“For the ones who had a notion, A notion deep inside, That it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.” I remember a time, when I was a little girl, that my brother Mark was very sick. Mark was my first brother, and at the time the youngest in the family. We were born one-two-three, the tag team of myself and Gina born a year apart, and Mark coming a few years later. So at the time I’m remembering, he was about three or four, and I was in first or second grade. I don’t remember the details, or maybe I never knew them. I just remember getting off the bus from St. Patrick’s and rushing into the …

As she watched her son take the stage at Cathy Roe’s Ultimate Dance Competition in February, Cyndi Taylor fought back tears. “I was a nervous wreck,” Taylor admitted. “He was dance number twelve, and I cried all through dance number eleven. I was so scared for him.” She needn’t be. Taylor's son, 9-year-old Matthew Mason, took the stage with confidence and did a rousing tap number to a mash-up of two versions of “Runaround Sue.” As the audience applauded, Matthew came off stage and told his mother, “Mommy, I nailed it!” Apparently the judges agreed. Matthew, a fourth-grader at Green-Fields …

“Can we go see it? Can we?” my daughter accosted me as I came through the door Friday evening. She was waving a flier, and her words came tumbling out, one after another. “It’s a play at the high school. They came to Greenfields today to show us part of it, and Stefanie was in it! Do you think we can go? Can we?” Ah, I thought. It’s high school musical time again. Apparently Libby and her classmates were treated to a preview. The high school kids had taken the show on the road, as it were, to drum up interest in the younger kids. And, if Libby was any indication, they really hit their mark. …

Carefullly they piled the boxes, one on top of the other, precariously working the tower high into the sky. Then crash. The cardboard pillar imploded, falling to the ground as the onlookers collapsed into giggles. This was the scene Friday night, as approximately 150 Daisies, Brownies, Juniors and Cadettes from various West Deptford troops gathered in the middle school cafeteria to celebrate the 100th birthday of Girl Scouts. The Girl Scouts of America were officially formed on March 12, 1912, when 18 girls from Savannah, GA, met with leader Juliette Low in her home. Low—who was better known …

On Presidents Day, we took my daughter Libby and her best friend Katie to do a whirlwind Lincoln tour of Washington, D.C. The girls are both third-graders at Green-Fields, and Libby has recently become enamored of our 16th president. Apparently she and her classmates in Mrs. Elliot’s class have been studying Honest Abe, who has now been deemed as “the greatest president who ever lived” by my daughter. “Were you alive when Lincoln was president?” she asked me, excited about the possibility. She seemed a bit disappointed when I pointed out Lincoln was president in the 1800s and I didn’t show up…

I know the holiday season officially ended sometime back in January. By now it should be business as usual. So, if that’s the case, why does it seem like this month has brought one offbeat holiday after another? Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get the confetti out of my hair. We started off this February with Groundhog Day, the only holiday dedicated to a rodent. (You would think lab mice would be protesting, but I guess with all the experimental testing of mascara and such, they have more important things on their mind.) Punxsutawney Phil apparently saw his shadow this year, meaning we'll …

OK, you can call me crazy. But I have never been a big fan of roses. Go ahead, I’ve heard it before. Oh, I love roses growing in my garden. Their tiny closed buds and their rich red blossoms paint our front lawn with beauty, and their fragrance is as sweet and as fresh and as welcomed as the first robin in spring. (Which, going by today’s weather forecast, should arrive around Wednesday.) But when it comes to receiving flowers, I never was a rose girl. I’m not sure why that was, exactly. Maybe it was the decadence—I mean, let’s face it, roses are expensive. And there’s really no figuring out …

Though she describes herself as shy by nature, Marie Hempsey will do just about anything if it will benefit her favorite cause, Project Children. She’s called local businesses to ask for donations. She’s knocked on doors and used social media to reach out to potential hosts for the kids that come over to the U.S. from violent Northern Ireland each year. She’s opened her home and her story to the press, in order to raise awareness for Project Children. She’s even rubbed elbows with Gov. Chris Christie, filling him in on her work at a dinner held last year for New Jersey’s 50 most influential …

“Let’s all get up and dance to a song That was a hit before your mother was born Though she was born a long long time ago, Your mother should know.”   --- John Lennon and Paul McCartney   Having children is a tricky deal. After all, you never know how things will come out. You contribute your genetic material with great hope, but let’s face it—it’s a crap shoot. I may hope my kids get my blue eyes and creative streak, while picking up a good metabolism and nice teeth from their father. But, just like Forrest Gump’s mama warned us, “You never know what you’re going to get.” And the nurturing …

“For what are we, without hope in our hearts?” ---Bruce Springsteen, "Across the Border"This Saturday morning, I sat frozen at my monitor, fingers poised above the keys.Around the corner, my brother Mark was in the same position. And, somewhere in the Florida panhandle, Tim, our youngest brother, was sitting the very same way.Of course, there was no point in pressing anything on the keyboard. The open browsers on our monitors indicated we were all “in queue.” Still, we waited, ready to pounce at the first sign of change to that status.Welcome to ticket-buying, circa 2012.Of course, we don’t …

It’s time to sell the cookies. Well, almost. Actually, if I sold the cookies to you today, I’d have my hands slapped. Or something like that. Anyway, I know it’s against the rules. But, as of Thursday, selling begins full force. Girl Scout cookies are back! Beginning January 19, Daisies, Brownies, Juniors, Cadettes and Seniors in our area will be out in force, ringing doorbells and selling the Thin Mints, Samoas and Shortbread cookies they’re famous for. Take note—that does include my daughter, Libby. And yes, we deliver. For those who aren’t home often, there will be Cookie Booths set up all…

OK, have you made them yet? And, let’s see, how many have you broken already? That’s the way it goes with resolutions. We devote so much thought, so much effort, so much determination to their creation. “I’m going to lose weight,” we enthuse, or “This year I’ll stop smoking.” Then, within days, they’re gone—vanishing in a forkful of Aunt Molly’s devil’s food cake, floating away in a puff of Marlboro smoke. Do you ever wonder what’s the point? I mean, why do we set ourselves up for failure on an annual basis? Well, I guess it’s tradition, and you know the old saying—one man’s tradition is …

This week, in the lull between Christmas and New Year’s, I took a day trip to Ocean City with my husband and my youngest son. Max, a collector of classic rock records, wanted to spend some of his holiday loot on vinyl at GrassRoots Music Store over on Asbury. I needed to drop off our summer lease to the Realtor, and Scott came along for the food. After all, it was Ocean City, so of course it would mean lunch at Mack and Manco. Oh, scratch that. As we approached the pizza shop on the boardwalk, we were reminded that Mack and Manco is no more. Oh, the wooden placard out front still announced …

No matter where I go this week, I couldn't seem to avoid that inevitable question.  “What do you want for Christmas?” I guess that's one of those things—those many, many things—that has become more difficult as I got older. After all, back when I was little, we’d start writing our Christmas lists sometime around September. Seriously. That was when the Sears and Roebuck catalog appeared in our mailbox. It was the late '60s, early '70s version of today’s Disney Channel commercials—hour after hour (or, in our case, page after page) of the newest gadgets, the neatest gizmos, and, of course, the …

“It's coming on Christmas They're cutting down trees They're putting up reindeer And singing songs of joy and peace Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on” --River, Joni Mitchell An 11-foot fir tree has taken over our living room. Its branches, strong and green and fragrant, have been decorated with tinsel and apples, flour-and-salt dough angels and ornaments collected during our travels. On most branches, though, there are construction paper decorations, handprints turned to reindeers and wreaths with a child’s face peering through the center and a year written in crayon across the …

At Saint Patrick’s School—back when I was little and it was open—our music classes from the first day of school until December were all about one thing: getting ready for the Christmas Show. St. Pat’s was a first- through eighth-grade elementary school at the time, and each grade presented a two- or three-song presentation at the annual event. First we’d practice in our classrooms, learning the words and even attempting harmonies as a nun with a portable plug-in organ would pound out holiday songs both secular and spiritual. Once the musical part was mastered (as well as it can be by 50 …

A few years ago, a friend of one of my children hurled an unusual insult at me. We arguing about my being over-protective, and he chose these words to  attack my attempts at setting a curfew: “You’re such a Walton!” Of course, being in argument mode, I matched his slur with a pop-culture putdown of my own. “Well, it’s better than being a Soprano.” (This had nothing to do with his ethnic background and everything to do with criminal activity. Just sayin’.) But despite my well-chosen retort, I was secretly pleased at his accusation. Sure, I know it meant that he (and perhaps the rest of the …

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about traditions. Well, I guess that makes some sense. 'Tis the season, after all. During the weeks between Halloween and New Year’s, many of us embrace the age-old traditions that define our families and remind us of holidays past. How else can we explain the fruitcake that nobody eats or the pictures of my kids with a guy in a cheesy beard that I cannot do without each Christmastime? Sure, my family has its traditions, and for the most part they’re as bizarre and beloved as the ones that make your spirit bright. But what I’ve been thinking about is the way …

Between the NJEA conference and the Thanksgiving break—not to mention Election Day, Veterans Day and the half-days to allow for teachers’ conferences—it seems like November is really a month of holidays. In other words, it feels like my kids aren’t in school at all. But smack dab in the middle of all that down time, they get a big-time reminder that they are, indeed, still students (and they better be taking it seriously). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking about a day that is met by peals of joy by the faithful homework-doers, and groans and gnashing of teeth by those about to be …

When I was growing up, my household was as divided about politics as the headlines indicate West Deptford is today. My mother was a Republican, born and raised, a member of the Grand Old Party from childhood. Her father, a Republican, even worked in City Hall for a while and my mom never forgot those roots.  And my dad, he was a Democrat, just like his mother before him. In fact, he wasn’t just a Democrat—he was a liberal Democrat, the far left. My parents agreed to disagree, but not always quietly. So early on I learned how different—and how similar—the two major political parties can be. No…