Slice of Lucy: Bottom Line

 

The bottom line is that I did this thing when I did not believe I could or would. Lots of my friends have said, 

"Of course, you did it!"

Honestly, there is no 'of course' about it. Like many of you, I am maxed out by responsibility and short on time, energy, belief in myself, and space. I'm a single mom of a teenager, a home provider for him and my mom, a girlfriend. I work full-time in a demanding field. Oh, and there is the small issue of my deep-seated Imposter Syndrome.  

In my first-ever blog post, I wrote,

I kind of wonder why anyone would want to read something I've written about something I'm doing. That said, I can write my story even if no one wants to read it, right? 

Early in life, I learned to make fun of myself before someone else could do it. Sub-consciously, that's what that opening was - an anticipatory self-diss to undermine potential pain caused by someone else. Yet, I wrote 28 out of 31 days, and I am so glad I did. 

• I learned that I have stories and ideas worth sharing, but...
• I also learned that the writing really can be just for me. 
• I learned that I like to be inspired by other writers and try on some of their techniques, playing with the writing process. 
• I learned that writing is built on a foundation of noticing, which is a habit I want to cultivate.

What do you do when you believe you should write? I learned this month, March 2026, that you should write. I've had an awesome experience as a first-year Slicer, and I am deeply grateful to the founders who create the space and culture, my friend Lisa Vahey who personally invited and encouraged me, and folks who took the time to comment and connect. Please keep writing, and I will, too.

Slice of Lucy: Reusing Stuff

 

Many folks in my world seem to have bought in to the practice of recycling, I mean, it is pretty easy to recycle with bins in many public spaces and door-to-door service in municipalities like mine. For awhile now, I have been looking for ways to reuse stuff in order to reduce waste. Call me weird, but it's kind of fun to brainstorm repurposing options. Here are some ideas that have worked for me:

I had three old cutting boards, the plastic kind from Ikea. I did not want to donate them for food use, so I gave them to the director of my school's innovation lab. At first, she looked at me strangely, then I suggested using them for hot glue stations. Her eyes lit up! 

After a visit to Trader Joe's, I provide a steady supply of disposable dumpling trays to the art teacher for painting projects.

When I traveled through India in 2004, I was wowed by the beautiful art created with repurposed goods, like the one-of-a-kind wall hanging made from scraps of old saris in my entryway and the intricate, miniature Kama Sutra painting on a discarded, official-looking government paper on my living room wall. This shows we can create demand for creative products that reuse materials.

At my boyfriend's work place, they have a 'free table' where people donate things they no longer want, but which might be put to use in someone else's space. One man's trash is another person's treasure! 

When I started composting, I looked at counter-top bins to store the scraps temporarily before taking them out to the garden. There were many options available for purchase on Amazon and elsewhere, but I thought I could do better. I found a 1940's aluminum ice bucket at a resale store. It looks adorable on my century home kitchen counter, plus the lid basically seals to reduce the potential for unsavory smells and pests.

The best way to store and easily dispense toothpicks in the kitchen is to wash out an empty spice bottle that has a lid with lots of holes.

Don't get me started on the million and one uses for an Altoids box!

My aunt taught me to keep my Christmas cards, then use pinking shears to cut out the festive pictures to use for the next year's gift tags. 

Reusable water bottles and old wine bottles can be paired with watering spikes for long-term irrigation of house plants and flora in outdoor raised beds.

When you dry a load of cotton clothing/towels/sheets, save the lint to use as great fire-starting material.

I am curious...What are some ways you have found to reduce waste and reuse stuff in your life? By the way, sharing these ideas is another form of recycling/reusing! Now, I just need to think of a use for that toddler potty I saw at the curb while walking my dog this evening...

Slice of Lucy: Daffodils

 

I never knew about daffodils when I was a little girl. They did not grow in Florida where we moved when I was three. When I was about ten years old, however, my great aunt sent a box in the mail from Baltimore, Maryland. Any box from Aunt Lucy (about whom I wrote in yesterday's post) caused terrific excitement and anticipation. I don't remember to whom the box was actually addressed, but my mother, brothers, and I all gathered around to see what it might contain. Under precisely folded brown paper, there was a shoe box. After removing the lid, we found slightly damp paper towels wrapped around something long and slim. As we unrolled the blanket of protective paper, a sweet bundle of live daffodils was revealed. My brothers were unimpressed, but I was entranced! A phone call to Aunt Lucy quickly cleared up the mystery; she had bought the daffodils as part of a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. I gushed my thanks and hung up so I could put the flowers in water.

I have no memory of how long my first daffodils lasted, but Aunt Lucy sent me daffodils every year for a long time, even when I was in college. When I dreamt of my future, I hoped and planned to live in a place where daffodils could grow in the ground. As I considered the costs and benefits of moving to Ohio five years ago, one important consideration was the fact that I could grow daffodils in my yard. Planting dozens of daffodil bulbs my first fall was a labor of love; as my nearly frozen fingers dug into the clayey soil, I did not even realize that the daffodils would deliver hope and joy every year or that they would be the only blooms the local deer would not devour. I just knew that my dream of daffodils growing outside my door had been fulfilled.

When we pulled into our driveway recently after a two week road trip, I was thrilled to see daffodils nodding in my front garden. Their fresh, dainty heads are always a welcome harbinger of spring. We might still have snow and cold temperatures for another month, but the daffodils promise winter's iron grip has been broken. Daffodils are a symbol of hope.

Slice of Lucy: Aunt Lucy

My grandfather's sister, Lucy, was born in 1909. She and two of her sisters were labeled "old maids" in their early twenties, having not yet married. The story goes that their father commissioned three beautiful rings, each one unique, to be made by Carl Schon Jewelry in Baltimore, Maryland. My great grandfather reasoned that his girls would never receive engagement rings, so he provided rings for his "unclaimed blessings". Aunt Lucy did not have children of her own, but she forged a deep connection with my mother. Later on, when my mother shared that she was pregnant after having two boys, my great aunt asked my parents to consider naming the child, if a girl, after her. Supposedly, Aunt Lucy offered to pay for the child's clothes and shoes if they did, not small compensation for my cash-strapped folks. As the only girl born in my generation, my mother felt obligated to give me my grandmother's name, but she honored Aunt Lucy's request by using her name for my middle name. Official records aside, I've been known as "Lucy" ever since the moment I was born.

I grew up with the story of the rings for the three girls being told at my grandmother's table. There was some judgment in her retelling; after all, she escaped such a sentence by marrying my grandfather. The story did not add up for me, however, because the "Aunt Lucy" I knew lived an amazing, meaningful life, despite (or maybe due to?) her single status. She taught school for over forty years, which she believed she was born to do. I imagine she brooked no nonsense in her classroom, but I also know she took extra sandwiches in her lunch box for kids who did not have food. When she died at 95 years old, we heard from grown men and women who remembered her fondly and gratefully from their elementary days. Aunt Lucy did not hide the fact that she always hoped I would become a teacher, following in her footsteps as well as carrying on her name, but I had other plans. When I finally recognized my calling to be a teacher in 2000, Aunt Lucy was alive to hear her legacy would be continued. She smugly announced that she was glad I had come to my senses, but I knew she was proud and fulfilled.

In addition to being a legendary educator, Aunt Lucy traveled broadly on her own during her summer vacations. When I visited her in the neat apartment she shared with her sister, Margaret, I would ask to hear the stories about the little tchotchkes arranged on her dresser: a replica of The Little Mermaid from Copenhagen, a shiny kiwi statue from New Zealand, a miniature Swiss cuckoo clock. As a kid, her sharing inspired my curiosity about the people and places beyond my front door, and I knew that I would travel the world one day, just as she did. Aunt Lucy played piano, worked crossword puzzles, visited with church friends, volunteered at the local children's hospital, and walked a mile after dinner every evening, rattling off the names of birds and flowers as she strolled in her sensible shoes. I did not realize it for the longest time, but Aunt Lucy truly was my role model. 

Fast forward to the evening of my graduation from high school. Great Aunt Lucy presented me with a gift; it was her Schon ring. I remember being stunned. I'd actually never seen the ring, but it seemed like a potent inheritance. My brothers whispered out of Aunt Lucy's hearing, "Ha, Lucy is going to be an old maid, too!" I am embarrassed to recall that the ring worried me, but I wore it and continued telling the story my grandmother had told me about what it meant. Today, I am disappointed that I allowed a petty story to tarnish the greatness of Aunt Lucy. In my dining room, the chair where I sit faces the antique secretary where Aunt Lucy graded her students' papers for almost half a century, the glass enclosed display filled with momentos of her travels and expired passports. Next to the desk hangs a picture of Aunt Lucy astride a donkey in Egypt, living her best life and loving it. That is the legacy I am so grateful to have inherited; the ring is in a box in a corner of my dresser drawer. 

By the way, I am proud to be an "old maid" by my family's definition. Still single, I've traveled the world, pursued awesome adventures, raised a wonderful son on my own, and inspired other people's children as a middle school teacher of twenty-five years. 

I boldly forged my own path because Aunt Lucy showed me that was an option.

Slice of Lucy: A Dog's Home

 

The first thing I did this morning was to hustle to the dog boarding place where my pup, Mateo, stayed while I traveled. When a worker brought him to the lobby. whatever I had been saying to the manager was forgotten, and I was immediately on my knees to greet my fur baby properly. God, I love this dog. Of all the great people in my life, Mateo loves me the best. 

All day, Mateo has reacquainted himself methodically and joyfully with the favorite parts of his world. He sniffed appreciatively when we visited the part of our backyard where he can weave between bushes and catch the pepperoni scent wafting over the fence from the neighborhood pizza joint. He happily explored the basement while I worked on laundry and ran up and down the stairs to keep a close eye on me. He let out the most tremendous sigh of relief and gratitude when I finally settled in the living room, and he curled up on the old, rose-patterned, yellow arm chair that he shares with my mom. Exhausted from over-stimulation, Mateo slept away the day with one eye half open, monitoring his family and reveling in his place in the center of the house. When I decided to come upstairs to write and wind down this evening, he ran past me on the stairs and was curled up in his bed with a favorite toy under his muzzle before I entered the room. I know he will sleep well tonight, and I will sleep more deeply because we are home together.

For the first six months of life, Mateo was a street dog in San Juan, Puerto Rico. All of the challenges he presumably faced in that life were intensified in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria. An animal rescue pulled dozens of dogs off the streets and rehomed them in Florida where I lived at the time. Ironically, the day I met Mateo, my young son and I had decided to go to PetSmart to get a gerbil for his first pet. When we walked in the front door, I saw Mateo in a makeshift play area the rescue had set up for an adoption event, and I forgot about the gerbil completely. My son understood with wisdom beyond his years that we would be adopting this crazy-acting puppy instead of a cute rodent, and Mateo became part of our family. We learned over time that Mateo's life on the streets shaped a unique personality: He can open jars without breaking them, he hates the water, and he cannot share his food. Let me be clear, Mateo absolutely can share my food or your food, but no one can share his. Lastly, Mateo knows what home is. Home is where your people are, where your needs are met, where you contribute in real ways, like guarding against the UPS delivery guy's imminent attacks and cuddling with anyone who is feeling sick or sad. Home is where you feel safe and sure enough to let out that sigh of relief and gratitude when you finally get there. Sweet dreams, Mateo.

Slice of Lucy: The Fickle Road

In forty years of driving, I've seen a fair piece of road, and in the 4000+ miles I just drove on a trip, the road was my constant companion, more impactful than my passengers. What I learned about her is that she is fickle. Beyond variables like the weather or the driver's abilities, the road meets you or eats you.

I love to see a road cruise through a landscape, finding a path that surprises the driver with a new vista or challenging her with a higher grade or tighter curve radius. Obviously, the workers who built the road decades ago had some influence on her route, but I bet the road fought them when they tried to avoid a certain thrill or challenge she wanted. When driving into the setting sun, the road seems at times to play peek-a-boo, the blinding variety, providing blessed momentary relief in a dip before rising to force you to stare into the fiery orb. Just when you cannot stand the glare any longer, she provides a respite in the shade of a cliff. 

There are times when other factors change a driver's experience on the road, and when that happens, the road does not care the cause or cost. While driving through western Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle last week, every driver was struggling with the relentless wind blowing across the high plains and highway. I thought my stress levels were high, as I tried to figure out the ballast of my rental SUV in the 60-70mph gusts. Then, I saw a semi on its side, pitifully incapacitated, a long, dark, humiliating skid marking its demise. I could not believe what I was seeing and what it meant for me and other drivers on that stretch of I-40. The road was nonplussed and gobbled up the carcasses of one, two, three more semis in my rearview mirror. To make the scene more dramatic, wildfires erupted on both sides of the highway, licking the road and reducing visibility with a dusky smoke. I raced to outrun that hellscape, but the road was just the stage on which the drama unfolded, a veritable Greek Chorus.

A few days ago, on I-40 once again, eastbound outside of OKC, the road served me a freak encounter. Traffic was dense and demanding a fast clip. I was holding my own in the far right lane, nearing the exit for my hotel that night. I was following a sedan when it swerved onto the shoulder. I had enough time to comment, "Gosh, that car just ran off the road," then I saw why. By the time I processed everything, I'd run over a large piece of metal, resulting in a terrible thud-crunch-screech from my car. Just then, the road gracefully offered up a gentle exit, which I took gratefully, lulling myself into the belief that I had gotten quite lucky. I was able to drive to my hotel and park, ascertaining that everyone was uninjured, though shaken. When I stepped out of the vehicle, however, I immediately saw the fluid flowing freely from the engine compartment and, when I tried to open the hood, spotted the crunched fender and grill. The road had chewed me up and just spit me out to deal with the aftermath: towing, insurance claims, a replacement rental, and an altered itinerary due to lost time. Embarrassingly, the road saw everything. She was neither friend nor foe, instigator nor accomplice - simply a witness to my skewering. 

For the rest of the trip, I seemed to have heightened awareness about the skid marks one sees along any highway. Some bump against the guard rails, pointing to sharp, startling creases caused by impact. Others veer off into the soft shoulder, then back toward the road, hinting that a sleepy driver might have been startled by the rough and tried to regain the straight and narrow. I found myself wondering about those drivers' stories - what they'd been doing just before the event, what caused the skid, their injuries - physical, emotional, financial. The road knows all the stories, but she's not telling.

Slice of Lucy: Water Is Life

While driving throughout the Southwest this March, I've noted that nearly every bridge over a river or stream has had a dry bed beneath it. At Horseshoe Bend in Page, Arizona, the mighty Colorado River seemed more like a lazy river at a water park:

This is not just a clueless tourist's observations. Due to low water levels, Glen Canyon staff recently issued warnings about quicksand, and a marina is being moved to make sure there is boat access to nearby Lake Powell this summer. The Rio Grande was dry as a bone where I crossed it west of Carlsbad, New Mexico. I know the wet season is yet to come in this region, but hailing from the shores of Lake Erie, the desiccated channels have been worrying. The land looks thirsty, plus I've encountered dust storms and wildfires. What is land or life without water? 

Driving through Saguaro National Park outside of Tuscon, Arizona (with an extreme heat dome in place causing temperatures over 100°), I encountered a sign indicating an upcoming roadside exhibit; the word "riparian" in the title leapt out at me. I had to pull over to investigate because my brain could not square my understanding of that word with the desert landscape stretching all around me. 

This display succinctly informs the viewer that the dry-looking hills actually store water, plus the whole area can be flooded when a rain event occurs. The people, flora, and fauna of the area are acclimated to the boom or bust water cycle; their hardiness and endurance are truly remarkable.

There is no doubt that Arizona is in the midst of a drought exacerbated by outsized demand for fresh water and gross resource mismanagement in the broader region. Perhaps the resident wildlife and humans will adapt and find a way to survive and thrive in a drier world. That said, I must be a softer kind of person because, as I head homeward, I am relieved to feel the pull of greener, wetter places.