The tunes they are a-changing

I'm proud to say my family is musical. We dabble in playing — a guitar and piano here, a recorder and ukelele there — but it's in the listening to music that we really excel. As a whole, our hearts, minds and ears are open to myriad genres, everything from classical to Christian, country to show tunes, hard rock to soft rock and many that aren't really rock at all. We even have our family favorites in the rap genre. (I must admit, though, jazz and easy listening rarely pass notes in our homes, our cars, our iPods.)

Music plays a prodigious and powerful role in our family, which is why I'm happy to see the love of music continue with Bubby. Since he was an itsy-bitsy baby, music moved him. And like the rest of us, he's happy to sample and savor tunes from varied genres, with recent favorites ranging from "Twinkle, Twinkle" to "Baby" by Justin Bieber to "A New Hallelujah" by Michael W. Smith to "We Will Rock You" by Queen.

I'm thrilled Bubby finds such joy in music. Yet I'm saddened that many of my most-cherished memories of experiencing music — and watching my children experience music — are things he and the youngsters of today will never know, thanks to the ever-evolving face of music.

Music rituals kids of today will never experience

• The satisfaction of placing the needle in the exact desired spot on a record.

• Flipping through album, cassette, or CD bins at the music store.

• Staying up late to watch a favorite group on "The Midnight Special."

• Making and receiving the perfect mix tape.

• Waiting for hours to catch the beginning of a favorite video in order to hit "record" on the VCR in time so it can be replayed in full again and again.

• The horror of a record or CD being cracked, a cassette tape being eaten.

• The horror — and sometimes giggles — associated with scratches and subsequent skips in an album.

• Singing along with a record, perfectly including the skip without missing a beat.

• Weighing the arm of the record player with a penny to get past the skips.

• Searching for secret messages and meanings in backmasking.

• The thrill of finding a favorite song on an AM station while traveling by car, seemingly miles from civilization.

• Waiting by the radio with cassette recorder in hand to record a favorite tune when Casey Kasem announces it No. 1 for the week.

• Marveling at the artwork on an album sleeve.

• Holding the album lyrics in hand while singing along.

• Memorizing the order of an album to the point that when hearing one of the songs on its own, you automatically hum the bars to — and expect to hear — the next song on the album.

• American Bandstand.

Today's question:

What fading or long-gone musical rituals do you lament?

I'll just say no

When I was a teen, I succumbed to peer pressure far more often than I should have. I did things that weren't good for me just because "all the cool kids are doing it." Trying to fit in, trying to be like everyone else was the name of the game, just as it surely — unfortunately — is for today's youth.

When I became a mother, there was still a lot of peer pressure, but of a different sort. There was the pressure to outfit my kids in the latest fashions, keep them enrolled in and entertained by the latest and greatest activities. We rarely had the funds to pay for those fashions and fun things, so the need to do as all the cool moms were doing became less important. I couldn't afford to be like them, so I had no choice but to be myself.

As the girls reached the teen years and all the cool moms were (supposedly in some cases, literally in others) letting their kids run around without curfews, attend co-ed slumber parties or throw parties with alcohol purchased by the adults, I no longer had any desire to be like the cool moms for they didn't seem all that cool to me. I was a mean mom, or so I was told ... often. I had strict rules and high expectations for my daughters. The girls, of course, broke those rules ... often. And they fought against my expectations. It didn't change anything, though, because I purposefully made the choice to not be cool, to be myself, to do what I thought was right. For me, for mine. Regardless of pressure, be it from my peers or my kids.

Now that I'm a grandma, I'm faced with a different kind of peer pressure. Well, to be honest, it really has absolutely nothing to do with being a grandma and everything to do with being a grandma online. Yep, as someone who lives a large chunk of her life on the Internet, I'm confronted regularly by those who want me to do as they do, to follow their lead. And once again I'm doing the uncool thing: I'm just saying no.

To what am I saying no? Well, here's the list of things the cool folks, the popular folks do online that I'm resisting. Don't take offense and don't take it personally if you do these things; just take it as forewarning that I don't do these things, that I won't do these things if you ask.

Here goes. I hereby say no to:

• Passing along forwards. Whether they're cute or funny or elicit a warm fuzzy and especially if they're hate-filled or try to convince me I must send it to 10 friends in order to prosper or find true love. Forwards all get the same treatment from me: the delete button.

• Changing my Facebook profile photo to a color befitting a cause or holiday. Mostly just because I'm lazy.

• Posting or joining or following — or whatever the correct term is — a blog meme.

• Adhering to the rules of an award that requires me to list 16 personal things about myself then pressure eight of my favorite bloggers to do the same by honoring them with the same award. Awards are thoughtful ... unless they require work.

• Changing my Facebook status in support of a cause. (I'm starting to see a minor theme to my list, related to my laziness. Maybe?)

• Entering giveaways that require me to visit and comment on the sponsor's page then — optional, but for extra entries — "like" a Facebook page, follow the blogger on Twitter, and tweet and retweet until the sun rises and sets 16 times.

There are other, less frequent actions friends (and some foes) try to pressure me to take, but those above are at the top of my just-say-no list. Like I said before, don't take offense if you do any of them. I don't have a problem with you doing it, I just have a problem with me doing it. So I won't.

The great thing about peer pressure as a grandma is that it's really no pressure at all.

Excepting, of course, the pressure I felt to let you all know in advance of my just-say-no plan. Just in case you asked. Just so when I ignore your request, you won't feel slighted ... or upset ... or like you want to kick me out of the blogosphere.

(Which means, I suppose, that I still have a few minor peer-pressure issues to work out. Even as a grandma.)

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What kind of peer pressure do you resist now that you wouldn't have resisted at a younger age?

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

Last week I had dinner with one of my favorite people, a dear friend who is very much like me on many things, but oh-so different from me on one very big thing. That big thing being parenting.

It's not that my friend and I have different parenting philosophies, it's that she isn't a parent at all, never wanted to be a parent, a mom. Ever. I, on the other hand, am a mom, have always wanted to be a mom. From the time I was a child, the position of Mom has been at the very top of my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

Being a mom wasn't the only thing on my list of things I want to be when I grow up, though. Here are more:

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

A writer. I remember as far back as middle school, dreaming about being a writer. I became a writer, made a decent living for a short period of time as a writer, continue to be a writer.

A disc jockey. In elementary school, I worked on a presentation with a group, and we chose to present our findings on Mary McCleod Bethune radio style, with intermissions featuring snippets of music. The presentation made me realize I loved playing the part of DJ. Every now and then I still get a hankering to host a radio program ... featuring music, not news or blathering bumbleheads.

A cosmetologist. I wanted to be not just a hairstylist, but a cosmetologist. I went to school for it, was on my way to earning my license. Then I got pregnant, the chemicals weren't a good idea for the baby, and "Beauty School Dropout" became my theme song for a while. (Was soon thankful this dream was never realized!)

Interior designer. Again, started classes. Again, got pregnant ... and decided continuing school was too much for a mom with two little ones and an overworked husband.

Backup singer. I'd still like to be this. I don't want to be in the forefront, the glaring spotlight. But providing backing vocals for the star -- and maybe a solo during the bridge now and then -- would sure get my toes tapping, my hands clapping, and heart soaring.

Parenting magazine editor. Ann Pleshette-Murphy, editor of Parent magazine when my girls were little, was my idol. I've accomplished this one. Not to the degree of Ann, only on a regional parenting publication level, but accomplished just the same. 'Twas one of the highlights -- and much-missed positions -- of my writing/editing career.

Librarian. This was at the top of my list for many years, just below writer. Still is some days. Too bad a library science degree is required.

Bookstore owner. Plan B for sharing books, since a degree isn't required to sell them. Cash is required, though, and I never had it. Proof that things happen -- or don't happen -- for a reason, as I'd surely be suffering the plight of today's independent booksellers.

Pie shop owner. I make pretty good pie. I wanted to share it with others. I planned to call it Pie in the Sky. Or Pie Hopes. Again, no money -- and the rise of the cupcake -- brought those hopes to a fizzle. Although, I've been reading lately that pie is the new cupcake. Hmm ...

Restaurant owner. Witnessing hundreds of college classmates of Megan and Andrea, miles from home and craving Mom's cooking, got me seriously considering starting up a Homesick Restaurant featuring daily specials from mothers across the country (credit to Anne Tyler for the name). The girls graduated before I put the plan into action -- fortunately, as the location was seven hours away in a town I never planned to visit again once they were done with college.

Looking at this list, I see that nearly everything on it, attained or not, has contributed to or enhanced my position as Mom. Cosmetology class provided the tools for cutting and styling the hair of three little girls. Interior Design courses helped me in creating the desired ambiance in my home. DJing and backup singing? Well, I love and share music with my kids; always have, always will. The words I write and share -- whether magazine articles, books or blogs -- are often related to parenting in one way or another. Food fancies require no expanation, as that's what moms do: show their love through food.

Bottom line is this: I may not have done all I once dreamed of, but those dreams made a difference in the one that mattered most, the one that became a reality -- being a mom. And who knows? There's still plenty of time to achieve a few of those on my list I still find appealing.

Anyone up for leading a granny band? If you've got the vocal ability and nerves for centerstage, I'd be all over supporting you with a few doowops and handclaps from behind.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Freeze frame

Today I head to the desert for a five-day visit with Bubby. To him, though, it will likely feel more like a five-day photo shoot -- Gramma takes lots of pictures! By the end of a few days together with Bubby, I usually have 500 or more photos. Enough to get me through until the next time we meet. Enough to last as blog graphics for a few months. Enough to mark our time together.

I'm big on photos. I see them as a record of one's own personal history. When memories of a time, an event, a life fade, the photos are there to remind.

As I get older, I realize my memories are fading fast, yet I hold few photos of my childhood to remind me. In fact, the following photos are the only photos I have of my life before the age of 10. (I have just as few of the years after age 10 -- until I got my own camera at 16 -- but I'll refrain from sharing those as my teeth became more crooked and the hairstyles more funky. Definitely not cute shots, not worth sharing.)

Sibling No. 1, Sibling No. 2, and me, Sibling No. 3.  Sibling No. 4 and me. Siblings Nos. 1-4 and a dog whose name I can't recall. Me, beautiful Bonnie, and Sibling No. 4.

Siblings Nos. 1, 3 (me) and 4 on Dad's parade float for his business. Siblings Nos. 5 & 6 (twins) and me (maybe me?).

The crooked teeth and funky hairstyles begin. Siblings Nos. 2 and 3 on one snowmobile, me with Dad on the other.

The gang of seven (siblings). Paternal grandparents and all seven of us.

Most of us in Florida. I'm second. (Minnesotans not used to sun!) Again, in Florida.

And that's it -- my only photographic reminders of early childhood. The lack of photos in my possession is not because they're in a trunk of my mom's or a stash at my dad's. Nope, that's it.

That won't be the case with my kids, my grandkids, maybe even my great-grandkids. Like I said, I take lots of pictures. I'm certain that one day they'll be thankful for all the flashing and clicking from Gramma.

And I can pretty much guarantee that despite the photos not being all that skillfully taken or perfectly composed, they will all be cute, they will all be worth sharing.

Even if their teeth are crooked and their haircuts funky.

Today's question:

What is your favorite photo of you as a child?

Bound to happen

Well, it's finally happened: I've gotten old. I've not come to that realization because of my wrinkles, my achy joints or my crotchety disposition of late, but because of how freakin' young those in the medical profession now seem to me.

My eyes began to open to this truth when noticing that doctors interviewed as experts on various news programs regularly caused Jim and me to comment, "Wow, that's a young one" and "Sheesh, has that kid really actually completed medical school?" Only old people say such things. Hence a conclusion began to form: I'm just old.

Then I started physical therapy to repair the damage from little cusshead Mickey pulling me into a face plant when a deer nonchalantly crossed our path during a walk a few months ago. My regular doctor referred me to a fine physical therapist. I read her impressive credentials (she's one of the physical therapists for the US Figure Skating team) then was shocked upon meeting her at my first appointment. She looks the same age as my youngest daughter! There's no way she could be just 25 since she's been practicing since the early '90s. She's performing miracles on my back and has clearly worked hard and long to get where she is in her career, so my conclusion is this: I'm just old.

The final incident relates to Megan's medical scare this past week. Because of the fortunate outcome of a worrisome circumstance, Megan gave thanks and gratitude to her ob/gyn on a recent blog post, a post that included a photo of the doctor. I have never met her doctor and I was amazed at how young this gal is -- this gal who holds the lives of my child AND my grandchild in her hands. Yet, her expertise in the field and the way she's proved herself exceptionally capable lead me to now stand firm in my conclusion: I'm just old.

When I first became a mother, doctors were older folks whom I looked upon with respect and admiration, much as I would a wise grandparent. As the years went by, doctors seemed a little more my age, like a colleague or friend or at least someone who enjoyed the same music and television shows as I did and understood the same pop culture references.

Now, all of a sudden, the doctors I come across are youngsters, many years behind me and certainly not interested in the same music or television shows that interest me. And I don't even seem to know what constitutes pop culture anymore, let alone share any references to it with today's doctors.

My only conclusion: I'm just old.

My only question: How the heck did that happen?

Photo: MS Office  

Today's question:

In what ways do you most notice you're getting older?

Calendar girl

Yesterday I copied all the birthdays and anniversaries from my 2010 calendar onto my 2011 calendar then added the old calendar to my stack of those I've saved for years -- every year since 1997, to be exact.

I abhor packrats and do my best not to be one, so holding onto reminders of dentist appointments and "No School" dates of years past may seem in opposition to my cause. But the old calendars are so much more than appointment reminders: They are time in a bottle. Snapshots of the hustle and bustle of a once busy household. A record of the good, the bad, the scary, the sweet -- an organic record that didn't require me to journal or scrapbook or keep a diary or update a blog to maintain it.

Most of the markings on the grids of daily happenings are in my handwriting. Others are in the handwriting of one or another of the girls, applied in painstakingly perfect penmanship befitting an occasion important enough to be included on the family calendar for all to consider in their schedule.

Each notation holds much more than just a record of where we had to be and what time we had to be there, though. They hold stories, stories that bring mostly grins (birthday parties and school sporting events) and groans (dentist appointments and work schedules). Others cause my eyes to well up, my heart to grow a little cold, and a lump to form in my throat. Those are the notations of occasions that serve as poignant reminders of our challenges, the growing pains that strengthened our family fabric and made it the resilient, tight-knit one it is today.

As I skim the calendars before placing them back on the shelf for another year, here are some of the scribbles that touch my heart:

April 28, 1997: "Closing" - This is the date we officially bought the house we rented for 10 years before finally getting up the nerve -- and the income -- to ask our landlords if we could buy it. It's the house that became the childhood home of our three girls, the place we raised them all, from kindergarten through college.

July 21-25, 1997: "Brianna in Texas" - Brianna went to Work Camp; we remodeled our new house to add a fourth bedroom while she was gone. Andrea and Megan rejoiced at no longer having to share a room, no longer having to divide the space with duct tape down the center. Jim and I rejoiced that the bickering would end.

May 25, 1998: "Andie leaves" - Andrea spent a week at Sea Camp in San Diego and to this day still dreams of working with dolphins. Somewhere. Somehow. Which is a tad challenging considering she lives in the Rocky Mountains.

March 22, 1999: "5:30 a.m. Brianna skiing" - Clinches the heart a bit as Brianna will likely never ski again after the damage done to her back when her (stopped) car was rear-ended at a stoplight by a landscaping truck.

April 24-25, 1999: "Retaining wall" - One of the many "huh?" markings on the calendars, important at the time but now completely forgotten.

October 15, 1999: "UNC College Day" - Our first visit to check out a college for our first-born.

July 18, 2000: "Test w/HR 2:30" - The beginning of my newspaper career.

July 28-29, 2000: "American Co-ed Pageant" - Megan needed college funds and left no stone unturned. She won no pageant money but we both received an unexpected -- and unpleasant -- introduction to pageantry and "pageant moms." Believe me when I say Little Miss Sunshine resonates.

October 25-27, 2001: "Seward" - Our first visit with Megan to what would become her college town. And eventually Andrea's college town.

June 22-27, 2002: "Disney World" - Our last vacation as a family. <sniff>

June 29, 2002: "Marked words: Brianna will NOT be with Eric at this time next year!" - Too funny now. What's not funny is that marking one's words doesn't make things magically come true ... or eliminate the need to keep marking them.

May 25, 2003: "Andie's Graduation Party" - My baby, my last daughter, graduated and soon off to college.

June 27, 2003: "I'm old" - Any guess as to whose birthday this was?

July 22, 2006: "Meg's wedding!"

June 18, 2008: "BUBBY!" - Okay, it doesn't really say "Bubby," it says his real name. An all-caps pronouncement of joy just the same.

December 5, 2008: "D-Day!" - This was the day my layoff was scheduled ... and occurred. The end of my stint as a special sections editor. The end of my newspaper career.

Sprinkled throughout the calendar pages, amidst notes about the girls going on mission trips, attending prom, graduating from high school and college, are red-letter dates of concerts and performances that Jim and I were to attend: Pearl Jam, Live, Tommy, Black Crowes, Rent, Counting Crows and more. Memorable occasions all. But my pile of ticket stubs serves as a better reminder of those particular dates. And, yes, serves as another large stack of paper this non-packrat refuses to get rid of.

On second thought, maybe I am a packrat after all. A sentimental packrat with lots of memories worth holding on to.

Today's question:

What do you do with your old calendars?

More than words

For the past few months, due to divvying up first my mother-in-law's household goods then her personal items, I find myself again and again considering the items my daughters will find once I'm gone or, as is the case with Jim's mom, incapacitated and no longer able to live outside of a nursing home. I've thought about the books they'll take for their own bookshelves, the knick-knacks they'll split between them, the family photos they'll add to their own albums and share with their own children to come.

It wasn't until reading the comment from Grams on my post about going through the very last of my mother-in-law's items that I considered things the girls might find that I don't want them to find. "It made us know how much we didn't know about our parents," Grams said about what she and her siblings found in their parents' belongings. Her comment made me think about my own tucked away possessions, items that will reveal to my daughters thoughts, feelings, traits I wasn't willing to share while living, ones I definitely don't want them to know once I'm gone.

I'm not talking about illegal activities, funky fetishes or stacks of money with which Jim and I played McScrooge. Pretty much everything I have is out in the open, available for inspection any time anyone wants to delve deeper into who I am, who I was. Pretty much everything, that is, except my journals.

I've always thought the published journals of famous people, long after they're dead and gone, paint an inaccurate picture of the person, put them up for analysis, speculation and scrutiny based on limited information. If they're anything like me, those famous folk wrote in their journals when their hearts were heavy, when they were at their most vulnerable, most sad, most confused, most sick and tired of spinning the wheels of a daily grind that wasn't the life they originally imagined. But those worries, fears, complaints scribbled in private are not truly representative of the person as a whole.

And that's what I worry my girls would find in the many journals I've kept, journals written from the time I was a teen up through about four years ago. I rarely -- if ever -- write in a journal anymore, but all the angst, fears and probably a good share of self-pity of the past sits locked away in a trunk in the closet. The words written long ago are only a portion of who I was, who I am ... at my darkest.

I'm not sure why I've held on to those journals. It seemed better than the alternative, though, better than throwing away all the years of pouring out my heart onto paper. I've lost the key to the trunk in which they're stored, and that's been okay with me. I have no need, no reason, no desire to relive all those old thoughts, so knowing they're in a trunk which I can't open has seemed reasonable, safe.

But upon my death, I'm pretty sure the girls won't let a lock without a key keep them from finding out what's inside the funky blue trunk in the study. So I'm considering what to do with that trunk. Do I pitch the thing in the garbage, locked and unopened? Do I pry it open and scan the journals to see if my concerns are unwarranted? Or do I leave well enough alone, leave it locked, leave it in the closet, leave it until I'm dead and gone and the girls can do with it what they will?

Like I said, I'm considering it. I don't really know what to do. Or when to do it. I'm at a crossroads, feeling a little anxious about the whole thing.

Maybe I need to go journal about it. Commit words to paper in hopes of coming to some sort of resolution, some sort of answer. Just as I did in journals in the past.

First, though, I need to find a hiding place for the new journal. One that doesn't require a key. Better yet, one that will self-destruct after a short period of time so I don't have yet another journal causing me such consternation.

Photo credit: Stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you write in a journal or diary? If so, what do you do with them once filled?

Sibling revelry

Going through my mother-in-law's old photos of her and her siblings has me considering my own siblings and the few photos I have of us.

I'm pretty sure the center photo below, now 11 years old, is the last one there will ever be of all seven of us together. Funny thing I just realized: It might be the only photo there ever was of all of us together.

"Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long."

~Susan Scarf Merrell

Today's question:

When were you and all your siblings last together?

Somewhere in time

Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Never again

I recently put a few items for sale on Craigslist, things I no longer want, need or use. Surprisingly, one of the "no longer used" items -- something I've been eager to get out of the garage -- has me waxing misty-eyed and melancholic.

Just what may that item be, you ask? Maybe a crib, signifying the end of babies in the house? A student desk, signifying no more students doing homework the last possible moment before it's due? A dinosaur of a VHS video camera signifying the end of recorded pumpkin carvings, Christmas programs and luau-themed birthday parties?

No, no, and no.

It's our cartop carrier. And selling it signifies the end of an era. The end of family vacations. The end of some of my all-time favorite moments with my tribe.

Never again will Jim and I, along with three crabby as cuss sleepy little girls, get up before the crack of dawn to hit the open road with suitcases, swim gear and more balanced above our heads.

Never again will our family of five load up sleeping bags, tents, camp stoves and a homemade camping shower then head up to the mountains for a long weekend of roasted weenies, s'mores and love-pop-can-chain moments around the fire.

Never again will Jim and I and a nervous college freshman load up new bedding, table lamps, extension cords, closet organizers, posters, first-aid kits, nightlights and family photos and drive off into the sunrise to drop off at college yet another baby girl ... who was no longer a baby.

Never again. Selling the cartop carrier punctuates that.

Never again!

The title of the Craigslist listing should have been "Memories for sale: $60." But that's not what I wrote; I figured not many clamoring for a good deal would understand.

But maybe you do.

Today's question:

What in your life will likely happen never again?