to the floor and slowly rise, Stretching and yawning and rubbing my eyes. I walk to my closet and begin to frown. What do you wear when your short and round? I look in the mirror and see layers of fat, And wave good-bye to the guy in the frat. I walk to my bed and crawl back in; 'Cause in my dreams I'm gorgeous and thin.

January blues Amidst the bright snow white views Christmas is over

First published in Mothers Always Write “The stockings were hung by the chimney with care” go the words of Clement Clarke Moore’s famous poem about Santa Claus, and so go our actions as we lovingly hang our handmade stockings on the mantel each year and reverently remember my grandmother, whose nickname was Gogi. She gave us one of our most cherished Christmas traditions – the hanging of the Christmas stockings. Wrapped in tissue paper for safekeeping, the hand knit stockings

First published in Mother's Always Write When I go home to Nebraska, there is a place I like to visit at the top of a windy hill. Looking east from this vantage point, a major road dotted with stately homes on either side cuts through the grass-covered rolling hills and heads into my bustling hometown. In the opposite direction there are no roads or homes, only the vast open view the pioneers must have seen as they ventured west on the frontier toward new opportunities. Stan

Nov. 11 is a special day. We all recognize it as Veterans Day, but it also is my grandfather’s birthday. When I was growing up in Kearney, Nebraska, we always celebrated our birthdays together since my special day is November 7. In a future blog, I’ll write more about my grandfather and the special chocolate cake with chocolate frosting that my mother always made for us. That recipe and many others will appear in my family cookbook memoir, Rutabagas, Runzas and Red Beer: Stor

After years of writing Christmas letters and poems in the margins of life, I’m finally writing full time — and loving it. For so long, I wrote on the rim of life — in notebooks, letters, and quiet moments between. Now I write from the center of it, grateful for every word that finds its way home.