By Lori Welch Brown Is it safe to come out from under the covers? Thanks to Cupid and some decent President’s day sales, there were some bright spots, but holy guacamole. Is it my imagination or have the last few weeks felt like a cold, dark, damp sucker punch to the throat? My saving grace has been skipping the news and heading straight to Wordle. This time of year can be tough—short, overcast days and long dark nights interspersed with bleak headlines. I had lunch recently with a friend who said her husband was having a particularly difficult time dealing with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a type of depression known to hit during the winter months that saps your energy and can cause mood swings. “Ever since COVID, I’ve barely been able to get him off the couch—but now it’s even worse.” Hmmm. “Sounds familiar,” I thought. I’ve heard the same from quite a few folks. Devastating earthquake aside—I don’t want to place all the blame on Mother Nature blanketing us with melancholy weather when the world in general has felt dark and heavy. Mass shootings continue to dominate the masthead. UFOs are now a thing. AI has replaced driverless cars in my nightmares. Don’t get me started on cancel culture. I was trying to think of a time before COVID-19 threw us into a worldwide tailspin. Were we happier? Lighter? Kinder? Maybe it just seems that way. Or, maybe we were happier as recently as September—when we still had some light in the evenings to enjoy cookouts and porch sitting. When I feel lethargic—which is a frequent occurrence these days—I remind myself that winter is for slowing down, resting, and restoration. We’re not supposed to be high-energy and frenetic. Napping is good for us. Doing nothing is actually a…
By Lori Welch Brown Holidays can be brutal. For some, just getting through December takes Herculean efforts, and then the Universe rewards you with Cupid bearing down on you, arrow poised to pierce your heart every time you turn the corner at Walgreen’s and Home Depot. Used to be there was at least some breathing room for your Visa, your liver, and your poor, aching heart before you were trapped under a cloud of pink and red carnations. Not so much anymore. Life is just one big opportunity to buy a gift and/or decorate a door. For readers a little long in the tooth—if you even know what that means, chances are that you are—you’ll recall that I was for many, many years this publication’s perpetual single’s writer, penning the aptly named ‘Single Space’ column. Yep—that’s right. Old Town’s very own Carrie Bradshaw—a young writer with cool friends, a penchant for happy hour and Marlboro Lights on a quest to find love, albeit without the designer shoe collection. Like Carrie, I was single for a few seasons. There was no ‘Big’ floating back and forth on the scene, but quite a few dates gone wrong moments that made for good writing material. So even if you’re out there trying to make love happen in all the wrong places with all the wrong people, remember than even the bad dates have potential to make good stories. But, back to my point—Valentine’s Day. There was nothing worse than being at work as those floral deliveries started arriving. For a nano-second a fleeting thought would render me weak at the knees, “Could it be…,” but then some other young admin would whip over to the front desk, beaming with delight. Then I’d head home to hide out or join some other pals at…
By Lori Welch Brown Is it me or was 2022 mildly to moderately crappy? In retrospect, for me it was akin to riding my bike across a long, flat highway. In other words, it was a grind, days to be flipped on the calendar. And, December was especially brutal. A sweet little five year old boy my husband and I had come to know died unexpectedly. Heart wrenching. Everyone seemed to be going through something big and heavy. Maybe it’s always been that way and/or I’m noticing it more because I’m getting older and that’s what happens. People get sick, bury parents—or even children—divorce, etc. Cancer, addiction and grief seemed to be the buzzwords for the year, and that’s just flat out wrong. So, I’m envisioning a brighter, more joyous 2023, and I’ve come to realize that’s an inside job. Maybe 2022 felt like I was dragging around a wet blanket because I was the wet blanket. So, instead of a facelift, I’m giving myself an uplift. Of course, many of us start the year with some resolutions that fall apart with the first hang over of the year. I’ll probably make some of those because at this point it’s a solid tradition. This year, however, instead of using them as failure points to beat myself up about, I’ll use them as directional compass points to guide me towards SMART goals. Another thing I love to do is create a vision board. If you’ve never done one, I highly encourage you grab your glue sticks and old magazines stat. Besides giving a purpose to that stack of mags gathering dust, you can make a fun girls’ night out of it. Everyone brings their fave mags; I usually provide the poster board, glue sticks, scissors, and wine. We all gather around…
Matt: This is a sobering column so let’s put an uplifting image(s) with it. By Lori Welch Brown I’m feeling a bit conflicted as we approach the holiday season. Part of me is poised to go dashing through the snow, caroling and merrymaking, holding hands and spreading the Christmas spirit while the other part of me wants to lock my doors, bolt my windows and hunker down for eternity or at least until I run out of champagne and chocolate. I’ve just read about the shooting at the University of Virginia where three young athletes—Devin Chandler, D’Sean Perry, and Lavel Davis, Jr.—were shot down in the prime of their lives. I am heart broken. How can this be? How is it that someone would want to destroy the lives of these young men—not to mention their families and friends—and also traumatize everyone who has a child in college or pretty much all of us with access to a news outlet? Is it drugs? Mental illness? Childhood trauma? Bullying? Access to firearms? D) All of the above? At this point, does it matter? What matters is that Devin, D’Sean, and Lavel are gone from this earth, and those poor families will never be the same. I didn’t know any of these young men, and I do not have a child in college, and yet I feel immobilized. What is there to celebrate? What about my friend who has a son at nearby JMU? Is he safe? Are any of us? How are we supposed to hang our mistletoe and stockings, hover over fragrance counters trying to select the perfect gift, and drag out our ugly sweaters in the midst of grief, turmoil, and utter chaos? Of course like most, I’m sending prayers and healing thoughts which in this moment, seems about…
By Lori Welch Brown I cannot believe I’m sitting down to write a Thanksgiving column or that I was greeted by an aisle of Santas and reindeer when I walked through Hobby Lobby earlier today. Seems the season ’tis upon us, and shell-shocked though I may be, I don’t mind a single bit. I love this time of year—pumpkin spice, colorful leaves, leather boots, and comfy sweaters. Sigh. Fall in Virginia is perfect, even if we do get a few random heat waves. Or, maybe that’s just my personal heat wave kicking in. I’ve done a wee bit of holiday shopping, and have started to think about travel plans, guest lists, etc. And, my illustrious publisher, the ever-amazing Ms. Lani asked me to include some things I’m grateful for at the bottom of this column (see below). My mind is stuffed like the proverbial turkey full of people and things I’m grateful for, but I’m also thinking about gratitude that doesn’t always come to mind, self-gratitude. Correct me if I’m wrong, but while we are quick to thank others and pay homage to co-workers, friends, family members, bartenders, baristas, librarians, teachers, and that guy Doug who works at the car wash, we are slow to give ourselves a much needed and well-deserved pat on the back. On the contrary, we are quick to judge ourselves harshly, criticize needlessly, and generally put ourselves down at every opportunity. We don’t give ourselves enough credit and/or ‘thank’ ourselves for all that we manage to accomplish, small daily wins, and maybe even major accomplishments. Not only do we not give ourselves credit, but when someone else recognizes our efforts or pays us a compliment, we immediately downplay it. “Awww—it was nothing really,” or “Ha—I probably screwed it up—no biggie.” Not only do we not…
By Lori Welch Brown Sometimes a piece of dirt is just dirt, and sometimes it’s your whole life. Sometimes it’s your slice of heaven on Earth. That’s how 2.24 acres on the corner of Leeds Manor and Hume Roads in beautiful Fauquier County is for me, and I’m about to hand it off to a total stranger. I’m sure said stranger is perfectly nice, a fine man, but one never really knows these days do they? Regardless, his funds will transfer to the proper account, and I’ll hand over the keys and do what my realtor and the closing attorney tell me to do and that will be that. Nowadays, you don’t even meet. You docusign or doculoop your entire life away without even ever looking each other in the eye. I won’t have a chance to tell Mr. Newhomeowner that my grandmother never had plumbing, let alone a hot shower and that a chestnut collie named Silver used to chase after me when I was learning to ride my motorcycle in the field until she got hit by a car and that I cried when I heard the news even though she wasn’t my dog or my grandmother’s for that matter. Mr. Newhomeowner will never know that my mom and I were once trapped in the outhouse, surrounded by a bunch of horses angrily circling us (aka grazing happily) because my mom was afraid of horses. I don’t recall a time that Mom was ever so grateful at seeing Dad coming down that hill as when he rescued us. BTW—the horses weren’t hers either, but rather the neighbors. Grandma had a deal with the neighbors for the horses to graze in her field in exchange for water from their well that she carried in buckets across the street every…
By Lori Welch Brown Do you remember the “21st night of September”? Love was changing the minds of pretenders while chasin’ the clouds away… Lucky for you, you don’t have to remember the 21st night of September, only the 20th…my birthday! And, you’re welcome for that ear bug brought to you by Earth, Wind & Fire. It’s one of my faves. Speaking of faves, I do love September. Not just because it’s my birthday month, but also mine and XXL’s wedding anniversary. We are celebrating lucky number eight this year. Our hearts were ringin’ In the key that our souls were singin’ As we danced in the night, remember How the stars stole the night away I’m always grateful for things to celebrate, and try never to miss an opportunity to commemorate a milestone no matter how big or small. Celebrations equal memories, and memories with our loved ones are life’s currency. I am, however, amazed by how quickly time seems to be passing. Feels like just yesterday we were planning our wedding. Actually, it seems like just yesterday I was donning a cap and gown while walking across a stage to accept my diploma. Traditional gifts for year eight are bronze and pottery. Bronze is formed by combing two metals—copper and tin—which is thought to be symbolic of the union of marriage. Will see what XXL comes up with. I’m good as long as it’s not a copper plumbing pipe. My love language is gifts, but XXL shows his love with acts of service. Cleaning my car or doing the dishes are his way of saying, “I love you.” All good stuff, and I remind him that nothing says love like diamonds. He also loves words of affirmation so I thought I’d take this opportunity to reinforce some things…
By Lori Welch Brown Seems like just yesterday I was convincing myself that this was going to be THE ‘summer.’ The summer I dropped my extra COVID 19 pounds of flesh and rocked my bikini aka my mommified high-waisted two piece with maximum-hold spandex. The summer that I felt like a million bucks in my sundresses (as in my arms didn’t look like bat wings). The summer I’d start running again—maybe even sign up for a half marathon. Heck—maybe a whole. The summer I started eating healthy, maybe even committing to a plant-based diet. The summer I actually relaxed. I had a vision, but no plan other than a nightly regimen of chowing down on carbs with an ice cream chaser. Oh well. There’s always next summer… It’s hard to focus on these (shallow?) desires when there is so much heaviness in the world. It is challenging to get out, move, and have fun when you feel as if the universe has gone utterly bonkers. But, finding joy is important—especially during the summer months. It’s almost our duty to enjoy some down time, indulge in some ice cream, and dip our toes in the sand. Joy and happiness—and FUN—are important to our mental health. Unrealistic goals and beating ourselves up when we fail, however, is detrimental to our well-being. During the dog days of summer when August presents itself as a horse hair blanket coated in hot embers, it is especially important to practice self-care whether it is a midday nap in the air-conditioning, thirty minutes in the hammock with a summer read, or an early morning bike ride. Sure—push yourself a little to pedal an extra ten minutes or log another mile on the treadmill, but do so with caution and an awareness of the big picture. It’s hot…
By Lori Welch Brown It’s July, and what’s the first thing that comes to mind? Freedom. Which, to be honest, I often take for granted because I’m an entitled American, and thanks to a lot of brave people whom I tip my hat to a couple of times a year, I get to say and do what I want. I’m joking, but also not. I do take my freedom for granted. I’m guessing that many of us do. When I think about it, I enjoy a treasure trove of freedoms every single day. I am free to get up when I choose, free to eat and drink what I choose. Free to purchase what I choose from whomever I choose. Free to read and/or write whatever suits me. Free to leave my house when I want and make decisions of my own will. Many human beings do not share these same luxuries I afford every day. There are many sick people who are not free to leave their bed, many forced to work two jobs to keep themselves afloat, and many who are trapped under a cycle of domestic abuse—which is my segue-way to talk about what we all really want to talk about: The Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard trial. For the record, *domestic abuse is no joking matter, and in no way do I want to make light of it. Although I agree with the jury’s findings, whether you agree with me or not, I’m sure we can all agree that domestic violence is never okay—towards men or women. Whatever my thoughts are about the trial, I do think that shedding light on the fact that men can be abused and not just abusers was a good thing. In case you have been living in a cave, the…
By Lori Welch Brown Bacon, pancakes, the smell of freshly-mowed grass, Old Spice cologne. Just a few of the things that remind me of Dad. He’s been gone a year and a half now. Some days it feels like forever since I’ve talked to him, and other days it feels like just yesterday when I was writing his obituary. Mom died in 2006, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. With Dad, it’s somehow different. I feel like when he died, he took a part of me with him. Maybe it’s because I’m his daughter. Maybe it’s because he was in my life for 14 years longer. Maybe I’ve had longer to process Mom’s grief while Dad’s is still raw. Whatever the case, dads are different and special. I know mine sure was. From the moment I opened my eyes, he’s been there for me. In the early years, he provided a roof over my head, put food on the table, and made sure I was safe and secure. As I began to grow, he became a coach and teacher watching anxiously as my little legs pedaled away from him or dived into the ocean. He was always there with good advice, “Slow down for the turns” or to swoop me up after the wave dragged me under. He and Mom set the rules, but he was the enforcer. Boy, was he strict. My husband jokes that I’m very black and white in how I think sometimes, and I credit Dad for that. There wasn’t any gray area when it came to dealing with Dad’s laws. Curfew was specific and understood. “Ten o’clock is ten o’clock. If I wanted you home by 10:07, that’s what I would have said.” There were no veiled threats except…
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