Spiritually, winter is often described as a sacred pause, a time for deep inner reflection, rest, and renewal. It is the season that invites us to slow down, shed what no longer serves us, and quietly build inner strength beneath the surface. But for many of us, winter has never felt like an invitation. It has felt like an obligation.

I grew up in Wyoming, where winter stretches on for eight months of the year. There was no gentle easing into stillness; only long, cold days that demanded resilience. When winter is constant, it ceases to be symbolic. You don’t rest when winter is your default; you celebrate it. You keep moving because stopping isn’t an option, there are too many trails to ski.

Later, as a family running a restaurant, winter carried a different kind of threat. Cold months and snowy days could mean empty tables, tight margins, and constant worry. Winter wasn’t a time to reflect, it was a time to hustle harder, to compensate for what the season might take away. Rest felt irresponsible. Slowing down felt dangerous.

So the spiritual narrative of winter as a season of introspection and renewal felt abstract at best, irrelevant at worst. It belonged to people whose lives allowed long pauses, whose winters were measured in weeks, not survival.

And yet, something has shifted.

Recently, I have found myself slowing down almost without effort. I’m reflecting, noticing, celebrating the cold rather than resisting it. I leisurely walk my dog and look up at the sky, checking for snow, not with dread, but with anticipation. Snow no longer feels like a burden; it feels like permission. It softens the world. It quiets the noise. It creates a landscape where nothing is expected to rush.

Inside, my kitchen tells the same story. I’m cooking pot roasts, chili, soups, and chicken pot pies, meals that simmer slowly and nourish deeply. These are foods meant to warm you from the inside out, the kind that “stick to your bones.” They speak of abundance rather than scarcity, of care rather than efficiency. Cooking this way feels like an offering to my family, to the season, to the idea that warmth can be shared.

My mornings are quieter now. I knit hats and mittens, I write in my journal and practice yoga. I paint tiny vignettes, small enough to be completed without pressure, intimate enough to feel personal. These are not acts of productivity; they are acts of presence. They don’t demand urgency or perfection. My reward is in the process.

Even my reading has turned inward. I’m drawn to books about women who practice herbal medicine; women who understand cycles, patience, and the intelligence of the natural world. Herbalism requires listening: to plants, to seasons, to the body’s subtle cues. It feels aligned with this moment in my life, as if I’m learning a language I studied but was never given time to practice before.

What I’m realizing is that I didn’t miss winter’s wisdom, I was simply never allowed access to it. For years, winter asked too much of me to give anything back. Now, for the first time, I am experiencing winter as it is meant to be: not a test of endurance, but a time for rest and self-care.

Tuesday as I begin to pack away the Christmas decorations, I plan to replace the green and red garlands with softer wool garlands and candles, textures meant to hold warmth. I’m not saying goodbye to the holidays, I’m settling into winter coziness.

This slowing down doesn’t feel indulgent. It feels corrective. It feels like reclaiming a season that once belonged to survival and allowing it to become something softer, something truer. Winter is no longer something to get through. It is something to inhabit, to honor, to listen to, to learn from.

And perhaps that is the deepest renewal of all: discovering that rest is not something we earn after hardship, but something we are finally safe enough to receive.

While sitting in the surgery waiting room at Johns Hopkins Hospital last week, I heard live piano music drifting up from the Hospital’s main entrance. The tunes softened the sharp edges of my worries and carried me back to the surprise gift of piano music of earlier days; Christmas shopping at Nordstrom and lingering at happy hour in the Pentagon City Ritz Hotel bar, moments when life felt carefree and full of hope.

Music has always been a steady presence in our home, the constant companion to our everyday lives. It plays while we cook and clean, filling the spaces between tasks. Sundays belong to Chet Baker and The Brothers Cazimero. Painting a room calls for UB40, The Specials, Shinehead, and Los Lobos. Family get togethers belong to Dolly, Gordon Lightfoot, Lionel Ritchie, and Vivaldi. Christmas carols begin their gentle rotation the day after Thanksgiving, as reliably as the shortening days. 

Every year a random song resonates with me in a very emotional way. This year, the Christmas song that found me was Alan Jackson’s “Let It Be Christmas.”  It doesn’t ask for perfection or abundance. It asks for peace, for compassion, for the simple grace of people being kind to one another. In a season that has felt heavy and unpredictable, those words land differently, less like a song and more like a prayer. 

My husband’s favorite Christmas song is the iconic duet by David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing, “The Little Drummer Boy.” I found an amazing version of that duet performed by Will Farrell as David Bowie and John C. Riley as Bing Crosby that’s worth checking out. 

My husband reaches for music to ease the medical challenges of healing. He carefully chooses the perfect music for the multiple claustrophobic MRI’s, blood draws, and painful injections. He’s become known and liked by the staff for his music choices. Matt’s always been interested in other people’s favorite music/songs. Music plays as he’s transported to a test or procedure, I can hear him coming back to the room afterwards. I’ve noticed that the more painful the moment is likely to be, the louder and fuller the music becomes.

In that waiting room, that pianist playing so beautifully was a gift, an offering of calm in a place shaped by uncertainty. His playing reminded me how music holds memories, stitching together who we were and who we are now. Music, I’ve learned doesn’t erase worry, but it does make room for hope. And sometimes, in a hospital waiting room or a quiet kitchen at home, that is enough.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

From about age seven, I began my lifelong love affair with what I affectionately call my “grandma hobbies.” In our family, handwork wasn’t a quaint pastime, it was the quiet pulse of our daily life, the language spoken by the women who raised me. I come from a lineage of artists, and musicians, women whose hands seemed to know instinctively how to coax beauty out of the ordinary. I was channeling Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little House on the Prairie and the March sisters in Little Women, two of my favorite books.

My grandmother, Ruthie, stood at the head of that line. She was an accomplished seamstress, taught by Catholic nuns in Louisiana. She didn’t need patterns as much as she needed a moment of stillness to imagine what fabric could become. In my parents’ first house, every curtain, fully lined, perfectly pleated, heavy enough to fall just right, was made by her hands. For my sister and me, she created dresses with matching coats, and then, because she believed dolls should never feel left out, duplicate outfits in miniature. One of my last visits with Ruthie was spent shopping for the perfect linen for slipcovers for my living room chairs. Ruthie wore a a brightly colored Pucci dress, apropos for a San Diego afternoon, her days of sewing her own clothes were long past.

My mother inherited Ruthie’s skill but made it more playful. She sewed many of my school clothes; corduroy jumpers with appliqués, pinafores trimmed in rickrack, dresses with smocking and pockets big enough to hide treasures. She stitched doll outfits, holiday centerpieces, embroidered hostess skirts, and decorations for every season. Our sewing room often looked like a stage set preparing for its next scene, drawers and cupboards filled with bolts of fabric, pins, yarn, and half-finished crafts spread out across the sewing table. It never felt messy to me, just full of possibility. On a whim, I could spend a few minutes sewing a comforter or dress for a doll in my dollhouse.

One of my favorite rituals was our Saturday trip to the local yarn and craft shop. Stepping inside felt like crossing a threshold into a world where ordinary materials shimmered with promise. The chairs in the corner filled with women happily chatting while knitting, shelves with skeins of colorful yarn, and racks with seasonal projects in plastic bags, still lingers in my memory. Walls of embroidery floss gleamed like rainbows; shelves overflowed with felt, ribbon, and beads. My mother and I would walk the aisles slowly, choosing kits and materials for the projects that would carry us through autumn and into Christmas. Every purchase felt like tucking away a little packet of joy for later.

Christmas time was our season of true magic. That was when she taught me how to sew sequins and beads onto felt ornaments. The process required patience, knotting the thread just right, sliding on each bead, anchoring it with tiny stitches, repeating the pattern until the piece sparkled like something alive. I loved the feel of it: the softness of the felt, the cold smooth beads, the rhythm of the needle dipping in and out. Sitting beside my mother at the table or in the den in front of the tv, both of us bathed in the golden glow of a nearby lamp, we finished a Twelve Days of Christmas tree skirt. My memories of those evenings still feel cozy and sacred. It wasn’t just crafting, it was communion.

I still have most of those ornaments. Some have lost a bead or two, and a few show the uneven stitches of a child who was more eager than skilled. But when I open the ornament boxes each December, I feel a sharp, sweet tug of recognition. These little creations are time capsules; holding the warmth of the kitchen, the murmur of my mother’s voice, the patient guidance of hands that shaped mine. Hanging them on my Christmas tree today is like stitching the past onto the present.

As I grew older, those “grandma hobbies” became a refuge; something steady and warm that existed outside the noise of adolescent uncertainty. I learned embroidery stitches, cross-stitch patterns, and the thrill of choosing fabric for my own small projects. During my freshman year in college, I turned to crocheting, finding comfort in the rhythm of repetition. Afghans were given to family and friends in their favorite color. Handwork grounded me, gave my hands something meaningful to do, something that tethered me to generations of women I loved. One Christmas, while still in college, I spent weeks sewing a colorful wreath of 3D felt fruit for my Mom, she hung that wreath on her front door every year until she died. I remember the absolute joy on her face when I gave her that wreath, it still fills me with happiness and pride. My mother coined our handwork: “loving hands,” which to us was a double entendre, lovingly made but maybe just a tiny bit rustic, imperfect.

Later, as a teacher, I watched small children’s faces soften as they touched yarn or traced stitching with curious little fingers. I realized then that I wasn’t just recreating a hobby, I was reweaving a tradition. When I threaded a needle for a student or showed them how to tie a simple knot, I could feel my grandmother’s steady patience and my mother’s gentle encouragement moving through me, as if their hands were resting lightly on mine.

Handwork has always been more than the things I’ve made. It is how I have marked seasons, soothed worries, expressed love, and stayed connected to the women who shaped me. My husband and family are the recipients of my knitting, mostly hats and mittens now. Every stitch is a memory.  Every piece, a story. And even now, when I sit down with a new project, there is a familiar quiet that settles around me, a sense of returning home, a meditation.

The older I get, the more I understand that the true beauty of those early lessons had nothing to do with mastering a craft. It was a legacy. It was about learning patience, presence, and tenderness. It was about realizing that handmade things, imperfect though they may be, carry a warmth that store-bought items never can. And it was about discovering, even at seven years old, that some of the most meaningful parts of life are created slowly, stitch by stitch, alongside the people we love.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

Much of my recent writing has been concentrating on the fact that 2025 has been a difficult year for almost everyone. There is a heaviness in the air that feels impossible to escape, in the news, in our communities, and sometimes even in our own homes. I have found myself searching for small pockets of light, tiny reminders that goodness still exists, even when the world feels unsteady and unfamiliar.

I have tried, in earnest, to stay positive. Not in a loud, performative way, but in a quiet, faithful way. I listen to meditations that speak of peace, abundance, and healing. Their steady rhythms feel like a hand on my shoulders, gently reminding me to breathe when my chest feels tight with worry. In those moments, I imagine light covering my body and I allow myself to believe that magic is still possible.

On December 1, I began a 30-day gratitude challenge. At first, it felt like a small discipline; write down three things each day that I am grateful for. But soon, it became a lifeline. I already kept a journal, often pouring my worries, fears, and questions onto the page. Adding gratitude transformed the practice. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave it a companion: hope.

Each day, I search for simple things to hold onto. The candlelight in my house. The sound of Christmas Carols playing in the early morning. A quiet walk with my sweet dog. The comfort of ritual. These small acknowledgments became anchors, keeping me steady when the emotional waters feel rough.

And then something unexpected happened. Life began to respond.

Emails started arriving at just the right time: notes of encouragement, reminders, opportunities. Text messages came through from people who somehow sensed when I needed kindness most. It felt less like coincidence and more like a quiet conversation with the universe, as if the simple act of gratitude had tuned my heart to a gentler frequency.

A couple of days ago, a book was suggested to me by someone I hadn’t spoken to in a while. I nearly dismissed it, life is busy, and distractions are easy. But when I opened it, the words felt written just for me. The message aligned perfectly with the intentions I had been setting each morning, with the goals I had been whispering to myself before sleep. It felt like confirmation that I was walking in the right direction, even if the path still felt uncertain.

Resilience, I have learned, is not about never breaking. It is not about constant bravery or endless strength. It is much quieter than that. It is the decision to keep showing up. To light a candle. To write down three small blessings. To believe in gentle miracles disguised as ordinary moments.

There is still uncertainty in the world. There are still hard days. But now, there is also a soft, growing trust, that gratitude is a bridge back to myself, and that even in the darkest seasons, grace has a way of finding us.

Resilience, after all, is a gift. And sometimes, it arrives wrapped in the simplest of things: a pen, a page, and a grateful heart.

 

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

This year has been an exceptionally challenging one for me and for many of the people I love. In October, I lost a dear friend to cancer, a loss that settled over everything like a deep and unexpected shadow. My husband’s health has been unpredictable, a relentless roller coaster of ups and downs, never quite reaching “stable.” There’s a constant fear lingering beneath the surface: Will he need to go back as an inpatient at Johns Hopkins? That question alone is enough to exhaust a person.

Layered on top of this is the heaviness of the world itself. The news feels overwhelmingly bleak. Stories of unkindness and cruelty seem to appear daily, and I find myself wondering why people choose harshness when life is already so fragile and fleeting. I can’t understand it. I don’t want to understand it.

And now here comes December, a month that has always carried its own emotional weight. It’s the month my father died, many years ago, and that anniversary still stirs something deep inside me. Yet it’s also the season my family has traditionally loved most. We’ve always embraced this time of year for its warmth, traditions, and moments of joy. Holding both love and loss at the same time is its own kind of emotional balancing act.

Still, I find myself continuing to decorate for Christmas quietly, gently. This year, it’s not a weekend whirlwind of garlands and lights. Instead, I’m moving slowly from room to room, spending a moment with each ornament. So many are homemade. Others are souvenirs from our traveling years, tiny, precious memories. Handling each one feels like a small act of grounding, a way of reminding myself that beauty and meaning still exist, even in difficult seasons.

I want to find my way out of this lingering sadness. I want to truly enjoy this season again, not in a big, glittering way, but in a way that feels honest and nourishing. And maybe that’s the path forward: not forcing joy, but letting it return gently, in its own time. Through a candle lit at dusk. A cherished ornament placed on a branch. A memory of my dad held close for a moment. A walk with my dog on a quiet afternoon.

This December, I’m learning that it’s possible to feel heavy and still welcome in small sparks of light. It’s possible to grieve and still decorate the tree. It’s possible to be weary and still choose kindness in a world that feels increasingly unkind.

Maybe that’s what this season will be for me: a quiet, heartfelt balancing of both the sorrow and the sweetness. A reminder that even the heaviest years still offer moments of warmth if we move slowly enough to notice them. Resilience, is a gift, after all, one we don’t recognize until life asks more of us than we ever thought we could give.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

A couple of weeks ago, on a crisp morning walk with my dog, an idea popped into my mind as softly as the season itself. Instead of the usual post-Thanksgiving whirlwind of hauling out bins, untangling lights, and transforming the house in a single weekend, I decided this year would be different. This year, I would let the Christmas season arrive slowly. 

Fall is fading, most of the leaves have fallen. My chickens are peacefully nestled in their coop by 4:30 these days, Winter is getting closer.

There’s a quietness to this in-between time, when the world hasn’t yet frozen, but it’s still dressed in color. The air feels thinner, somehow clearer. The sunlight ends early, prompting us to slow down.

I notice the small outdoor sounds more now: the soft rustle of straw when the hens settle in for the night, the squirrels rushing through bare branches, the distant hush of a season shifting. Even the dusk feels heavier, like it’s wrapping itself around the house a little earlier each evening.

Soon there will be frost on the car windows and woodsmoke in the air, but for now, it’s this quiet anticipation, a pause before winter truly arrives.

It started with a single candle. I lit it in the kitchen one evening, just to chase the early dark, and the tiny flame made the room feel warmer than the radiators ever could. The next night, I added another candle in the living room, then one in the foyer, then the bedroom. I draped fairy lights over a couple of doors and the kitchen sink. Soon, each room had its own small glow, like the house was breathing a little easier, welcoming this Yuletide season, in the quiet hours just before nightfall.

Decorations began appearing the same way, gently, without hurry. I would pull out and open the closest bin. A wreath on the door and then a little ceramic house glowing from within, as if it had a secret to tell. I’ve got a long way to go, leaving the tree for last, letting the anticipation build, savoring the slow unfurling of tradition. The dining room has the last vestiges of fall, pumpkins and colored leaves litter the table, set for a big November birthday party, and lastly; Thanksgiving.

My dog seemed to sense the shift too. She padded from room to room, curling up in front of the fire or wherever the candlelight pooled the warmest. In the soft illumination, the ordinary felt enchanted.

There has been something peaceful about not rushing, about letting the season settle into the house the way snow settles on rooftops, one quiet flake at a time. For the first time in years, I felt like I wasn’t decorating for Christmas; I was welcoming it.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

As a child,  I learned that dinnerware carried its own quiet system of rules. There were the everyday plates: solid, dependable, and then there was the fine bone china, stored in higher cabinets, reserved for holidays, milestones, and evenings when guests filled the house with voices. Of course the fragile  good china required handwashing due to the gold leaf pattern on many pieces. That was part of the ritual. You didn’t rush it. You dried each plate gently, like you were both preserving history and participating in it.

My mother, being an artist, brought her own kind of magic to those cabinets. She fell in love early with a Kentucky potter named Mary Alice Hadley, whose whimsical blue-and-white pieces made their way into every corner of our kitchen. Hadleyware was cheerful and unapologetically folksy; chickens with puffed-out chests, wide-eyed cows, plump pigs, horses mid-trot. Even our dogs had their own Hadley bowls. My mother liked to say that food tastes better when the plate smiles at you. And one of my favorite coffee mugs had the words “All Gone” painted on the bottom, a secret reward for finishing your last sip.

When my mother died, my sister received most of the Hadleyware, the pieces that had soaked up decades of breakfasts and birthdays. I kept several, and I treasure them, but the bulk of the collection, the daily art that defined our family’s meals, lives with her. In my own home, my everyday plates are Portmeirion (the Botanic Garden series) and Emma Bridgewater (Black Toast), sturdy and pretty and perfectly happy to whirl around the dishwasher. They fit the rhythm of my life now: practical, no-nonsense, ready for the next round.

Still, for Sunday dinner and family occasions, I keep the china on its shelf. Not because anyone told me I had to, but because some habits settle deep into the bones. They become part of how you think about care, about value, about the difference between ordinary days and the ones we believe deserve ceremony.

The other night, setting the table for my grandson Homer’s birthday dinner, I paused at the cabinet. My hand hovered over the good china. It would look beautiful on the table, timeless, elegant, a nod to my mother and to all the celebrations she shaped before me. For a moment, I imagined my granddaughter,  Winnie’s face above one of those delicate plates, her excitement about Homer’s birthday dinner magnified by the quiet sophistication of porcelain.

But then reality nudged in. The dishwasher. I pictured the stack afterward, the scrubbing, the towel drying. I imagined one plate slipping in my hands, or a fine rim tapping too hard against the faucet. And so I closed the cabinet door gently and reached for the dishwasher-safe plates. Practicality won, as it so often does.

Only later, after everyone had gone home and the table was cleared, did the question return, not with regret but with curiosity: why? Why had I saved the china yet again? Had I inherited the idea that beauty must be protected, set apart, guarded until the “right moment”? And what, exactly, qualifies as that moment? If a child’s birthday dinner surrounded by family isn’t special enough, then what is?

The truth is, my mother used her Wedgewood or Spode china when hosting a dinner and the Hadleyware for family meals. She loved the Hadleyware so much that she never hesitated to set a whimsical pig or horse in front of a guest. To her, objects were meant to be loved, not preserved like fragile museum pieces. She lived with color and charm and humor right in the middle of ordinary life. And perhaps that’s part of the reason her kitchen felt like the heart of our home, it wasn’t staged for company; it was lived in with joy.

Maybe I’ve spent too long separating the “good” from the rest. Maybe I’ve been waiting for an occasion to justify the risk of a chip or a crack. But when I think back to my childhood table, the clatter of dishes, the soft glow of candlelight, the comfortable chaos, I realize that beauty didn’t come from perfection. It came from use. From meals shared. From hands passing plates across the table. From the everyday made meaningful simply because we gathered.

So now I’m asking myself a new question:

What am I saving these beautiful plates for?

Perhaps the answer is simple.

Perhaps the good china belongs at Tuesday dinners and lazy Sunday breakfasts.

Perhaps it belongs in the dishwasher risk zone, and in the memories we make today.

Perhaps beauty, like joy, is meant to be used up, lived with, passed around.

Maybe the real inheritance is not the plates at all, but the courage to enjoy them.

 

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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. 

November 5th, the Beaver Full Moon. My husband was once again inpatient at Johns Hopkins Hospital. I’ve come to realize that hospitals, much like schools, seem to hum with a strange energy under a full moon. The atmosphere shifts, subtle at first, then undeniable, as if the moonlight itself stirs up restlessness in both patients and staff.

It began in the middle of the night. Despite the hallway lights that were too bright, we were sound asleep. Abruptly, the door was opened by a tech coming in to take vitals. She accidentally bumped my husband’s painfully swollen knee. She didn’t apologize just muttered under her breath, slapped the blood pressure cuff back on its hook, and stormed out. The moment hung in the air like a bad smell, we were in shock at the rudeness of the encounter, wondering what we had done wrong.

Morning didn’t bring much clarity. Doctors drifted in and out, each with a different interpretation of symptoms and next steps. Procedures were mentioned, postponed, reconsidered. I scribbled notes, trying to catch every word, but after five or ten minutes, the doctors checked their phones or watches, ready to move on to the next patient. One doctor made an awkward joke at my husband’s expense, then contradicted the orders from his previous visit.

Later, sitting by the window overlooking the dome, I thought about the Beaver Moon. Traditionally, it marks the time when beavers repair their lodges and prepare for the long winter ahead; gathering, building, fortifying. There’s something deeply comforting in that image: small creatures working quietly and with purpose, getting ready to endure what’s coming.

In many ways, caregiving feels like that, a slow, steady kind of construction. You wake each day and patch what’s frayed, gather what’s needed, and do your best to keep the water from seeping in. Resilience isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s the quiet act of staying, of holding a hand, making a bed, watching the moonlight shift across the wall.

That night, as I watched the Beaver Moon rise over the city skyline, I felt a strange calm settle in. I make a point each month to spend time outside under the full moon, I’ve been doing it since childhood. My mom would celebrate the full moon by taking us outside to “howl” like wolves, even in three feet of snow.  Looking at the moon, for a small moment, the chaos of the day eased as I found a rhythm of deep breaths. I realized that calm doesn’t come all at once; it seeps in slowly, like the tide returning after a storm.

I whispered a small prayer of gratitude, for my husband’s quiet courage and positive attitude, and for the moon itself: steady, luminous, and ancient. A reminder that no matter how uncertain the night, the light always returns.

 

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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’s report card time again, and I find myself smiling when I think about how this tradition has evolved over the years. In most elementary schools, report cards are handed out quarterly, marking the rhythm of the school year. They’ve changed so much since I first began teaching. Instead of the familiar A’s, B’s, and C’s, today’s report cards focus on standards-based feedback. Teachers use codes to communicate how children are progressing on specific skills, academic areas, and learning behaviors. I’ve come to really appreciate this newer, gentler approach, it gives parents and caregivers a deeper look at how their children learn, not just what they know. It helps everyone see the whole child: their strengths, their challenges, and the progress they’re making along the way.

As a grandmother, this time of year feels extra special to me. Both of my elementary aged granddaughters received their report cards last week, and I was curious to hear how they’re doing. Of course, I already know they’re excelling. They both have such bright minds and kind hearts, a combination that makes for wonderful learners. They’re naturally curious and motivated, always asking questions, always wanting to understand why and how. 

I suppose I’m not entirely objective; after all, I had the joy of teaching both girls in preschool and kindergarten. I saw their spark from the very beginning, the eagerness in their eyes when we read a new story, their delight in discovery during science explorations, and their care for others during playtime. Teaching them was one of the greatest privileges of my career and one of the sweetest chapters in my life. Now, watching them grow from those curious kindergartners into confident students fills me with pride and gratitude. Their report cards may list skills and standards, but what shines through most clearly is their love of learning, and that, to me, is the truest measure of success.

I was absolutely delighted to see how much both of my granddaughters enjoy reading. There’s something so heartwarming about children who truly love books, especially in this digital age. Winnie, my third grader, actually asked for books for Christmas this year, quite an achievement considering how much she also loves her tablet! I couldn’t help but smile at that request. It’s a reminder that, no matter how many new technologies come along, there’s still something magical about holding a real book in your hands and getting lost in a story.

This school year has placed a big emphasis on maintaining a strong home routine as well as consistency at school. I find that balance so important; children thrive when there’s rhythm and predictability in their days. It’s been a joy to watch my daughter, Cece, incorporate many of the same routines from her own childhood into her family life. I take it as a wonderful compliment that she values those traditions enough to pass them along to her children.

One of my favorites is the candlelit family dinner with cloth napkins. Even little Homer, who is almost five, is emphatic about the candles being an important part of that special time each evening. There’s something about dimming the lights, lighting a candle, and gathering together that invites calm and connection after a busy day. It’s not about perfection, it’s about presence. 

Another tradition that has carried forward is sharing gratitude each day as a part of the  dinner conversation.  Everyone has transitioned from the hustle and bustle of  school activities to the peace of being home and is ready to share parts of their day. Whether it’s for a person, a moment, or something simple like a favorite treat at lunch, taking a moment to express appreciation brings so much peace and perspective. 

Winnie took her turn in telling about an occurrence in the cafeteria the other day. As a wonderfully dramatic little girl, Winnie, using her hands, demonstrated a Daddy Long Legs climbing down from his web onto her head. She then went on to show the fear of her fellow classmates as she gingerly moved the spider from her hair to a safer spot outside. Winnie knows the benefits of a Daddy Long legs in pest control this time of year with fruit flies, she also loves them and knows that they are harmless.

It warms my heart to know that my grandchildren are growing up surrounded by this rhythm of gratitude, love, and family connection, values that will serve them well all their lives.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who 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.