Sundays in my childhood always meant church—at least during fall, winter, and spring. Summer was different. I like to think Jesus understood the shortness and importance of Wisconsin summers and gave families a pass. But once the school year started, Sundays were all about itchy dresses, stiff shoes, and classrooms that smelled faintly of paste and crayons.

Mom would usually drop me off at the Sunday School wing at 9:15, still in her robe and slippers, and then head back home. Class lasted an hour. I don’t remember much about the actual lessons, but I do remember waiting by the big window overlooking the parking lot. More often than not, I was still standing there when the 10:45 classes began. Eventually, Mom would roll in, still wearing her pajamas, and I’d dash out to the car, dutifully educated for another week in the ways of Lutheranism.

History is not just something we read in textbooks. It’s the moments etched into our minds—the ones we carry with us forever. People talk about where they were during Pearl Harbor, when JFK was assassinated, or when George Floyd was murdered. For me, I remember exactly where I was on the day of the Challenger disaster, and again, on 9/11.

On January 28, 1986, I was walking through the UW–Eau Claire commons when crowds of students gathered around the only TV in the area, perched high in the corner of a sitting room. Oohs and ahhs rose as the space shuttle Challenger took off. We watched with that “damn, we are a nation that accomplishes big things” feeling. But just over a minute into its ascent, it exploded. We stood there, stunned, asking ourselves if we had truly seen what we thought we’d seen. Slowly, incredulously, people peeled away and drifted off to class or lunch at the Davies Cafeteria. We walked away silently.

The other major world event of my lifetime was 9/11…

I’ve never been the poster child for perfect nails. Honestly, my cuticles have seen more neglect than my garden, and that’s saying something. But hands tell stories, don’t they? Nails reveal whether we’re working, stressing, pampering ourselves, or just plain giving up.

As a kid, I spent summer days with my grandma. She carefully removed polish, trimmed her cuticles, filed her nails, and reapplied a fresh coat of classic red. I, meanwhile, gnawed my nails down to nubs and hid them in embarrassment. Still, I refused to crack my knuckles because I figured someday I’d want my hands to look nice. Nails could grow back, but I didn’t want permanently mangled hands.

When I married Tom, I don’t remember doing anything special with my nails. But near the end of our marriage, I started getting acrylics. After counseling sessions, we hired a cleaning lady, and I began scheduling nail appointments. I kept my nails short and tried every color I could find. Having my house cleaned and my nails done every two weeks made me feel rich—like I had finally cracked the code on self-care. Those little luxuries were worth every penny.

I’ve always loved flowers…well, loved looking at them, at least. Growing them? That’s been more of a long, slow comedy—equal parts enthusiasm, trial-and-error, and a surprising amount of stubborn weeds. My gardening story is less “Master Gardener” and more “Oops, I probably should have mulched.” But here’s how my love affair with flowers has bloomed (and occasionally flopped) over the years.

As a small child, I watched my mom plant hundreds of annuals around the back of our house. The bright colors and glorious riot of shapes lit up that corner of the yard. Behind the garage, a long bed of marigolds perfumed the morning air. Even now, one whiff of marigolds takes me right back. (Yes, I know some people think they stink, but I LOVE that scent!)