By Lori Welch Brown There are LOADS of reasons to celebrate this month. First—it’s my birthday. Even though I have approached the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ stage of life, I am still 1000 percent on board for celebrating. “Bring on the cake,” I say, and then I silently pray it’s German chocolate. Second, it’s mine and XXL’s wedding anniversary (No. 9). Upon doing some research aka a quick Google search, I’ve discovered that the traditional gift for year nine is pottery. “Made of clay, pottery is carefully molded into something of great beauty and lasting presence,” per Brides.com. “A modern alternative would be leather. A strong, durable, and enduring material that can also be quite flexible, and only gets better with age.” Leather it is! I do like to think we are getting better with age, and flexibility is the key to life as well as a happy marriage. Lastly, and perhaps most excitedly, it’s back-to-school month! Okay—that’s not actually true. Somehow, against all rules of nature, August has become back-to-school month. What the bloody H-E-double-toothpicks?! How is that possible? Well—since we’ve pushed Halloween to March, I guess it only makes some sense in some alternate universe. But, I’m a Gen X’er and for me, back-to-school month will forever be September. It just makes sense. Summer isn’t over until after Labor Day. Actually, scratch that. Summer isn’t over until the U.S. Naval Observatory says it’s over, and this year in the Northern hemisphere the fall equinox arrives on September 23, marking the end of summer. So stop rushing things. September is our ‘tween month when we get to have our cake (German chocolate, please) and eat it too. We can still enjoy some pool time, and if we’re lucky dig into our closets for a crisp leather jacket. Y’all know…
By Lori Welch Brown I refuse to say goodbye to summer in August. I know—vacations are over, school is starting, but still—summer doesn’t officially end until September. And, those first couple of weeks in September are glorious! I get it though—August is the beginning of the end. By mid-August, maybe I am a little teensy, weensy bit ready to part ways when the mere act of walking out to the end of my driveway feels marathon-esque. My hair has taken on epic proportions thanks to the same humidity that snaps the life force from my body and has me shopping online for fainting couches. And, just like that, I’m fantasizing about the black leather boots lying dormant in my closet and all those adorable fur-lined jackets calling my name. Even in endings rest assured there is something to look forward to. Saying goodbye is never easy, but it is made less hard when there is something new to step into—like a pair of beloved boots or perhaps even a new line up of classes. As a kid, while I was devastated by the notion of summer break closing in on me, I was simultaneously excited by the prospect of a new pack of No. 2 pencils, some colorful notebooks, and a new lunch box. It’s the yin and yang of life. Goodbye summer, hello Scooby Doo lunch pail. In adult world that may translate to goodbye bathing suit, hello boots. Or goodbye outdoor running, hello gym. Goodbye lazy days on the beach, hello rhythm and routine. It’s at this time of year, however, that I am grateful to live in a place where one can actually experience a change of season—and not just by the flipping of a calendar page. I get giddy at the thought of driving through Virginia…
By Lori Welch Brown How did we get to July so soon? Holy cow. Feels like just yesterday we were putting away the Christmas tree and making New Year’s resolutions. I’d like to say time flies when you’re having fun, but I haven’t been having a lot of fun recently. That, however, is about to change. We have a crazy maker in our family. Maybe you have one too. My particular crazy maker doesn’t think he has a problem—everyone else has the problem. Even though his life is at ground zero all due to his own decisions (poor ones), everyone else is to blame. Recently he has been lashing out in horrendous, unacceptable ways. When you’re on the outside looking in, crazy is easy to spot. When you’ve been embroiled in the dysfunction and spend your days just dodging bombs, it’s more difficult to see. You’re just busy trying to survive. And, that is not freedom. Freedom takes many forms, including the freedom to be happy—even if it means releasing toxic family members and/or friends. Anyone above the age of 12 knows that life can be hard and isn’t always fair, but most of us do have some options. As we get older, our options increase. We get to make decisions for ourselves. Regardless of our situation—rough childhood, divorced parents, absent parent, abusive parent, etc., we can do things to move forward instead of living in the past. We can get help, live in the present, and make our way in the world as best we can. With the proper help, we can free ourselves from past hurt and pain—even trauma. We get this one precious life and get to choose how to live it. So, this July, I’m giving my crazy maker a gift—the gift of freedom. I am…
By Lori Welch Brown My father passed in 2020, and I’d give anything to have him back if for one minute. To hear him say, “Hey—got a little more of that ice cream over there?” When prompted about how he enjoyed his dinner, you might get a response such as, “It’s something to eat.” Or even the occasional, “Hey, Lori. Can you help me with my shoes?”, before I had a sip of coffee to which I’d remind him my rule of “No feet before I eat,” and we’d laugh. He was wheelchair bound the last few years of his life, and it was hard on all of us, but mostly him. Dad lived with us for eight months prior to COVID, until his safety became an issue, and we had to make the difficult decision that he needed more care than we could provide at home. There were a lot of highs and lows during that time with us. I was so happy to wake up and have coffee with my Dad. We hadn’t spent quality time alone together in ions. I loved watching Judge Judy in the afternoons with him—our ritual. There were days, however, that I couldn’t wait to get out of the house, away from him and everyone else. Two days a week an aide came to assist Dad with his personal grooming, and on those days, I was out the door headed to the gym the second her tires hit the driveway. One night when I was helping him get into bed, tears started rolling down his cheeks. My heart sank. It had been a hard day. A really hard day for both of us. I kissed the top of his head, assured him I loved him, and that tomorrow would be a better day….
By Lori Welch Brown My mom has been gone 17 years now, and yet it still feels surreal to say it. In some ways it feels like she’s been gone forever; other days I can recall her passing so vividly it might as well have been yesterday. I was the baby and the only girl with three older brothers growing up. Mom always said she prayed and prayed for a girl, and was elated when I finally came. Her regular OB/GYN happened to be on vacation, and she always joked that had she known all she had to do was wait for him to go out of town, she would have sent him on a cruise years ago. In my teen years when she and I were having mother/daughter struggles, she lamented, “Be careful what you wish for,” as she cursed my rebellious, argumentative nature. I wanted independence and/or a family with a pool. I wanted a mom who liked shopping and dressed in something other than jeans and flip flops. I wanted a girly-girl mom to teach me about boys, dating, and make up. I wanted a mom who liked to travel and read fashion magazines. Mom was none of those things. But then she was gone, and all I wished for was my Mom back. I wanted the Mom who left me annoying messages that said, “Hi, Lori. It’s your mom. Where are you?” I wanted the Mom who always had a Costco-sized cheesecake in the fridge “just in case.” I wanted the Mom who made the best potato salad and sweet tea on the planet with no regard for calories or sugar comas. I wanted the Mom who always tried to slip gas money into my pocket because she didn’t want me to run out—even though I…
By Lori Welch Brown Some think April showers, May flowers. I think holy crap—it’s almost bathing suit season and my Michelle Obama arms are flapping in the wind. What the heck happened to all my well-intentioned New Year’s intentions? What happened to January, February, and March? I’ll tell you what happened. It was cold. I was tired. The dog ate my gym card. In other words, my good intentions bit the dust. Things I did manage to finish: The laundry (but is it ever really finished?) Three seasons of YOU Every episode of Dateline and 20/20 related to the Murdaugh trial Nine episodes of The Last of Us Five quarts of Ben & Jerry’s But, it’s okay. At least that’s what I’m telling myself because this is the year of total ACCEPTANCE. Acceptance of myself, others, life’s ups and downs, my husband’s quirks, but not his snoring which I could perhaps accept if I actually had the proper amount of rest and wasn’t so darn crabby all the time. This is the year I’m going to accept myself as I am. I’m going to embrace my flaws (of which there are many), and I’m going to accept my body however it chooses to show up every day for me—tired, puffy, a little bloated and gassy, etc. It’s mine and I need to be more kind, compassionate, and appreciative of it. That being said, I also need to show it daily love which is what I’m focusing on. I need to show it love by feeding it good, whole foods that fuel it. I need to make sure it gets proper rest even if it means sleeping in the guest room occasionally (see snoring above). I need to take it for nice, long walks. It really doesn’t mind the cold, but…
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…
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