Every so often the universe humbles me. While I don’t usually share medical information in a blog, I thought my unfortunate experience might help others. 

I have a condition that most people would dismiss as a minor irritation: a painful bunion. It’s a non life-threatening problem that’s no big deal, right? Just buy bigger shoes. Even the word bunion makes people laugh for some reason. No one takes this foot condition very seriously.

Two years ago while driving, I got a foot cramp. I’m talking about a searing pain that made my toes curl. I pulled the car over, yanked off my shoe, and massaged the pain away. That bunion was messing with the nerves in my foot. I consulted a podiatrist. We discussed treatment options and agreed that surgery was the best long-term fix. I talked with two friends who’d had the procedure, and both had good outcomes. Undergoing surgery meant I’d have to put my life on hold for 6-8 weeks since I couldn’t walk or drive while healing. I thought carefully about whether or not to undergo the knife--especially after watching videos of the procedure. The decision to have surgery came easily after several more episodes of cramps.
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On November 1, 2017, my doctor performed a lapidus bunionectomy. The surgeon shaved my bunion, and then cut my big toe in half, realigned it, and then secured it in place with a plate and screws. The surgery went well, and I went home to heal. I bought a knee scooter to get around. I got out of housework because I needed to elevate my leg. To fill the hours, I read books, worked on my latest novel, and binge watched Netflix and Amazon Prime series (I loved Suits). I visited with family, friends and neighbors. All in all it wasn’t a bad life.

Eight weeks after surgery, my doctor cleared me to start walking again. Oh, joy! I was eager to reclaim my normal life. I resumed my household chores, picked up my granddaughters from school. My walking partner and I eased back into our morning routine. I arranged play dates with my friends. My hubby and I traveled to Sedona for some hiking. We enjoyed a family vacation in Costa Rica, and a reunion with cousins in Vegas. Hip hip hurray! I had my life back! Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, the foot cramps were replaced by a throbbing that was only relieved by icing, elevation, and Advil. Four months after surgery, my doctor sent me to physical therapy. He told me, “It can take up to a year for everything to heal.” Code words for: expect some pain.  I did my exercises faithfully, and pushed through the discomfort. Deep down I worried that I had traded one problem for another.

On the one-year anniversary of my surgery, I called the doctor. “Look,” I said, feeling quite sorry for myself, “if suffering chronic pain is my lot in life, so be it. There are worse conditions to have. But I want to make sure that nothing serious is wrong.”

The doctor ordered x-rays. The results stunned both of us. Not only had my toe bone not healed, but three screws had broken. No wonder I was having pain; my foot was a mess. A myriad of emotions strangled me: anger, frustration, disappointment, sadness, incredulity.

Once I calmed down, my husband and I met with the doctor to discuss the next steps. We learned my condition is called a “non-union.” Fifteen percent of patients have bones that don’t heal as fast as normal. Unfortunately, it’s a catch-22. You don’t know about the problem until you have a severed/fractured bone that doesn’t heal.

I was given two treatment options: surgically remove the screws and stay off my foot hoping the bone heals, or repeat the surgery. A second doctor supported these recommendations. Knowing I needed surgery to retrieve the screws anyway, I opted for a revision, hoping for a more stable outcome.

On December 10, 2018, I had a four-hour redo that included a bone graft. One screw from the previous surgery remained in my foot because it was too deeply embedded in the bone to remove. I returned home to convalesce. Recovery this time felt different. I was anxious and worried, and if I’m honest a little depressed. The hours ticked by more slowly. I had less strength, felt weaker than last time. I was bored with TV. I didn’t sleep well. Would I heal? Would the bone graft take? Would I ever hike again?

The temporary cast came off after two weeks. I had no infection, and my foot appeared to be healing. So far, so good. Another cast was put on my right foot up to the knee. Four weeks later, that cast was removed. X-rays showed my bone was fusing, but slowly. Good progress, but not enough to start walking. I traded my cast for a removable boot, and was told not to walk for a month. I began using a medical device to stimulate bone growth every day for twenty minutes. I meditated. I listened to music. I gazed outside at nature. I played online backgammon. I edited my novel, I had several books going. I taught myself to make iMovies. I did whatever I could to pass the hours.

Another appointment, more x-rays. Unwelcome news. Progress, but still not enough healing. No walking for another month. My wonderful hubby, family, friends, and neighbors rallied around me. They pulled me out of my funk by texting me, sending cards, bringing me lunch, dragging me to the movies, delivering flowers, sharing gossip, and making me laugh.

Today I got good news. X-rays revealed solid healing. After three and a half months of sitting on my keister, I can walk again. For two weeks it will be in a boot, then I get to wear a tennis shoe. My foot doesn’t feel normal yet. It’s stiff and numb in places, but that’s expected after protecting it for so long. Hiking and morning walks are off the table for now, but I’m grateful to move around the house without a scooter. Slow, but steady progress with careful monitoring on the horizon.

This experience humbled me. For those of you who suffer with bunions, I offer some tongue-in-cheek advice: don’t put your life on hold, keep buying bigger shoes, and learn other ways to cope with those awful cramps. But if surgery is right for you, have the doctor triple check those x-rays before you start hiking again. Don’t pretend what happened to me could never happen to you.

​This past Valentine’s Day, a nineteen-year-old man entered the campus of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, pulled out an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle from a duffle bag, and began shooting. When the massacre ended, seventeen people were dead—fourteen of them students.
     Survivors of the rampage emerged with powerful voices. “Enough is enough!” they shouted to anyone who would listen. “Never again!” Student activists ignited a national movement, identifying March 14, 2018 as a “day of action.” They encouraged schools from across America to participate in a walkout that would serve as both a memorial to those killed, as well as a protest, calling for lawmakers to pass stricter gun control laws. 
     Students from Miller Creek Middle School in San Rafael wanted to join the movement. The principal, several teachers, and about thirty activists met during a lunch break to plan a protest. I sat quietly in the background.
     The principal opened the meeting by asking attendees to define activism. “Doing something to create change,” came an instant reply. “Tell me about free speech”, the principal nudged. “What does it mean to you?” A flurry of comments erupted. One girl shouted, “Having the right to say what I believe!” A boy added, “Without penalty or censorship.”
     The principal nodded, and then threw a curve ball. “Who can tell me about the 1965 landmark case of Des Moines vs. Tinker?”
    Without missing a beat, a girl said, “It’s about a student who wore a black armband to school in protest of the Vietnam War. School authorities created a policy forbidding it. The student wore the armband anyway, and was suspended. The family sued all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, saying the school policy violated the student’s First Amendment rights. The student won the case.”
    “Good summary,” the principal said. “It’s also important to mention that responsibilities came with the ruling. Free speech and activism cannot infringe on someone else’s rights. For example, protesters can’t disrupt school. Right to free speech doesn’t supersede our right to have a peaceful environment. Also, students have a right not to protest. The principal shifted topics. “Will someone please define ‘truancy’?”
      “Not going to school,” a boy said. The principal nodded. “California truancy laws require you to attend school from the first to twelfth grades. This means if students leave campus without permission, there will be consequences.” She paused to let her words sink in before continuing.
     “Now, it's time to plan your protest. I find it helpful to begin these type of discussions with a purpose statement.” The principal read aloud: Miller Creek stands in solidarity with the students from Parkland, Florida. “Does the wording work for you?" After unanimous approval, the students were asked to turn to a neighbor and discuss what protesting looks like for Miller Creek. The room erupted in animated chatter. Five minutes later, the principal convened everyone. “Let’s hear your ideas.”
     Words tumbled out: “I want to gather on the field for seventeen minutes of silence,” a girl said. “No way!” someone shot back. “Middle Schoolers can’t stay quiet that long!” After the giggles ended, more ideas surfaced. “We must to do something to honor the seventeen victims." "I want to form a giant heart on the field." "I think everyone should wear orange." "We need signs so people know why we’re protesting,” etc.
     The principle summarized all discussion threads. Attendees voted on a couple of key issues, using the majority rule. Several unresolved matters were tabled for the next day. I silently wondered how everything would come together with so many loose ends.
     On March 14, 2018, I drove to the school to watch the event unfold. The wintery weather set an ominous tone as dark clouds formed overhead. At 10:00, students emerged from classrooms in reverence. Some walked to an outdoor pavilion, choosing not to participate. The majority of students ambled to the field, carrying signs, umbrellas, and determination. The color orange was sprinkled into scarfs, skirts, hoodies, shirts, shoes, signs and socks. Once everyone arrived, student leaders led a march inside the field’s perimeter.
     Some kids whispered during the walk; others remained silent, wearing solemn expressions. Friends held hands. Many carried signs. Rain fell, but the protesters kept moving. Seventeen minutes later, students exited the field and returned to their routine.
    The event unfolded flawlessly. With guidance from a trusted principal and supportive teachers, the Miller Creek students found a peaceful way to stand in solidarity with students from Parkland, Florida. These young people embraced their constitutional right to express beliefs, whether or not they marched. In the not-too-distant future, these tweens will vote. I believe democracy is safe in their capable hands.

​My daughter, Kristy Treewater, is a unique woman. She is a loving wife, devoted mother, thoughtful daughter, trusted friend, talented chef, and an outstanding middle-school principal. So, why am I publicly bragging about her?
     Because I’m a proud momma who is bursting with pride. I recently learned that the San Rafael Chamber of Commerce and the San Rafael Chamber Education Committee has named Kristy as one of their recipients for the 2017-2018 Excellence in Education award. This great honor doesn’t surprise me. Here’s why.
     As a child, she’d spend hours lining up her dolls to play “school.” I would peek into her bedroom and watch her read stories to “students.” Kristy taught lessons with confidence, and she made sure everyone towed the line. During high school, she worked as an after-school counselor, coordinating various activities to keep her crew busy.
     After earning a teaching credential from Dominican University, several districts offered Kristy a job. She chose to teach math and science at Venetia Valley in San Rafael, valuing the K-8 school’s diversity. Her sister and I had fun helping decorate her first classroom by lining walls with enticing materials to stimulate young minds. On several occasions, I sat quietly in the back of the room, watching her perform math magic. The kids didn’t even notice me because they were so engaged in the lesson.
     After a few years, she left the classroom to become a peer math coach. Later, she served as an assistant principal at three different schools before being named principal of Miller Creek Middle School. You will often find her welcoming students by name as they arrive on campus, as well as when they leave at the end of the day. She attends events—musical performances, sporting activities, after-school clubs, speech competitions, board meetings, fundraisers—on a regular basis. She writes newsletters and uses social media to keep parents informed of school activities. She can’t walk anywhere in San Rafael without current and former students (and their parents) stopping to chat. She’s an education rock star.
     Kristy is a private woman. She won’t like me posting this blog but I can’t help myself. I’m a proud momma. Congratulations for following your dreams, daughter. Please savor this well-earned recognition, knowing you make the world a better place for so many people—especially those lucky Panthers at Miller Creek.

For those of you who grew up riding bobsleds at Disneyland, this is a photo of the real Matterhorn, which rests near the town of Zermatt, Switzerland. Travel has always been a priority for me. I fund a savings account dedicated to exploring the world, and after I’ve saved enough money, I book a trip. I'm not intimidated by long waits in airports, intrusive security, cramped seats, jet lag, or unpredictable weather. I savor new languages, cultures, food, and ideas. Travel removes me from my comfort zone and allows me to see the world through fresh eyes. It has made me a more informed and tolerant woman.
     I just returned from an adventure with a close friend, Debbi. We visited New York City on our own before heading across the pond to capture that picture of the Matterhorn. I could fill pages describing our experiences, but that’s not why I’m writing. Instead, I want to tell you a story about a Canadian couple from our tour group, and its effect on me.
     We landed in Zurich and had a free afternoon to explore the city. The Canadian couple boarded a train and headed to city center for a walking tour. They were standing outside the rail station studying a map when a middle-aged stranger approached them. He asked if they were Americans. They replied no, and the man immediately unleashed a Trump rant. He calmed down after a bit and guided the couple to their destination. 
     Later that evening, our tour leader gathered us for an orientation and dinner. We introduced ourselves, sizing one another up. We had ten days together, and I silently wondered how we’d mesh. I find most travel groups to be microcosms of the world, and this one was no exception. Various nationalities and professions were represented. Ages ranged from the late twenties to the near eighties. Some were married; others were single. Some folks kept to themselves, while others initiated conversations. 
     As days passed, we began to reveal personal stories. We laughed and yodeled and ate meals together. We learned how to airdrop photos into each other’s phones. We shared medicine advice, and made sure everyone stayed hydrated. US politics eventually seeped into conversations, and the Canadian couple relayed their Zurich story. I grew disheartened. I briefly wondered how that angry Swiss man would have treated me once he learned my nationality.    
     Throughout the trip, the US president’s name surfaced in negative ways. Swiss magazines profiled Trump on their covers. The images of him—and our country—were not flattering. A few individuals on the tour offered helpful political perspectives that inspired hope. I experienced the best of humanity with this travel group. My fellow travelers reminded me of how quickly strangers can mold into friends by embracing curiosity, respect, and openness.
    I will continue to fund a travel account so I can experience new languages, cultures, food, and ideas. I will share my love for this great country with anyone who will listen—especially people like that man outside the Zurich rail station. Lastly, I will do my part to remind others that America is so much more than a single face or solo voice.

Last Friday, my son-in-law, Adam, took his two girls to a “Father-Daughter” dance at their school. Collette and Sierra picked out fancy new dresses for the occasion, and Adam treated them to dinner before the big event. My granddaughters were giddy with excitement.
     I first learned about Adam when I visited my daughter, Kristy, during her student teaching years. On the day I observed her classroom, the principal hosted an assembly for all students. After we had gathered in a large room, Kristy lifted her chin toward a teacher sitting with a group of well-behaved third graders and whispered, “He's the one.”
     After dating for a while, Kristy formally introduced me to Adam at his house in San Rafael. He shared a tidy home with his beloved cat, Dexter. Blooming flowers decorated his front garden. Even then, I witnessed his nurturing spirit.
     When Adam sought our blessing to marry Kristy, Andy and I were thrilled. We knew he loved her as much as she loved him. Their wedding was a joyous celebration for our families. Several years later, the couple handed a gift bag to me. I lifted the feather-light sack, wondering about its contents since it wasn’t my birthday or a holiday. I peeked inside and pulled out a bib with the words “I love Mimi” inscribed on it. My first grandchild was on its way.
     Adam is a quiet, unassuming man who gets things done. He savors his role as husband and father. He manifests love through well-tended gardens, a commitment to his career, loading the dishwasher, folding endless loads of laundry, playing the guitar, fixing all things electronic, balancing the budget, and hosting fun gatherings for family and friends.
     Right now, my granddaughters take him for granted. They assume all dads take their kids to “Father-Daughter” dances, buy them muffins on Friday mornings, and shoot hoops after school. For Collette and Sierra, family events such as riding bikes, hiking, stopping at garage sales, beach days, vacations, camping trips, ball games, and lunch in Chinatown are simply a part of growing up.  
     One day, Collette and Sierra will see what I see. They will realize their great fortune in having a dad who puts his family first. They will come to understand the sacrifices he has made on their behalf. Adam’s reward will come as he watches his daughters transition into confident, independent, and assertive women who take on the world.

​On October 19, 2016, a dear friend, Dr. Robert J. Shofer, passed away quietly at his tranquil Palm Desert home after a lengthy illness. Two weeks prior to his death, my husband, Andy, and I flew to southern California to spend a few days with Bob and his wife, Cynthia. The four of us have been friends for over thirty years, and even in Bob’s deteriorated state, greeting him without tears was no problem. His smile and jokes lightened the mood. Andy and Bob posed for this photo during our visit.
     We observed the façade behind Bob’s smile as his energy quickly waned. He slept twenty hours a day, and no longer walked on his own. Cynthia, his dedicated caregiver for the past seven months, was exhausted.
     Andy had filled his iPad with pictures--skiing in Vail, house boating on Lake Powell, snorkeling in the Bahamas, losing money in Vegas, touring Bryce National Park--so we could reminisce about our shared vacations. Cynthia dusted off her and Bob’s wedding album, and we viewed photos of their sons, wives, and grandkids. We marveled at the passage of time and our good fortune.
     I asked Bob to reflect on his life. He easily divided it into three distinct parts. The first one involved his childhood. He grew up on the east coast in an affluent family. He lacked for nothing and expressed gratitude for the opportunities life had bestowed upon him. For a career, he wanted to be an airline pilot, but told me “good Jewish boys become doctors or lawyers--not pilots.” He made his family proud by graduating from the Duke University School of Medicine.
     He spent the second phase of his life as an accomplished neurologist, first as an avid researcher, then as a clinician. His list of professional degrees and accolades is impressive. Andy and Bob worked side-by-side in the neurology department at Kaiser Permanente in Bellflower for many years. They had fun ruminating about their patients, hospital politics, and the joys and challenges of practicing medicine.
     The final phase of Bob’s life involved flying. He and Cynthia--both instrument-trained pilots--had owned a plane for twenty-four years. Nothing gave Bob more joy than plotting a course for faraway destinations. I’ll never forget when he took us to Catalina. Between the heavy winds, cliffs, and short airstrip, I closed my eyes as he expertly landed his single-engine wonder on the island.
     After Bob had finished describing the three phases of his life, he pointed at several oil paintings, trendy lights, and delicate woodwork around the house. He modestly admitted he had made them all. He didn’t mention the baby grand piano in the living room, but I recalled the classical songs he had played for me during prior visits.
     Cynthia roused Bob from sleep shortly before we left. The minute she wheeled him into the kitchen, I knew I was in trouble. Saying goodbye to him without shedding tears would be impossible. He observed my grief and calmly said, “I’ll see you on the other side” with a relaxed, confident smile. I think he greatly anticipated his final journey to a place of no pain.
     Oh, how I will miss this funny, generous, determined, and talented man who made the world a brighter place. I will never forget you, Dr. Shofer.    ~RIP~

​I’d like to introduce you to my precocious ten-year-old granddaughter. Collette and I hang out together every Wednesday after school. She has watched me write and self-publish three novels, and she often peppers me with questions about my work. She is my biggest fan.
When Collette was seven, she asked me to help her write a book. She selected a title: Ten Things That Interest Me. For the next ten weeks, she chose a different subject, and we conducted research. Topics such as cloud formations and volcanic eruptions made the list. I wrote narratives while she drew pictures. We stapled the final pages together, and shared the ‘book’ with family and friends.
     When Collette turned eight, she informed me it was time to write a second story. This one involved two main characters and a cleaver plot twist. She wanted it bound with a ‘real’ cover--no more staples. She dictated the story to me, and drew the cover art. I appeased her by turning the project into a Shutterfly album.  
     Six months later, she announced that she wanted to write an actual book. “One like yours, Mimi. I want it on Amazon so people from all over the world can read it. And it needs to have lots of words and pictures.” I paused, wondering how to distract her from this ambitious goal. I explained the long and grueling road to publication. We made no decision that day, and I secretly hoped she would forget about the time-consuming project.
     The following Wednesday, Collette hurried out of her classroom wearing an impish grin. “I have something to show you, Mimi!” She handed me a ‘Bad Kitty’ chapter book called Drawn To Trouble. The author explained how to write a children’s story in a fun and engaging way. “I bought it with my own money,” Collette said proudly. “And I’ve already read it.”
     My jaw dropped. The fact she purchased and read the book didn’t surprise me. When Collette puts her mind to something, she makes it happen. The surprise came from the fact she could explain the difference between a protagonist and antagonist, discuss the three-act structure, and describe why conflict is critical to a successful story. “Now will you help me write a real book?” Collette tossed me a knowing smile.
     After careful consideration, we decided to write about a turkey vulture who had crashed landed in my backyard. We brainstormed plot ideas, constructed spunky characters, and created a timeline.
     My granddaughter thought a lot about the plot. “I want Muir Woods in the story. I don’t know where or how, but it’s important.” We immersed ourselves in articles and books about vultures, and we toured WildCare, a non-profit organization who healed our bird. Then, we cobbled together a first draft. I massaged the words, and returned a thirty-page typed manuscript to my young writing partner to review.
     Collette circled words and phrases that didn’t work for her, and offered fresh ideas that improved the story. While we worked on the narrative, my husband searched for vultures to photograph in the wild. An artist used those images to create forty-three engaging illustrations. I hired a professional to edit and format the book.
     In a few weeks, Collette and I will self-publish a children’s book called Vanessa’s Rotten Day. It will be sold on Amazon as a print and e-book. Anyone in the world can read the story.
     Collette is imaginative, creative, and a hard worker. She has many interests, and I don’t know if she will become a professional writer when she grows up. What I do know is that I’ve become her biggest fan. If she ever needs my help to write another book, and she brings her desire, time, and energy to the table, I’ll simply say yes, and guide her down the writer’s road.

Photo credit: Kristy Treewater

A friend photographed our cruise ship leaving the San Francisco bay on September 30, 2015. Although Andy and I visited three Mexican ports, enjoyed a day in Costa Rica, spent time in Colombia, and played on a Bahamian Island, the highlight of our trip was traversing the Panama Canal. 
      As life unfolds, occasionally something significant happens that teaches me a lesson. It's a moment of understanding-a resonance-that takes me by surprise. For example, thinking about JFK’s assassination instantly transports me back to my elementary school. Time stood still as we grieved over the death of a beloved president. I lost some of my innocence that day, and felt less safe.
     I remember holding my first daughter in my arms after giving birth. She triggered a burning desire in me to improve myself so I could take care of her. I instantly grew up that day.
     I can still hear the roar of the crowd that lined Lakewood Boulevard to view a hand-off of the 1984 Olympic torch on its way to the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. We cheered with gusto as the runners passed the torch. That day taught me about community pride.
     I viewed a total solar eclipse off the island of Aruba in 1998. I can still feel the eerie twilight caused by the moon passing between the earth and sun. I recall minutes of silence  as chills flowed through my body. I sensed a divine presence all around me that day.
     Passing through the 100-year-old Panama Canal, triggered one of those moments. From my room, I saw several things as we approached the canal: a picture-worthy sunrise, the Panama City skyline, at least fifty vessels waiting for a turn to pass through the locks. I glanced up and down the ship as fellow passengers returned my smile.
     Suddenly, I wanted to be with the crowd. I dressed quickly and scurried out of my cabin, heading to the ship’s bow. The staff provided coffee, tea, and Panama Rolls, a sweet delicacy, as we gathered to view the transit. I chatted with several engineers who placed seeing this man-made wonder high on their bucket list. I met a woman who had traveled through the canal twice before because she liked it so much. “Wait until we pass through the first three locks, and reach Gatun Lake,” she said. “You’ll love how peaceful it is.”
     I conversed with people from Australia, Canada, England, South Africa, and the United States about all kinds of things that morning. We bonded through our curious minds, mutual love of travel, and enjoyment of Panama rolls. The hum of anticipation filled the air as we approached the first lock. Then, cameras started clicking wildly as if paparazzi had spotted a famous movie star.
     It’s difficult to articulate how I felt during the transit except to say I had a moment of resonance. Passing through each lock, experiencing it with others, reminded me of our shared humanity. We took a break from talking about politics, war, and terrorists to focus on something truly astounding.
     If nations can come together to build a masterpiece like the Panama Canal, just imagine what we can continue to achieve if we look beyond our differences. This day renewed some hope for me.

​Photo credit: Linda Sudduth 

Within the next few weeks, I will publish my third novel, The Bennett Women, which is dedicated to my mother, Ruth Margaret Urbanek. Mom died when I was only thirty-nine, but her influence has remained a steady force in my life.
      She was born in Kansas, the oldest of four siblings. She grew up on a farm, surrounded by crops, cows, horses, chickens, lightening bugs, and acres of land to roam. Many women from her generation chose not to pursue a professional career, but mom had other ideas. With my grandfather’s support, she completed a three-year nursing program. That's her graduation picture on the left.
     She fell in love with a fellow Kansan who had his own ambitions. Mom and Dad relocated to southern California during World War Two where he landed a job as a machinist at McDonnell-Douglas. She obtained her California license, and began a long, distinguished career as a registered nurse. My parents bought a home in Bellflower, settled down, raised three children, and never looked back.
     A couple of months before Mom died, I caught her looking at a reflection of herself in the bathroom mirror. She glanced at me, but didn’t say anything right away. Concerned about her forlorn expression, I inquired about her thoughts. 
     She took a minute before revealing, “When I close my eyes, I become a young girl again, riding my horse across the Kansas prairie. I have wavy brown hair, few worries, and my whole life ahead of me.” She stared into the mirror and sighed. “Who is this wrinkly old lady staring back at me? I hardly know her; it’s not how I feel inside. 
     Her comments triggered an emotional conversation about life and aging; a moment of insight from one woman to another. She pointed to her reflection and said to me, “This will be you one day, Roberta. It happens sooner than you think. Live each day in ways that make you happy.”
     After mom passed away, I had little time to think about anything else except raising my daughters, treasuring my husband, nurturing friendships, and carving out a satisfying professional career. Even though she’s been gone for a long time, that image of her looking into the mirror has always stayed with me.
     Many factors influence my work as a writer, but mom’s spirit is at the heart of The Bennett Women. It’s a tender yet unflinching story that examines what moves us from daughter, mother, and grandmother to something much deeper. I wish I could have another day with my mom to thank her for guiding me with her quiet wisdom; to let her know about the positive influence she has had on three generations.
     And one last thing. I'd tell her she was right about the mirror. I miss you, Mom.