December 22,1972 was the 357th day of the year in the Gregorian calendar. There were nine days remaining until the end of the year. It was a Friday. My older brother and I were in the elevator, having just left our Dad’s bedside in the Intensive Care Unit. Our fellow passengers in the elevator were whispering about my Dad and how he had just died. In disbelief, my brother and I looked at each other, how could this news possibly be true. We went back to the ICU waiting room and found a few family friends praying and crying. Next thing I know, I’m lying with my head in the lap of my Mom’s best friend on the front seat of her car heading home. I guess my brother drove himself home.

A Harvard Medical study from 2012 states that December and January tend to be the deadliest of the year. Virtually all physiological processes have a circadian rhythm, meaning that they occur predominantly at certain parts of the day. There’s even a circadian rhythm of death, so that in general people tend to die in the morning hours, sometime around 11:00 AM is the average time.

I walked around our house that day in a fog, listening for my Dad’s car keys on the salver in the foyer, hanging up his coat, his happy words, “who-who””, I’m home.” I stopped to listen to the news report of my Dad’s death on the radio every half hour, still in disbelief. Our house was packed with people trying to be helpful and kind. One friend was cleaning out our fridge, she was holding Dad’s can of bacon grease looking confused. I explained the magical properties of that can, bacon grease instead of butter in gravies, sautéed vegetables, hash brown potatoes, and hamburgers. She gently put the can back on the shelf and continued to toss leftovers and condiments to make room for the plethora of casseroles and pies that had arrived.

Christmas was my Dad’s favorite time of the year. Early in December, plans were made and invitations were sent for the luncheon Curry Party. My Dad loved to cook and entertain. Curry was an art form in my family. The whole chickens were seasoned and stewed, the meat carefully removed. Each condiment painstakingly prepared by my Dad. The dozens of hard boiled eggs shredded by hand, the crispy bacon, the roasted and chopped peanuts, bananas in sweet cream, the toasted coconut, raisins, chopped tomatoes, and the most important; mango chutney.

The curry was served in the dining room from a shiny silver tureen. The condiments in tiny crystal bowls with miniature silver spoons or tongs for serving. Tables covered in white damask with red and white flower centerpieces and candelabra with red candles. A stack records in the stereo playing Christmas music, the fireplaces with beautiful blazing fires, the lights of the Christmas tree in the sunroom, and guests in their holiday finest, all a memory of our curry parties.

Dad’s funeral was on Christmas Eve, it was horribly beautiful in the church my Dad loved and helped to build. The organ played Onward Christian Soldiers and no one wore black, one dear friend wore red.

The house was finally quiet as we halfheartedly celebrated Christmas that year with gifts that had been forgotten in all the fuss. Each of us still in shock. I held my Grandmother’s hand as she murmured that children were not supposed to die before their parents. My mother had become a widow at 45, she was distracted by the massive responsibilities she now had on her plate, closing my Dad’s law practice, dealing with insurance, and raising four children alone.

I lived through that year and fifty more, I have happily decorated trees, cooked standing rib roasts and Yorkshire puddings, but a quiet shadow arrives and I find myself holding my breath. I check the calendar, it’s December 22.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband , Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

Proof of winter was a stack of ski tickets on the zipper of my childhood ski jacket.

I learned the meaning of the word, provoked” the year my older brother had a major skiing accident. Harris was the best skier of all of us, at the time. It was post Christmas and he was wearing the latest in ski wear. He jumped off a mogul on the toughest slope, the fall was so epic that Ski Patrol was involved.

Harris was quiet and very pale as he was lifted onto the sled, we saw that one foot was facing the wrong direction. The x-ray was stunning, his tibia was snapped in half which meant surgery and several screws to hold it in place. Much to Harris’ chagrin, in the emergency room, the nurse insisted upon cutting his new ski pants off of him. My Dad’s childhood friend performed the surgery that very afternoon. Harris came home with crutches and a cast from his foot to his thigh.

My parents took a much needed vacation that spring. My Grandparents were left in charge. Harris was at the point in his recovery of exploring how much he could do with a full leg cast. One afternoon, GrandDad was napping on the couch in the den, we decided to experiment with Harris’ crutches. The object of the competition was to determine which one of us could get the most horizontal. With our arms holding the crutches we swung our feet up to the back door, holding there as long as possible. It was easy for my younger brother, Steve and me but Harris had a very heavy cast to hoist up and hold. Harris’ attempt was a disaster, there was a loud crack as the cast hit the door. The crutches shattered and Harris fell to the floor.

GrandDad’s face was a scary red, his cheeks were puffed as if he was going to explode. “I have never been so provoked!” were the first words out of his mouth. My GrandDad was of the generation that “children should be seen and not heard.” Not only had we interrupted his nap, but Harris’ cast and crutches needed to be repaired or replaced.

I could see my Grandfather’s jaw finally relaxing as we sat at the airport waiting to retrieve my parents from their trip. There was a request for GrandDad to pick up a white phone on the airport loud speaker. My parents had missed their flight. They had met some friends in the Denver airport and lost track of time. GrandDad was very provoked again and swore that my parents would need to get a taxi home when they finally did arrive.

Early in the summer, Harris’ cast was reduced to a walking cast below his knee, which meant the freedom of riding his bike. I don’t think that he had permission from the doctor or my parents but he was suffering from “cabin fever” and there was no stopping him. Somehow he managed to break this cast as well. Luckily, neither of my parents were provoked by this.

I started skiing in first grade, everything but my ski jacket and gloves had been my Mom’s when she was a child. The long underwear was soft, pink cashmere, the ski pants were black wool gaberdine with a Jantzen tag at the waist, my boots were leather with red laces, and my skis were shiny and wooden. I was ready to conquer the slopes. I learned how to “snow plow” my first day on the “bunny” hill. The rope tow was a challenge but I managed it without falling once.

My two brothers were my skiing buddies. As we all got better at skiing, my Dad would take us for long weekends to ski in Colorado. One spring break, we skied at Steamboat springs. We promised to meet Dad for lunch, so after breakfast, we made two or three runs, always following Harris’ lead. It got increasingly warmer in the afternoon and we tied our jackets around our waists.

Harris remarked that the snow had become slushy on the slopes that we had been skiing all morning, he wanted to try something new. We headed over to a double black diamond slope with a three foot vertical drop at the beginning. My brothers leapt off and skied away. I could hear their encouraging yells as I side stepped down, crying with fear. The hill was aptly named Twister, it was a mogul skier’s delight.

We trusted our brother as we followed Harris past a spot that had danger signs emblazoned with a skull and cross bones. The snow was once again powder and it was great skiing until we came to a creek. We removed our skis and jumped across the rushing water in the creek. Steve and I were now scared and angry, we yelled at Harris as we put our skis back on. The sun was setting as we managed to ski to a road, then we walked back to our condo to meet our Dad. Harris made us promise not to tell of our afternoon exploits.

I began skiing afterschool with my high school friends. Our local ski area, Hogadon, was just a few hairpin turns and snowy, steep hills from my house. My best friend would drive us in her gold Chevy Corvair, without snow tires. She was my hero, she was an amazing driver and skier. We were in our Bohemian phase and eschewed ski pants, we wore Levi’s . My hair in long braids covered by a hat knit by my Mom. We’d ski until sunset and drive down the mountain with ice crusted wool socks and pants. We felt alive and free.

I continued to ski every chance I got. While in college at The University of Wyoming, I skied the Snowy Range which is in the Medicine Bow National Forest. The base elevation of the ski area is almost 9,000 feet. We were spoiled with the almost daily snowfall which afforded glorious powdered snow.

My brothers and I skied together every chance we got, in Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado. Skiing was second nature to us.

Nothing beats the outstanding beauty of the mountains. Taking in those panoramic views and breathing the fresh mountain air is rejuvenating for the mind and soul. Clear blue skies also known as “bluebird” days in the world of winter getaways are every skier’s dream. Research has shown that Vitamin D, which is produced from sun rays plays an important role in boosting mood and warding off depression. I definitely had some teenage angst, but skiing had such a positive effect on the quality of my life. If you doubt this, just walk into any ski lodge and observe all the happy, rosy-cheeked faces. Skiing is more than a sport, being active in a beautiful outdoor environment can’t be topped.

Playing the Farmer in the Dell is one of my fondest memories of nursery school. Eating graham crackers on a brown paper towel and drinking milk out of a tiny Dixie cup were the highlight of my first school experience at age four. My class met three mornings a week in the basement of my family’s church. I found the whole experience to be very magical.

I spent every Sunday morning in the Episcopal church. There was a child size Nave with small pews and kneelers where the Priest would hold the children’s service. We would then be dismissed to our various age related Sunday School classes. The Sunday School Advent curriculum at Christmas was always fun and crafty.

The first Sunday in Advent included making an Advent wreath in which to place four candles. The Sunday School candles were made out of toilet paper tubes. The four candles represent the four Sundays of Advent and they respectively symbolize hope, peace, joy, and love. In some parishes, people will add a fifth candle to represent the birth of Jesus Christ; this candle is typically white and larger than the other candles and is placed in the center of the wreath.

The Celtic Advent calendar begins November 15 and extends through the feast of Epiphany. In the 6th century, the Celtic Christians celebrated Advent during the forty days before Christmas. As a mirror to the period of Lent before Easter.

In the Christian liturgical year, Advent is a time of waiting and preparation for the birth of Jesus. Las Posadas, which means “The Inns” is a traditional Advent/Christmas celebration in Latin America, particularly Mexico. Las Posadas dates back more than four hundred years to Spain when Catholic priests found they could best teach many of the biblical stories by using drama. Las Posadas traditionally is celebrated for nine nights from December 16 to December 24, culminating in the Christmas Eve worship service. It is designed to reenact the story of Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem and search for lodging. Las Posadas invites one to imagine the experiences of individuals seeking asylum or refugee status.

Christ was born into a weary world. King Herod ruled the land with a legacy of ruthlessness. The Romans treated the people of Israel with contempt, imposing harsh taxes and land seizures that forced many into subsistence farming. Poverty and destitution were pervasive. There might be some parallels to our current world situation.

How does a weary world rejoice? With Advent beginning on December 3, we are reminded to step back from the busyness of our days, into a place of calm and reflection. We acknowledge our weariness, we find joy in connection, we allow ourselves to be amazed, we sing stories of hope, and we comfort ourselves with the rituals of the season.

Christmas was always enchanting in my Wyoming childhood, the layer of freshly fallen snow added to the magic. The children’s church service on Christmas Eve was very exciting. The smallest children were dressed as angels, with tinsel halos and paper wings, the older children were dressed as Mary, Joseph and the three Wise men in the Nativity play. At the end of the service children would carry Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus to the crèche at the chancel area near the altar. The congregation would sing Oh Holy Night and Joy to the World. The choir would depart down the center aisle singing Silent Night and the church bells would ring, signaling the end of the service.

My family would then return home to a beautifully laid table with a Christmas Cracker at each place. Adding to the magic, wearing our colorful paper crowns, we’d eat our dinner of Yorkshire pudding and a standing rib roast by candlelight. After dinner, we would open all of our presents, which usually included a new winter coat, a special book, and pajamas. My Mom would play the piano and we would sing Christmas carols before bed. We’d check the sky several times in search of Santa’s sleigh, the moon always shining bright.

Santa brought the most wonderful toys on Christmas Day, carefully placed near the tree with our hand knit, filled stockings. We’d always receive exactly what we asked for and then some, one year there was a life size log cabin in the living room, another year, Santa had poured an ice skating rink on our patio. My wonderful parents acted surprised and delighted at each of our gifts from Santa.

The Advent season is an invitation for us all to choose to set aside the fear and uncertainty that has defined 2023. It’s a chance to take the focus off the hustle of the Christmas season, have hope, and live in love and peace.

December’s name has its origins from the Latin name decem, meaning ten, because it was originally the tenth month in the Roman calendar.

December on the whole is almost completely overwhelmed by different holiday customs and traditions, with little focus on anything else. There are many different religious holidays throughout December. The first week of Advent begins on Sunday, December 3, and December 7 marks the beginning of Hanukkah, with its eight day Festival of Lights. December 8 is Bodhi Day in the Buddhist calendar, celebrating Buddha’s enlightenment.

St. Lucia Day falls on December 13 which has also long been associated with festivals of light. A woman named Lucia, which means light, was born to a noble and prosperous family. Lucia’s father died when she was young and she was raised by her mother in the Christian tradition. Lucia’s mother became ill and Lucia promised God that if her mother was healed, she vowed to remain unmarried and devote her life to God. Lucia’s mother was healed. Lucia convinced her mother to give her inheritance, which would have been her dowry, to the poor. Lucia’s suitor was furious, not only had he lost beautiful Lucia, but her generous dowry as well. The suitor reported Lucia to the government as being a witch and helping the Christians. Lucia was called before a judge, and was killed because she refused to denounce the Christian faith. Lucia was one of the earliest Christian martyrs, St. Lucia was killed by the Romans in 304 CE. According to Swedish legend, after Lucia’s death a ship carrying a maiden “clothed in white and crowned with light” appeared during great famine. St. Lucia distributed food and clothing to the needy, thus endearing herself to the Swedish people. In Sweden, Lucia symbolizes the end of the long winter nights and the return of light to the world.

December 28 has been considered to be the unluckiest day of the Christian calendar for thousands of years. At one time, the day known as The Feast of the Holy Innocents was considered cursed. The origins of this superstition lie in the story of Jesus Christ. It was on this day that King Herod ordered that all baby boys be put to death in an attempt to kill Jesus Christ. Until the seventeenth century, it was believed that ritually beating a child with a stick on December 28, brought the beater good luck and reminded the child of both King Herod’s viciousness and the suffering of Jesus. Catholics still observe December 28 with prayers and readings referencing King Herod’s slaughter of babies.

There are four birth stones for the month of December, all four are blue in color. Blue gem stones are considered very spiritual as they represent both the color of the heavens and life-giving water. Blue stones in general are thought to provide vitality both physically and emotionally. Turquoise is the traditional birth stone of December. Turquoise is believed to symbolize prosperity, love, and good fortune. Blue Zircon is thought to ward off evil spirits, aid sleep, and enhance the wearer’s intuition. It also possesses a protective aura. Tanzanite is a transformative gemstone that facilitates inner calm and stimulates psychic abilities. Blue topaz is believed to help relieve stress, soothe sore throats, and body aches and pains.

On December 30, 1803, the United States essentially doubled in size when it formally took control of Louisiana. The U.S. acquired the territory of Louisiana, some 885,000 square miles from France through the Louisiana Purchase costing the U.S. government 15 million dollars.

December’s flower is the Narcissus. The fragrant narcissus usually blooms in spring, the paperwhite species blooms in winter. Narcissus means hope and joy.

Those born in December, the final fire sign of the zodiac, Sagittarius are unlike any other sign, they are totally unique. Sagittarians are faithful, intelligent, forceful, and sympathetic. They are one-of-a-kind, gifted, and wise beyond their years. Freedom is one of the most obvious attributes of a Sagittarius. More than any other sign, a Sagittarius values independence and the ability to do what they want, when they want, above all else. Those born under the sign of Sagittarius are among the most imaginative people on the globe. They are known for their emotional intelligence which helps them connect with others. Sagittarius’ ruling planet is Jupiter , the planet of abundance. Jupiter is all about excess, it expands anything it touches. Sagittarius are natural leaders, they are fun, playful, and extremely philosophical.

For millennia, Full Moons have wielded a magnetic charm that has seized human hearts and minds. Across diverse cultures and eras, this consistent monthly event has been the inspiration behind innumerable myths, tales, and traditions. December’s full Moon on Tuesday, December 26 is called the Cold Moon, a Mohawk name that conveys the frigid conditions this time of year. The moon will appear high and full on Christmas Day. It is the first full Moon after the solstice and it will be above the horizon for longer than most full Moons.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband , Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

It was my first sleepover in sixth grade and I had an epiphany, my family’s diet wasn’t normal, we ate a lot of mushrooms and olives. Spaghetti was served for dinner by my friend, Karen’s, mom. It was a simple red sauce and spaghetti noodles, no chunks of tomato, no olives, onions, or mushrooms. There wasn’t any garlic bread or salad… and I loved it.

At Karen’s house I came to learn the joy of Campbell’s tomato soup, powdered chicken noodle soup, and Kraft macaroni and cheese. I felt as if I had finally come home, I didn’t have to carefully maneuver my fork through the battlefield of veggies in the food like at my house. I delighted in the bland, season-less dishes, not a bay leaf, sprig of rosemary, or clove of garlic in sight.

Eventually I came to appreciate my Dad’s love of cooking everything from scratch, especially the vegetables. For Christmas when I was fifteen, I asked for a copy of Julia Child’s Joy of Cooking. My Dad and I made omelets and Coq au Vin using Julia’s recipes. Some of my happiest memories are the times spent with my Dad in the kitchen, he was in his element. His attention to aesthetics was incomparable, he would deftly place a rosemary sprig on top of a fish filet being poached.

The kitchen was his domain, rows of herbs in bottles on the wall, copper pans hanging over the stove, drawers full of knives, slotted spoons, and whisks. Our kitchen on the weekend always smelled of bacon, nutmeg, and cinnamon in the morning and sautéed onions and garlic with rosemary and sage in the afternoon. Without knowing, my Dad cooked his post traumatic stress from World War Two away, standing over pans of sautéed herbs was his mood enhancer. Studies have shown that incorporating herbs into your diet is a simple way to boost your mood and support your mental health.

Rosemary has quite an interesting and varied history; from witches and fairies to weddings and burials – this herb is truly a story full of folklore. Many of the historical references and legends surrounding rosemary have grown vague with time.

Rosemary enhances spiritual connection and intuition. It also signifies love and remembrance. According to data gathered by PubMed, rosemary has positive effects on mood, learning, memory, pain, anxiety, and sleep. Greek scholars were known to twine rosemary in their hair when studying for exams in the hope of aiding their memories. In Spain, rosemary was used as protection against witchcraft and menaces on the road. One legend says that the rosemary plant can grow to six feet in thirty three years, the height and life of Jesus Christ.

Rosemary was as popular a Christmas plant as mistletoe and holly until the twentieth century. It’s making a big comeback this year for the holidays, you will find rosemary topiaries and wreaths at garden centers. The attractive foliage makes rosemary a wonderful holiday plant to give and grow. Folklore says that if you smell rosemary on Christmas Eve, you’ll have good luck in the coming year.

Mushrooms hold a prominent place in my culinary life. Cream of mushroom soup, spinach-mushroom soufflé, mushroom gravy, and sour cream-mushroom casserole were in my childhood weekly dinner rotation along with mushrooms in pastas and curries. In my vegetarian life, Lion’s Mane mushrooms have replaced steak, marinated and roasted to its “meaty’ perfection, served with potatoes and asparagus.

In ancient Egypt, mushrooms were a delicacy reserved for the highest royalty. They were often associated with immortality and buried with the pharaoh upon death to support his reign in the afterlife. Mushrooms have a long and fascinating history in folklore and mythology. Often seen as mysterious due to their magical overnight growth, mushrooms play significant roles in the stories and beliefs of various cultures worldwide.

Mushrooms are a common decoration at Christmas time because that is the time of the year that they are foraged in the wild. Known in German as the gluckspilz ( which literally means “lucky mushroom”), the red and white speckled fungi grow deep in the forest. This specific mushroom can only grow beneath certain types of trees, which happen to be those we generally think of as Christmas trees. Besides being found at the base of pine trees, this mushroom is the favorite food of reindeer. Reindeer herders use the mushrooms as treats to keep the herd together and avoid losing any strays.

Originally, the figure of Santa Claus came from Nordic countries. In this region, Arctic shamans doled out psychedelic mushrooms as part of their solstice celebrations. These shamans dressed in red wool clothing with white flecks of fur, similar to Amanita mushrooms. People enjoyed a magical experience and communed with nature on the night of the solstice. Just like Santa enters homes through the chimney, Arctic shamans entered snow-blocked homes through an opening in the roof.

Nordic shamans had a deep connection with reindeer, they were recognized as the spirit animals for the shamans. Under the influence of magic mushrooms, it’s easy to see how someone could hallucinate flying reindeer beneath a beautiful night sky in December.

Chinese medicine has long prized medicinal mushrooms like reishi for their ability to boost immune function. A USDA study in 2021 looked at common white button mushrooms, which were shown to also enhance the activity of critical cells in the body’s immune system. If there’s a multi-purpose medicine cupboard substance on this planet, it may be the mighty mushroom. The benefits of mushrooms read like a checklist for optimal health from boosting immunity to reducing stress.

There are so many varieties of mushrooms to choose from, all with different textures and profiles. Try a few and test out your culinary skills to reap the numerous benefits of these powerful nutrient sources.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband , Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

Azaleas, Boston ferns, and coleus are house plants that thrive in the bright winter sun in Wyoming. Every table top and bookshelf in my college apartment had a plant sitting on it. I had several coleus and philodendron as they were easily propagated. I loved caring for my plants and I enjoyed sitting next to them while reading. What I didn’t know then was the health benefit of having plants in my living spaces.

According to The Farmer’s Almanac; not only do indoor plants make for beautiful home decor, they may also boost your health and wellbeing. Research suggested that we spend 85% of our lives indoors and houseplants are an easy way to bring nature into your home.

Plants replace carbon dioxide with fresh oxygen. According to a NASA study, houseplants can improve air quality by removing cancer-causing chemicals like formaldehyde and benzene from the air.

A couple of weeks ago as the overnight as temperatures started to drop, I brought the plants on my deck into my house. Living in our bedroom year round, we have a philodendron, a Christmas cactus, a money plant, a snake plant, and a spider plant. I added a hibiscus and a banana plant and my husband commented that he feels like his sleep has improved.

One of the greatest architects of all time, Frank Lloyd Wright, said: “Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.” He translated this philosophy into structures in harmony with humanity and its environment, something he called “organic architecture.”

Humans are hard wired to respond positively to nature; the crackling sound of burning logs in the fire, the smell of fresh rain on the soil, the color green, and being in proximity to animals.

This principle of organic and nature-inspired design grew slowly into a movement, and biophilic design was born. Biophilic design is a human centric approach to interior and building design that focuses on the human connection to the natural world. Biophilic design comes from an intuitive knowing that we are not separate from nature and when we put ourselves in spaces devoid of nature, we don’t feel well. Biophilic design promotes well-being by incorporating elements that establish a relationship between nature and human biology. This includes using natural materials, greenery, an abundance of natural light, and making room for natural ventilation.

Incorporating elements of nature in our home and work environments have been demonstrated through research to reduce stress, blood pressure levels and heart rates, while increasing productivity, creativity, and self reported rates of well-being. Our connection to plants is so strong that sometimes it takes only a few minutes of being in their presence to feel better. In one experiment, participants who spent even five to ten minutes in a room with a few houseplants felt happier.

College students in one study who spent a few minutes repotting and transplanting an indoor plant reported feeling a lot less stressed at the end of the task compared with peers engaged in computer-based activity. Houseplants and nature can help us feel recharged and grounded. In an indoor space, having any type of greens, including photographs of plants have a positive effect on our mood.

The catalysts influencing the adoption of Biophilic design are; the COVID pandemic, climate change, and focus on mental health. Biophilic design or green infrastructure can reduce CO2 emissions, boost the biodiversity of plants, and regulate the temperature of buildings. Sunlight is healthy and Biophilic design emphasizes light and space. Humans are genetically predisposed to be attracted to nature because of a deep, primordial connection.

Collecting and caring for houseplants boomed in popularity during the pandemic, especially among younger adults who don’t have abundant outdoor space. Vibrant communities blossomed on social media, like the #PlantTok corner of TikTok, uniting plant parents and making it easy to swap tips (and mail each other cuttings).

When you grow plants indoors you are connecting to nature no matter what the season and you will reap the positive psychological benefits that come with it. The more plants that we grow, the more oxygen we will have and the more carbon dioxide will be absorbed, combatting the effects of climate change. Nothing can replace the natural living beauty that indoor plants provide.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband , Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

It was after lunch on Halloween in Mrs. Schweda’s second grade class. Everyone was at their desk in costume, everyone except my best friend, Andrea, she had gotten hives from her powdered wig. I was The Cat in the Hat. My Mom had made my costume, she bought a black sweatshirt and added a tail, ears, and a red and white stove pipe hat. I wore black pants and white gloves. With black greasepaint, my Mom had drawn whiskers and a button nose on my face. I loved my costume until I saw Andrea. Andrea was Marie Antoinette, her wig and face were powdered, she had the tiniest touch of red lipstick on her mouth and rouge high on her cheekbones. Her dress was a pastel blue with a bustle, lace neckline, and puffy, lace sleeves. She wore dainty black shoes in her feet. Andrea was a vision, I felt very cartoonish walking next to her to school. Andrea stopped abruptly a block from her house, she was breathing hard and had huge red splotches on her face and neck. We quickly turned around and ran back to her house. At the front door, her mother tore off Andrea’s wig and dragged her into the bathroom to wash the powder off. I was sent to school on my own.

Mrs. Schweda pretended not to know who we all were. Somehow, we had became mysterious strangers after going home for lunch, it was so exciting. Mrs. Schweda noticed that “someone” was absent, I raised my hand to tell of Andrea’s plight and in doing so, I revealed my true self to Mrs. Schweda. I was embarrassed and mad at myself for making such a dumb mistake. The costume parade buoyed my spirits, I was the only Cat in the Hat in the whole school.

My mother had sewn all our of Halloween costumes for us every year. My sister was in sixth grade, she was an artist’s interpretation of Cinderella. Half of her dress was dirty and torn, the other half was a beautiful white gown, with sequined trim. She carried a broom in one hand and a glass slipper in the other. My older brother was Paul Revere. His costume consisted of a white shirt, a waist coat, a suit coat, and breeches. The gold buttons on the suit coat lapels were my from my Dad’s Navy jacket. My younger brother was a New York Yankees baseball player.

My second grade class was obsessed with books, especially; The Cat in the Hat. We each wrote a fan letter to Dr. Seuss using our best penmanship, describing our favorite passage in the book. Mrs. Schweda put our letters in a Manila envelope and mailed them to Dr. Seuss. One morning, just before Halloween, Mrs. Schweda stood in front of the class with an envelope in her hand. We had received a handwritten reply from Dr. Suess. Dr. Suess thanked everyone for their letters and went on to compliment our handwriting and letter content. There were tiny colored drawings in the margins of the letter of Horton and The Cat in the Hat. Dr. Suess wrote that it was in second grade that he discovered his love of drawing. Mrs. Schweda framed the letter, it held a prominent place on the wall in the front of our classroom. Wherever that letter is today, I’m sure that it’s worth a fortune.

In May 1954, Life Magazine published an article about illiteracy in children in America. The report concluded that children weren’t learning to read because books were boring and outdated. William Spaulding, chairman of the education division of Houghton Mifflin compiled a list of 348 words that he felt were important for first-graders to recognize. He asked Theodore Geisel (Dr. Seuss) to cut the list to 250 words and write a book using only those words. Spaulding challenged Geisel to “bring back a book that children can’t put down.” Nine months later, Geisel completed The Cat in the Hat, using 236 of the words given to him. It retained all of the imaginative power of his earlier works but, because of its simplified vocabulary, it could be read by beginning readers.

The Cat in the Hat was one of the first books that I bought for my eldest child. He loved the book from a very young age, I quickly began to dread reading it. My youngest became obsessed with Marc Brown’s, Arthur books in second grade. She happily sent in her membership application and fee to Arthur’s book club. She waited months for the letter confirming her membership but it never arrived. Unlike, my story about Dr. Suess’s letter, Marc Brown disappointed my seven year old. She never read another Arthur book after that.

My Mom loved Halloween and continued the tradition of hand made costumes with my children. Princesses, Little Orphan Annie, clowns, Roger Rabbit, a gypsy, and witches, were a few that she carefully sewed. Not one of my children asked to be The Cat in the Hat.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not. —Dr. Suess

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner that was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband , Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

Charlotte Hayley, whose daughter and sister had battled breast cancer, introduced the concept of a peach-colored breast cancer awareness ribbon. Peach was Charlotte Hayley’s favorite color. In the early 1990’s, the sixty eight year old Haley began making peach ribbons by hand at home in SimI Valley, California. She distributed thousands of ribbons at supermarkets with cards that read: “The National Cancer Institute budget is $1.8 billion, only 5 percent goes for cancer prevention. Help us wake up our legislators and America by wearing this ribbon.” Charlotte wanted better funding for research, and to promote self-exams and testing.

As the word spread, executives from Estee Lauder and Self magazine asked Haley for permission to use her ribbon. Haley refused saying the companies were too commercial. Self magazine really wanted to have her peach ribbon. Lawyers were consulted and Self was advised to choose another color. It chose pink, a color that focus groups say is comforting and healing—a far cry from what breast cancer really is. Soon, Haley’s grassroots peach ribbon was history, and her original idea became the pink ribbon that has come to be known as the worldwide symbol for breast cancer.

Kathy, my neighbor, introduced herself to me as the movers were unpacking my furniture upon my arrival in Honolulu in 1979. She and I quickly became close friends, we would swim at the pool then drink gin and tonics at the Pearl Harbor Naval Officers Club at Happy Hour on Fridays. Kathy found a lump, had a biopsy, and was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1980. Kathy had a difficult time bouncing back from her double mastectomy, she rarely left her house. We would drink gin and tonics on Fridays at her house as Kathy was too weak to swim. The last time I saw Kathy, I brought chocolate cake. We sat on her lanai and she had two bites of cake and several sips of her drink. Kathy hadn’t eaten in a week as she was suffering with ascites (painful swelling of the belly, due to end stage cancer). Kathy was thirty years old.

Before the Susan G. Komen “pink washing controversy” I ran in a Race for the Cure for my friend, Kathy. It was my first with my running group. My youngest was in preschool three mornings a week and a fellow Navy wife suggested we join an organized running group. The group met at the base of Diamond head every Wednesday morning to run/walk the almost two mile round trip. The Diamond Head ascent is a combination of dirt paths, steep stairs (ninety nine stairs close to the top), switchbacks, a lighted tunnel, and World War Two bunkers. Reaching the summit of Diamond Head was the gift of a three hundred sixty degree postcard view of Oahu, Waikiki, and passing humpback whales. The descent was the most challenging part of the work-out.

It was pitch black outside the morning of The Susan G. Komen race. I watched with interest as my fellow runners were slathering Vaseline on their legs, underarms, and all over their feet. I had “carbo loaded” at the previous night’s spaghetti dinner but had missed the Vaseline part of pre-race requirements. The race was uneventful and fun except that my running partner and I were so non-competitive that a group of elderly race-walkers crossed the finish line before us. Upon removing my shoes at the end of the race, I understood the importance of the Vaseline, I had blisters on my heels and toes. I kept my Race for the Cure t-shirt all these years as a memento of my first race and my eldest daughter wears it now and then.

My running partner and I continued to run in races for a good cause/fund raisers. We eventually moved on to bi-athalons; open water swimming at Waikiki then running a 5K. My first half marathon was a challenge, the course was a gorgeous run through the hills of the waterfront town and golf course of Hawaii Kai. A group of tiny Japanese women who were running behind us the entire race, picked up their pace and crossed the finish line ahead of us. After the race, we treated ourselves to a relaxing afternoon of swimming and “plate lunch” (Huli Huli Chicken, two scoops of white rice, and a scoop of macaroni salad) at the food truck on Sandy Beach.

Upon moving to Maryland, I began attending annual walks for Cancer Awareness. My first was held at Cambridge South Dorchester High School. We walked for hours through that October evening on a track lined with luminarias honoring loved ones with cancer. Due to the COVID -19 pandemic, many annual walks have been virtual. This year there are three “Walks for Wellness” in St. Michaels, Denton, and Easton this month sponsored by the YMCA of the Chesapeake.

In 2008, a friend and I joined a knitting group and began knitting soft, pink hats for Breast Cancer patients. That friend was diagnosed with colon cancer a month after joining the knitting group so I began knitting hats for my darling friend as she had lost her hair to chemotherapy. She died quietly in Hospice care, a week before Thanksgiving, a year after being diagnosed.

I have since had three friends diagnosed with breast cancer who never made it to remission. Stage Four Lung cancer was another dear friend’s diagnosis, she was in her fifties and died within months.

It was October of 2021 that Susan, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. My husband and I were in total shock as Susan was the healthiest person we knew, she was thin, exercised daily, abstained from alcohol, and was a vegetarian. Susan debated about going through the treatment with its long list of side effects. At the strong urging of her oncologist, Susan chose chemotherapy and her battle was a brutal one that involved a colostomy bag and eight months of debilitating infusions. Her beautiful long hair fell out in huge clumps, her diet was restrictive, and she suffered from foot neuropathy. A month after the last chemo treatment, Susan had her colostomy bag removed only to learn that the surgeon had found another tiny spot of cancer on her colon.

After two months of chemotherapy for the colon cancer, Susan’s health began to decline and she was hospitalized. Susan would have good days when she spoke of going home and bad days of excruciating pain. It wasn’t until Susan agreed to Hospice Care that my husband and I learned how serious Susan’s cancer diagnosis had really been. Susan died on June 10, 2023 after an almost two year battle with cancer.

Every Monday I would text my most recent story to my mother in law, Susan, she would send me a heart emoji to let me know that she had read my story. Once or twice, Susan commented on my story and I felt so honored. I really miss Susan and those heart emoji’s.

It’s been forty three years since my friend, Kathy died of breast cancer and close friends continue to be diagnosed. I was so naive the day I ran my first “Race for the Cure,“ I thought my getting hundreds of dollars in donations and running the race would help end breast cancer. According to Web MD, cancer cells can move to nearby tissue, lymph nodes, or the bloodstream before surgery. These weakened cancer cells can remain in your body after treatment. They start to grow and multiply again.

Web MD suggests eating a diet filled with cancer fighting foods such as green veggies, beans, and nuts. Get outside and take your Vitamin D, as a Harvard study reports that patients who took vitamin D had a 56% five year cancer survival rate. Patients with low vitamin D intake had only a 23% survival rate.