The blue and yellow strips of paper chains are starting to grow around the Christmas tree in our Marley House chapel.

The grocery store is filled with reminders we are firmly in the holiday season.

For the past two years, I’ve had the privilege of talking to a group of Ms. Haynes’ eighth-graders at Northpoint Expeditionary Learning Academy about senior and assisted living in this community, sharing a few stories about what it is and why some people end up living there.

I dropped the small, white box into the mailbox at the post office and drove off, wondering what we would find out in a few weeks. After six decades of not knowing anything about his family history, Mike decided to do a DNA test.

I discovered at 6:30 a.m. on the day of the Walk to End Alzheimer’s that despite having read up online on all the steps to make percolator coffee, I had forgotten one critical element – the cups to pour it into.

We had a parking lot sale last week as a fundraiser for our Lions Club.

I was raised to be polite and respectful, so “poking the bear” doesn’t come naturally for me, even when it’s a topic I feel strongly about.

It’s hard to start over. I think we’ve all been there, where something we took for granted sneaks out the back door in a worn pair of running shoes when you aren’t paying attention.

After 67 years, you would expect to build many good memories together, including stories about your life your kids still laugh about and share. Bob was a dentist and Peggy ran a health food store.

I was standing by the washing machine, talking to my husband about the yard project we were attempting to pull off in the sweltering heat when the rumbling started.

When you’re tall like me, having a few extra inches on the plane can make the trip better.

A few months ago, one of my college roommates invited me to spend some time with her in Ireland this summer.

One of the first doctors I met when we moved to Prescott was Dr. John Oakley.

I am beginning to suspect that many folks who grew up in Prescott had Penny Nicholas as their Kindergarten or first-grade teacher.

My cell phone sent me an alert that I was almost at my voicemail limit the other day.

This week I had a chance to talk with a class of eighth-graders about the people who live in assisted living and how once upon a time these folks were 14-year-olds too.

Our garage has a collection of underused sporting gear hanging from hooks on the wall. Sleeping bags and a tent from the camping trip that happened exactly twice in our 26 years together.

The other day I bought an Easter egg dye kit, which looked remarkably similar to the one I remember using as a kid many years ago.

I got an unexpected phone call on the way home from work today. It was the dermatologist’s office and I figured they’d say “all good, see you next year.”

At my age, I don’t know many people who don’t wear glasses, at least for reading, except for my husband, who likes to pretend he doesn’t need them so he leaves them in the car.

“I’m young enough that I could still live in my car if I have to,” she says on the phone, “but many of the other people in this apartment building are pretty old and are doing worse than I am.”

The other day, my niece mentioned it was her 11-month anniversary of dating her boyfriend. ...

I wrote a poem the other day. Well, actually, I didn’t write it, it was created by an artificial intelligence (AI) chatbot called ChatGPT.

The other day I got to ask a dozen seniors questions about their lives. I learned one woman had been a true “Rosie the Riveter” in her earlier days. Another man held a summer job at a dude ranch that ended up closing down and came back home having traded his paycheck for some pregnant mares, hoping to start a horse ranch.

The other day I was cleaning out a desk drawer in my office and found an envelope that said, “Kelly Resolutions 1999.” I opened it, hoping my 20th-century goals might have been a little more creative ...

My purse is stuffed with Christmas lists from the residents at our assisted living.

I got a text the other day from a Canadian friend I hadn’t talked to in a long time, and hadn’t seen in person for thirteen years.

It’s a helpless feeling when your car won’t start. It’s even worse when you’re waiting to roll through Prescott as Float No. 50 in the Veterans’ Day Parade, and there’s a Vietnam veteran sitting in the front seat next to you looking forward to being a part of it.

Every morning when I head out the door to work, I look at our front yard garden. It’s been a hard battle, getting flowers and plants into the ground much less make them grow.

Two years ago, I was sitting in Ron Barnes’ living room for the first time, with a few of my coworkers.

When I was a kid, I spent a week each summer at a Campfire camp in Boone, Iowa.

It could have been the bowling alley. I always wonder if they ever clean the finger holes of bowling balls. Or maybe the Italian restaurant, packed on a Sunday night, everyone laughing and talking as they passed around breadsticks and slurped spaghetti.

This week, I met a recent Prescott transplant who repairs clocks for a living. He seemed younger than I expected someone with that job to be, so I asked him how he happened to choose clock repair as a career.

We knew we were on borrowed time. There’s an unwritten agreement when you take a dog into your home, someday they will break your heart. If you’re lucky, like we were, you’ll get almost 14 years of joy as part of the deal.

The opening scene of the 1997 movie “Contact” popped in my head while clicking through the imagery sent back from the James Webb Space Telescope this week.

It’s been five years since I’ve grasped the metal handrails at Mather Point and stared at the vast canyon rippling out across the horizon.

Maybe we didn’t think it through when we decided to finally take a vacation and booked a few days at a rental house near Tubac.

The thought of people taking the time to write letters to other people they don’t know for the sole reason of brightening their day makes me happy.

Life can be going along just fine and then you do something dumb, like not checking if there’s a toothpick in the appetizer you’ve just popped into your mouth and gulped down without really chewing.

When I think of all the aunts, mothers, and grandmothers in my life, most of them had a signature dish or a meal they made that was a family favorite, held in such high esteem you were afraid to try to make it on your own because you knew your version of “Grandma Cec’s Lemon Meringue Pie” or “Aunt Edna’s Swedish Meatballs” would pale in comparison.

“Most people that meet Trevor just think that he’s really shy,” his mom Stacy Guglielmotti told me. “He doesn’t always make eye contact. They don’t necessarily know he’s autistic, but they know he’s different.”

The other day I was giving a tour of our assisted living to a lady who is 100 years old. She brought her children along, who are visiting from out of town. She’s not quite ready to give up living on he

Music can make you feel young again, but it can also remind you how old you’re getting.

It’s hard not to follow the news all day, every day, as this Russia-Ukraine war continues to grow. It is half a world away, yet every movement and bombing is broadcast across news sites and social media as it happens, like a horrible action movie coming to life, a disaster we can’t stop watching.

The other night we were enjoying a dinner out at a local restaurant, and the Winter Olympics were on in the background.

I have heard those six words and the verse that follows them from 1 Corinthians 13:4-8 at almost every wedding I’ve attended.

It’s hard to know what to expect when you sit in a room full of strangers to talk about death. It’s a topic that most of us don’t like to think about, even though we’re all going to get there someday.

A dozen years ago, when people were publishing books about cooking every recipe in Julia Child’s cookbook or the life-changing results of writing a thank you note a day for a solid year, I decided it would be a great time to start a blog about learning something new.

Time has a funny way of moving fast and slow at the same time.

“I have 50 Christmas mugs filled with hot chocolate and an inspirational verse tucked inside. A lady named Yvonne said you might be able to find a home for them.” I love getting these kinds of phone calls, especially since a coworker and I had just been brainstorming about Christmas gift ideas for our residents.

I pulled a box of Christmas decorations out of the basement last week and found a bunch of old holiday cards at the bottom from years past. They were photo cards on heavy paper, with rounded corners and shiny foil lettering exclaiming “Merry & Bright” or “Peace & Joy.”

The hardest things to talk about are the most important. We all hope to live to a ripe old age, but not everyone get there. November is always my month to ponder life, not only because my mom and I both have birthdays, but because she died just after her 74th birthday of Alzheimer’s

The stories come in small pieces, coaxed out gently when I ask a new resident when and where they served in the military.

I’m married to a guy who is not a big fan of flying. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been in an airplane.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this,” she says before continuing to tell me more stories about her 99-year-old dad over the phone. We talk about the farm he grew up on in the Midwest and what he did for work after World War 2, how he remarried after her mother passed away, and what life has been like for him since his second wife died.

Last week, I stopped into a local home improvement store looking for some mums to brighten up the frazzled summer planters on our front porch. As I walked towards the garden center, I noticed the clearance patio furniture was mingling with ghoulish zombies and inflatable front lawn witches.

You’re either a fair person or you’re not.

Every morning when I walk out my front door to work, I see a pinwheel spinning in one of my flower pots in the garden.

“Thank you for listening to me,” he said as we stood in the hallway talking. He smiled at me before pushing his walker slowly down the hall back to his room. ...

I don’t like to think that I’m middle aged, but it’s true. Today, I got a telemarketing call wanting to talk to me about my Medicare Advantage plan. I made her repeat it before I realized what she was asking me.

I’m not one to quote Greek philosophers, but the words “the only thing constant is change” has been floating through my mind lately.

One of my earliest memories of my dad was waiting to surprise him when he came home each day from work.

I picked her up at the Phoenix airport around 9 p.m., this tall young woman wearing Converse high-tops painted two different colors, and pants with one leg black and one leg white.

It’s been 13,689 days since I passed my driver’s test.

This is the 110th year that we’ve celebrated Mother’s Day in every U.S. state, according to Wikipedia.

He was supposed to be a puppy. At least that’s what I’d been looking for when I drove into the Humane Society parking lot.

There’s a line Dorothy says in “The Wizard of Oz” movie: “If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.”

I have a soft spot in my heart for old dogs.

I was sure I smelled a gas leak one recent Sunday morning as I was walking down our driveway, but after checking out the obvious culprits, the smell was gone.