Be You. 

It’s a new year. As usual, the world is handing out unsolicited instructions on who you should be, what you should fix, and how quickly you should become “better.” New goals. New rules. New versions of yourself that apparently need immediate rolling out.

No.

This year? Be who you want to be.
Do what you want to do.
Be you—without softening it for anyone else’s comfort.

You don’t need permission to change. And you definitely don’t need permission to stay the same. Grow if you want. Rest if you need. Reinvent yourself, or double down on exactly who you already are. Loud or quiet. Soft or sharp. Structured or gloriously chaotic.

Want to chase something big? Do it.
Want to let go of something heavy? Drop it.
Want to take up space in a way you never have before? Take it.

This isn’t the year of becoming “acceptable.”
It’s the year of being honest.

Say yes when you mean yes. Say no without justifying it. Follow what lights you up, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone watching. Especially then.

The new year doesn’t need a better version of you.
It needs the real one.

So here’s to showing up as yourself—unfinished, evolving, audacious.
Happy New Year. Be you. That’s the whole point.

I’m repeating this blog, originally posted it early in December 2023:

Thanksgiving is over and the winter holidays are upon us. In chronological order they are:

•   December 7-15—Hannukah. (Jewish)
  •   On eight consecutive nights, Jews gather with family and friends to light one additional candle in the menorah candelabra    to commemorate the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem in the 2nd century BC, after a small group of Jewish fighters liberated it from occupying foreign forces.
•   December 8—Bodhi Day. (Buddhist)
  •   It marks the day Siddhartha Gautama reached enlightenment after meditating under a Bodhi tree for 49 days. After his     enlightenment he became known as the Buddha.
• December 13—Santa Lucía Day. (Scandinavian Christian)
  • Saint Lucía Day, festival of lights celebrated in Sweden, Norway, and the Swedish-speaking areas of Finland, in honor of Saint Lucía, one of the earliest Christian martyrs.
• ;December 21—Winter Solstice in the northern hemisphere, Summer Solstice in the southern hemisphere.
  • The shortest day of the year. Since prehistory, the winter solstice has been a significant time of year in many cultures and has been marked by festivals and rituals. It marked the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun; the gradual waning of daylight hours is reversed and it begins to grow again.
• December 22—Tohji-Taisai (Shinto)
  • The rite honoring Sun Goddess Amaterasu.
• December 24 and 25—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. (Christian)
  • The church in Rome began formally celebrating Christmas on December 25 in 336, during the reign of Emperor Constantine, to commemorate the birth of Christ Jesus.
• December 26-January 2—Kwanzaa. (African diaspora)
  • A nonreligious holiday inspired by West African harvest celebrations. For seven day the principle of Nguzo Saba—unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith—are reflected upon.
• December 31—New Year’s Eve
• January 1—New Year’s Day. (Fairly universal)
• January 6—Epiphany (Three Kings Day). (Christian, especially Hispanic)
  • Three Kings Day—a.k.a. Epiphany, a.k.a. Día de los Reyes—commemorates the Biblical story of the three wise men (kings) who followed the star of Bethlehem to bring gifts to the Christ child. It marks the official 12th day of Christmas.

Wow, that’s a lot of holidays in just four weeks. It’s truly THE SEASON OF HOLIDAYS. Each has its own traditions and rituals, and special foods. Most also feature lights to brighten the dark days around Solstice—candles, and in the last century-and-a-half, electric lights. Music is an important element in most. And gifts play a significant role in most of these winter holidays.

Holidays are special. Children look forward to them eagerly as adults knock themselves out preparing for them. We cook and decorate and shop and create their wonderfulness. A lot of our most treasured memories are wrapped up in them. They’re generally happy times and we want to share the merriment. We wish friends and acquaintances—strangers, even—a happy holiday.

In the last couple of decades, some among us have claimed ridiculously that they are being persecute—prohibited, or at the very least, inhibited, from saying ”Merry Christmas”. They try, just as ridiculously, to intimidate the rest of us from greeting others with anything but ”Merry Christmas” in this season of holidays. Somehow, ”Happy Holidays” was an affront to their religious sensibilities. They chose to feel picked on and discriminated against if everyone didn’t wish them a ”Merry Christmas”. They even call it a ”War on Christmas”.

They shouldn’t take it personally. In addition to those of a different religious persuasion, more and more people don’t identify with a religion at all. However, enjoying the season’s atmosphere of good cheer, they may feel the urge to extend holiday greetings to others.

If someone greets me with a smile and good wishes of any sort, I am happy they cared enough to share the season’s good spirits with me. Although I am not religious, I grew up in the culture of Christianity, so I often wish people, ”Merry Christmas”. It’s more about the season than religiosity. If I know someone is Jewish I wish them ”Happy Hannukah”. If I meet a Black friend I greet them with ”Happy Kwanzaa”. If I know you’re not religious, I might wish you ”Happy Solstice”. Or I may just use the catch-all, ”Happy Holidays”.

So, to all of you, I wish you the happiest of holidays, whatever your faith, or non-faith. Happy Hannukah, Bodhi Day, Santa Lucía Day, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Solstice, Tohji-Taisai, New Year, and Three Kings Day. May your holiday season be filled with love and peace and joy.

DOES GETTING OLD GIVE YOU THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES?

By Carol Purroy

Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate:
Getting old is not for the faint of heart.

It’s also not for the meek, the timid, or the “Guess I’ll just sit here quietly and disappear” crowd.
Getting old is for the audacious.

This is the season of life when you stand up, plant your feet, and announce to the universe:
“Hey! I’m still alive. And I’m still very much in the game.”

Yet something curious happens to a lot of people at a certain age—not the same age for everyone. They begin to fade. Shrink. Dim their own lights. They start to feel… diminished.

Here’s the deal. Some things are changing.
A word vanishes mid-sentence, only to reappear triumphantly at 2:00 a.m. like, “Oh, there you are. Great timing.”
We may no longer sprint up the stairs two at a time or sling a 50-pound backpack over our shoulders without negotiating terms first.

That’s normal. It’s called being human.
But here’s where people go wrong: they confuse change with the end.

NEWS FLASH: Change has been happening to you since the instant of conception.
For decades it felt like a sweet upward climb—you were growing bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, cuter. It’s easy to be optimistic when everything is expanding.

The downhill part? That takes attitude.

And attitude, my friends, changes everything.

Some people hit a physical setback, a diagnosis, a limitation, or just an age (a number, for Pete’s sake!)—and turn sour. Others turn silent. Some get feisty. (I’m a big fan of feisty.)
What makes the difference isn’t the circumstance—it’s how you meet it.

If you believe, “It’s over. I’m done.”
Well… congratulations. You’re right.

If you shuffle around like a sad sack, half-dead, just waiting to lie down in your coffin—fine, that’s how you’ll spend whatever time you’ve got left. You may as well be already pushing up daisies.

But if you believe,
“There’s still life in me. Fun in me. Curiosity, laughter, mischief, and adventure in me,” then that becomes your reality.

You’ll make plans.
You’ll do things.
You’ll feel fulfilled—and gloriously, unmistakably alive.

As for me? I’m 90.
And yes—there’s a quiet awareness that many experiences may be “the last time.”

That leaves me with two choices:

1. Be sad and nostalgic and drain the joy right out of the moment.
2. Or decide, “All right then—let’s make this one count.”

Take Christmas, for example.

It’s easy to live in the past—to mourn what no longer looks the way it once did. No excited children. No mountain of presents. No prime rib feast.
You can grieve what’s gone and miss the present entirely.

Or you can pivot.

You can say:
“This may be my last Christmas so I’m going to celebrate the heck out of it.”

Maybe that looks like you and your beloved snuggling before a crackling fire, so grateful to have another Christmas together.

Or maybe it’s a small tree, lit and decorated, and a gift you bought yourself (excellent taste, by the way).
Maybe it’s a hot buttered rum and singing Christmas carols at full volume, accompanied by Andre Rieu’s symphony orchestra.
Maybe it’s serving dinner at a shelter, or going to church on Christmas Eve and belting out the carols you adore.
Maybe it’s inviting another solitary soul to share the day.

That’s audacity in action.

And then, a week later, there’s New Year’s—a perfect time for gratitude.

One Christmas, a friend gave me a “Nice Bits Jar” starting a new tradition in our family. The rule is simple: once a week, write down something nice that happened that week and drop it in the jar. (Add others during the week if you wish.) On New Year’s Day, empty the jar and read them. I recommend reading them aloud—if possible, with a fellow nice-bits practitioner.

What a revelation!

Some of the lovely moments of the previous year I’d forgotten entirely. Others came rushing back, warm and glowing.
The real magic wasn’t the jar— any rinsed-out marinara sauce or pickle jar will do. It was the noticing.

When you expect to record something good, your antennæ go on high alert. You start catching the small things:

 

Someone holding the door for you.

A driver practicing road-courtesy.
Dandelions.
A phone call from a grandchild.
A sunrise that stops you mid-step.

A friend calling to say, “Hi, how’re you doin’?”

A compliment from a stranger.

Hot chocolate on a cold day.

Once you start looking, there are a million nice bits—a million things to be grateful for. I like to call them, “gladitudes”.

And here’s the sneaky truth: gratitude rewires your brain.
The more you notice what’s good around you, the more good you see.
The happier you become.
The more alive you feel.

And the more good appears to you.

So whether you keep a Nice Bits Jar or not—start noticing. Stay present. Pay attention to what’s happening now.
Awareness changes your thoughts.
Thoughts change your attitude.
Attitude changes your life.

I recommend that you do keep a Nice Bits Jar. I’m going to start a new one on New Years Day, right after I’ve read through the bits from 2025.

And remember this: It’s never too late to be who you’re supposed to be. Clue: You’re supposed to be the very best version of yourself—the kind, sweet, thoughtful, considerate, compassionate you. But don’t forget to be kind, sweet, thoughtful, considerate, and compassionate toward yourself, too. The nicer you are to yourself, the nicer you will be to others.

If you woke up on this side of the grass today, you’re still in the game.
So act like it.
Live like you mean it.

*******

This is not an excerpt from Audacious Aging – the book. It’s a stand-alone piece, just another thought along the same line. If you liked this, you’ll also enjoy the book, available at Amazon: bit.ly/3W7ghpz

About Me

I’m a retired therapist, former senior-magazine publisher, and lifelong champion of older voices. For more than 30 years, I’ve encouraged and taught seniors to write their life stories, claim their lived wisdom, and give themselves well-earned pats on the back.

I’m the author of Your Legacy: The Stories of Your Life, and That’s Life: Many Mini-Memoirs, and Audacious Aging, along with its companion book, 100 Days of Bold, Sassy, Unapologetic Joy.

My message is simple—and non-negotiable:
Be grateful.

and

Age like you mean it.

… is a trending topic. I won’t comment on the current situation, not today, anyway. My story on tipping happened 69 years ago. It’s in my book of memoirs: That’s Life—Many Mini-Memoirs,2010, A-Z Publishing. (Click on book title for more info.)

To Tip or Not to Tip…that is the question

Nineteen years old I was, and such a hick from the sticks you wouldn’t believe.

New York City’s heat blasted me as I stepped outside Grand Central Station that July day in 1955. On virtually my first foray out of the San Joaquin Valley, I was en route halfway around the world to Germany. (My husband) John was stationed in Darmstadt, the capital of Hesse, in the center of the country.

Surrounded by my mismatched luggage, I carried everything I couldn’t cram in it: a heavy wool coat and oversized traveling purse draped over one arm; my camera and huge binoculars hung from the other shoulder. With my free hand I hailed a taxi.

A sunflower-yellow cab with a black-and-white checkerboard stripe stopped before me. The driver sat behind the wheel looking at me like, Ya want dis cab or not? If ya wannit, openna damn door and get in.

I opened the rear door, struggled to get my heavy suitcases and all my stuff in the cab, climbed in the backseat and sat down. I gave the name of my hotel and off we drove.

“Where ya from?” he asked. In thick New York-speak. “Yer first trip to New York?” . . . “Whadda ya here for?”

Trying not to appear the proverbial hick, though craning my neck to gape at the city’s skyscrapers, I answered absently.

Once again, in front of the hotel, he just sat there behind the wheel, making no move to open my door or offer assistance with my bags, which was standard procedure  back home.

The meter read $1.55. I handed him two $1 bills and held out my hand for change.  His jaw dropped. Looking him steadfastly in the eye, I jiggled my hand to indicate I expected change.

“I gotta eat, lady,” he insisted.

I kept my hand in the same demanding position.

He dropped a nickel in it. “I got kids at home, ya know.”

I just stared him in the eye, holding my open hand in his face. Continuing to plead his case, he deposited one nickel at a time until I finally had the full 45¢, whereupon I declared, self-righteous as all get-out, “A tip is for extra service, not for just doing what you’re already getting paid to do.” I was downright proud of myself for not letting this city-slicker cab driver take advantage of me. In a huff I unloaded my belongings onto the sidewalk. He drove away shaking his head.

Two days later, en route to the SS Hollendam for the trans-Atlantic voyage, I returned to Grand Central Station to collect the rest of my luggage—a steamer trunk and a foot locker—from the baggage dock. A Redcap loaded them onto a cart, which he pushed through the station to the sidewalk. After he lashed my bulky gear to the rack on the back of the cab I handed him a generous tip—a couple of bucks.

He held up his hand like a traffic cop, shook his head, and set me straight. “The standard charge is a buck-fifty per item . . . plus a tip.”

“Oh!” I flushed hot-flash fuschia. I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I gave him the full amount, plus a bit more, and got back in the cab. When we got to the Holland America pier in New Jersey where the Hollendam was moored, I gave this cabbie his full tip and some extra.

Thus did I learn my first lesson in the ways of the world.

That’s Life; Many Mini-Memoirs.

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I had intended to write this blog about my Little Free Library, but it was going to be a different blog. I was going to write about the things I’ve learned having a Little Free Library in my front yard: I put it there for the people in my neighborhood, a working class neighborhood with many immigrant families, far away from any public library.

I’ve been a teacher and a reading specialist. Reading is important. The concept of the Little Free Library was so exciting to me that I installed one myself. I saw it as my community service to make good books available to people who may not have a lot, especially the children. (This is the little library when it was brand new. It’s been repainted.)

I’ve discovered that adults get more use out of it than any other age group. That’s okay. I’m for reading, regardless of age.

I’ve also noticed that people will often drive up in their late-model cars, take a book or three (or more) adult books, get back in their car and drive back to their own neighborhood.

The sign on one side of the library now says, TAKE A BOOK, RETURN A BOOK, READ A BOOK and on the other, side TAKE A BOOK, LEAVE A BOOK, ENJOY A BOOK. Most of the books taken are never returned or replaced. So little free libraries are not really lending libraries, they are taking libraries, which is okay. I just want folks to read. I regularly replace books—two or three at a time—and am happy to do so.

Sometimes nice people leave a few books, which is appreciated. One time I found two sacks of beautiful children’s books on my front porch with a note attached:  We’re moving. We’ve lived in this neighborhood for the last five years. My children and I have enjoyed your little free library and want to give it some of our favorite books. It was unsigned. I treasure that little note.

Sometimes local authors drop off a few of their books. I love when that happens.

Some people leave books and pamphlets that are religious indoctrination—proselyting. I’d rather they didn’t.

Other times I find the library is stuffed with books someone has left. It looks like they found my curbside library to be a convenient dumpster for their unwanted books. Sometimes they are even dumped on the ground around the library. (Note: if you don’t want them, I probably won’t either.)

I try to keep books in the Little Free Library—infant/toddler, primary grades, middle grades, middle school, young adult, and adult—that are recent publications, bestsellers, classics, educational and entertaining. Mostly fiction, some nonfiction.

Now strange things are happening:

!.) When I left my house Saturday, I noticed that the library had been stuffed with 20-30 books that didn’t fit, since it was already well-stocked. They were crammed in helter-skelter, willy-nilly, with no order. I had to leave, so I planned to spend part of today (Monday) organizing it, removing unwanted “dump” books and keeping some, and making it look inviting again.

2.) Well, imagine my surprise—shock— when I drove into my driveway today and found my little library’s door wide open, and the library completely cleaned out. Empty. Not a single book was left: 75- 100 books, GONE. I don’t know, maybe the thief needs the books more than my neighborhood does.

Fortunately, it was not vandalized, just burglarized.

Thought: Is taking ALL the books from this little library the ultimate in book banning?

The library has stood curbside at my house for several years. Generally, people respect and support it. So this was a shock. However—(trying to stay in a positive frame of mind)—it gives me a chance to start over, to fill it with books I believe my “customers” will appreciate and enjoy.

That’s what I’ll do. I just needed to vent. My Little Free Library, which has been so rewarding and fulfilling from day-one, will continue to be.

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Fireworks—pyrotechnics—are such a big part of New Year’s Eve celebrations that it’s hard to imagine this night without them. It wasn’t always that way, though. It’s a relatively recent development in America.

The first time I ever experienced this phenomenon was the night of the 1955/56 New Year’s Eve. I, an American, was living in a small village in Europe, and was surprised to hear Pop! Pop! Pop! In the middle of the night of December 24. I looked out my window. The sky was alive with flying, glittery bits of fire in every color and configuration. I learned that fireworks were added to whatever else they customarily did to usher in the new year. What a great idea! I thought.

And it was. I don’t know how long it took for American cities to catch on and include them in the entertainments for this midnight event. But they did. Big cities, small towns, burgs. All of ’em. Eventually.

Now, through the magic of  TV satellites and the Internet, we can also watch New Year’s Eve being welcomed with fireworks around the world, starting with Sydney, then Perth and Singapore, Sri Lanka, Turkey,  South Africa, Greece, Paris, London, New York, and finally Los Angeles and Vancouver. Maybe Anchorage and Honolulu, too.

(The countries at war are far from jubilant this year. Sadly, their fireworks are the serious, deadly, sort.)

The crystal ball-drop in NYC is a totally different thing. They started doing that all the way back in 1907. But now, with CNN and celebrity hosts, it’s become a big deal.

It’s made it easier for seniors like my sweetheart and me to celebrate New Year’s. In our younger days we kissed, wished each other Happy New Year, clinked glasses, and kept on partying. Now we watch the ball come down at midnight in Times Square in New York City—9:00 p.m. here in Reno—kiss, clink glasses, reflect on the last 12 months, wish for better times in the next 12, and go to bed. (He’s almost 90; I’m not far behind.) Three hours later, we were awakened by the Pop! Pop! Pop! of our local fireworks, wished each other a second Happy New Year, and went back to sleep.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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The First Christmas I Remember

Our 1940 Christmas holiday marked the end of an era—a beautiful era.

I’m sure this Christmas Eve was not much different from every previous Christmas Eve of my life (except for the real live Santa), it’s just the first one I remember. We lived in the Central Valley farmhouse my grandfather, Jens (from Jutland, Denmark) had built around 1880, before sending for his bride, Marie. By this night in 1940 he was an old man. Grandma Marie had died on December 14, just 10 days ago.

Despite the recent loss, we had the traditional Juleaften—Danish Christmas Eve—the Danes are big on holidays, especially Christmas and birthdays.

The seldom-used room was heated by a potbellied cast iron stove. We had guests. Everyone’s hand held a mixed drink or cup of Gløgg (Danish mulled wine). My sister Patty (age 7) and I (5) had 7-Up. The round oak dining table beneath the gas-lit chandelier was laden with Danish delicacies: Christmas cookies and cakes, open-faced sandwiches, et cetera. A Christmas tree stood between the two windows in the combination living/dining room. It was decorated with antique glass ornaments and strings of large multi-colored lights which, if, one went out, they all did. And it was loaded with tinsel painstakingly applied, one strand at a time—lots of tinsel twisting and glistening with any movement in the room. Grandma’s pump organ sat next to the window; I think I remember someone playing Christmas carols and everyone singing, but I might be making that up.

Patty and I were the only children present, and the festivities were, I think, mainly for us that year. The big event of the evening, my

most vivid memory, began when the window between the organ and the Christmas tree lifted open. The gownups quieted and, looking meaningfully at Patty and me, directed our attention toward the window. A bulging pillowcase came through and dropped to the floor, followed by Santa Claus, dressed all in red with white “fur” trim. One booted foot and a leg came appeared, then a red-capped head with a white beard, followed by the shoulders and the rest of his rotund body, and finally, the other leg and boot. Santa came in wishing everyone, Glædelig jul, glædelig jul.

I don’t remember the gifts, only that Santa came in through the window and gave us presents. I do recall the excitement my sister and I felt at the center of attention. I recall the smiles on the adults’ faces as we giggled and timidly approached Santa for a gift.

The country was in the grip of the Great Depression, so Santa’s  gifts weren’t grand. The real gift was the effort, in the throes of recent loss and grieving, to create a special Christmas memory for us kids.

Though no one could have imagined it that Juleaften night, our first Christmas without Grandma Marie would also be our last Christmas with Daddy and Grandpa Jens, our last Christmas on the farm, the last Christmas we believed in Santa, the last Christmas before the country was at war, and the last Christmas my mom didn’t have to work her butt off to support the family.

It’s an extra-special memory.

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Have you ever looked at a genealogy chart—a “family tree”—and thought, every one of those people had a lifetime of stories: adventures and misadventures, jobs or professions, successes and failures, likes and dislikes, friends and lovers, et cetera. Yet chances are no one knows much, if anything, about them. All that remains is their name and their birth and death dates . . . maybe a photograph or two.

My favorite TV show is FINDING YOUR ROOTS on PBS, with host Henry Louis Gates, Jr. In each episode he researches a celebrity’s ancestral family using all kinds of tools, including DNA. His guests are happy to learn not only their ancestors’ names but, wherever possible, their stories. They all want the stories.

News Flash: your current and future descendants, and perhaps others, will want your stories too. You may think, Oh, my kids and grandkids know all about me, I don’t have to write them. Maybe they do, but by the next generation, or the next, your stories will be lost. You will be lost. They’ll just know your name . . . if that. You deserve to be remembered, and, unless you’re famous, it’s only by recording your stories—written or videotaped—that that can happen.

Every time an elder dies a library is lost.

You probably don’t think of your life as anything out of the ordinary. And maybe for your time and place, it wasn’t. But remember, you’re recording your life stories for future generations about what it was like to live in a time they can’t even imagine. So far as they’re concerned, it’s like a visit to another planet.

When my granddaughter read about my early childhood on my grandparents’ farm, she asked in disbelief, “Is that you, Grandma?” She couldn’t imagine me living in a farmhouse in which the only plumbing was a cold water faucet at the kitchen sink, and a galvanized washtub was brought in for Saturday night baths. Or going to the library every two weeks because we didn’t own any books. The Great Depression was in full sway, and is characterized in memoirs of my childhood.

In telling your stories you bring history to life. Your stories happened in the context of what was going on around you, so your readers will learn a history lesson in a way that doesn’t put them to sleep. It tells of real people about whom they care.

I’ve taught memoir writing for over 30 years. I wrote the book on memoir—YOUR LEGACY: The stories of your life—and used it as my class’s textbook. So far, 25 of my students have published their books (that I’m aware of), as well as hundreds more who “published” in spiral notebooks, 3-ring binders, photocopied “books” at Office Depot or Staples. Here’s the front cover of mine. Click on it to learn more about it.

YOUR LEGACY is a great gift for a parent or grandparent, or even for yourself. It includes suggestions for topics and activities to get you started, as well as hints on how to go about it. It can be a guide for questioning parents and grandparents about themselves and their families, and starting them on the journey to record their memoirs. Click on this link for more information: YOUR LEGACY

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