Last week, my students participated in activities and discussions about safety, at home, in school, and the community. From reviewing how to safely cross the street to understanding what to do in an emergency, the children gained valuable knowledge to help them stay safe and confident in various situations. This program is designed by the Talbot County Health Department and is an important and effective tool for helping children face serious situations.

This year, the program went a step farther than the usual “stranger danger” warnings. A new addition focused on internet safety, including the impact of online games, cellphones, and social media. Students learned about the importance of protecting personal information, recognizing unsafe online behavior, and knowing what to do if something makes them feel uncomfortable.

As part of the safety lesson, students were asked to raise their hands if they know a “trusted person’s” phone number. One child out of twenty six knew that important phone number. Forty years ago, memorizing important phone numbers was a rite of passage and a requirement for kindergarten readiness. I can still recite the phone number from my childhood home, it has stuck with me all these years.

By 1994, my two eldest children had began driving and my husband and I thought having a cell phone would be valuable. It was a Motorola “Brick” flip phone. Making phone calls was its only capability. The phone number that belonged to that original phone was transferred to subsequent phones until just recently and every family member had that number memorized.

There is something so comforting about the memory of landline phones. The familiar ring throughout the house, the long, coiled cord stretched around corners, and the way conversations felt more intentional. If you missed a call there wasn’t any caller ID, just a bit of mystery.

Back then, children were actually taught phone etiquette, as if answering a call was a sacred duty. The polite response went something like, “General residence, this is Jenny speaking,” delivered with all the formality of a receptionist at a law firm. The phone was strictly off-limits during dinner, heaven help the kid who dared to reach for it between bites of meatloaf. If the phone rang after 10:00 p.m., everyone froze. It could only mean one thing: an emergency. No one let it go to voicemail (which didn’t exist yet anyway), you always answered, heart pounding, prepared for anything.

It was an exciting day when our clunky old rotary phones were finally replaced with a sleek, futuristic push-button model. No more spinning that dial like we were cracking a safe just to call Grandma. No more misdialing on the last digit and having to start all over again. The push-button phone felt like something out of Star Trek, you just pressed the numbers and boom, connection! We strutted around like we were living in the space age. It was progress, one satisfying beep at a time.

Years later, we called it progress when we finally ditched our last landline phone. We convinced ourselves that we didn’t need it anymore now that we had a new family mobile plan. Everyone had their own cellphone and the old landline, the kitchen phone, once the heart of our household communication, was unceremoniously unplugged and tossed aside like a relic from another era.

According to CNN Business, In recent years, there’s been a quiet but growing trend of people returning to landline phones, drawn by their reliability and simplicity in a fast-paced digital world. As cell phones become increasingly cluttered with apps, notifications, and constant connectivity, many are seeking the calm and clarity of a dedicated phone line. Landlines offer a kind of peace—no updates, no distractions, just a steady dial tone and the joy of undisturbed conversation. For some, it’s a nostalgic return to the days when phone calls had a sense of presence and intention. For others, especially in rural areas or during emergencies, it’s about practicality, landlines still work when cell towers go down or power cuts out. Whether for nostalgia, security, or the desire to unplug, the humble landline is making a quiet comeback, especially in Gen Z homes who are drawn to landlines for their vintage aesthetic.

There is a certain love for a landline phone, a deep, unspoken affection for its steady presence, its familiar ring, and the way it connected us not just to voices, but to moments, memories, and the comforting rhythm of home.

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. 

In 1979, a group of Iranian militants stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and took fifty two Americans hostage. It happened at a time of major upheaval in Iran after the Shah was overthrown and the new Islamic government took over. The hostages were held for 444 days which was a major source of tension between two countries that were once close allies. Despite efforts by President Jimmy Carter, the hostages were finally released in January 1981, just as Ronald Reagan was being sworn in as President.

The 1979 hostage crisis left a profound mark on me; for the first time, I felt a deep, personal anxiety about the state of the world and began to grasp how global events could ripple into my everyday life.

My father, a World War ll Navy veteran, often remarked in discussions about global affairs that he believed that a Third World country would be the catalyst for World War lll. I was a very young Navy wife with three tiny children, living in Coronado, California whose husband was deployed to the Persian Gulf. The Iranian Revolution, the hostage situation, and the oil crisis required increased U.S. military presence. I carried the weight of everyday life alone, as part of the sisterhood of Naval Officers Wives, we were constantly hoping and praying for the safe return of the men and women aboard the ships of the Seventh Fleet.

The fluctuation of gas prices and availability became (and still are) my barometer for the broader condition of the world. It is a fact that political instability in regions rich in oil resources can lead to concern about the security of oil supplies, triggering price increases. I passed my driving test in 1972 in Wyoming, very aware of the impact of gas prices. Wyoming is a significant oil producing state, ranking as the eighth largest crude oil producer in the United States. Living in an oil boom state felt like being swept up in a wave of prosperity. There was a sense of motion-new jobs and a buzz of opportunity in the air. Gas was cheap, 36 cents per gallon and people felt optimistic about the future. The economy seemed to be thriving and there was a great sense of possibility. It was a time when abundance seemed endless, and the energy of growth touched nearly every part of daily life.

To manage shortages during the gas crisis of 1979, California Governor, Jerry Brown implemented an odd-even rationing plan. Drivers with odd numbered plates could only “fill up” on odd numbered days and even numbered plates on even numbered days. What had once been a quick routine task turned into a lengthy ordeal. Fear hung in the air as we waited in endless lines, uncertain if there would be enough fuel to get through the week, or even the day.

I was in charge of writing the USS Ranger’s Officer’s Wives monthly newsletter. I would get first hand, de-classified information from the Captain’s wife about the movements of the ship and its crew. Learning about the six American diplomats that escaped capture and took refuge in the homes of Canadian Embassy officers made me very grateful for our close neighbors to the North. I was grateful that Canada took a huge risk by hiding the Americans in their homes and then granting Canadian passports to the Americans. The six Americans, posing as a Hollywood movie production crew scouting for a suitable filming location in Tehran, managed to flee Iran without a hitch. While the “Canadian Caper” improved Canada’s relations with the United States, it significantly strained Canada-Iran relations. The Canadian embassy staff were quickly evacuated from Iran, and the embassy was closed in 1980, due to fears of Iranian retaliation.

If history has taught us anything, true friends show up in a time of crisis. They don’t hesitate. They step up because it’s the right thing to do. Canada has been that friend to the United States for decades. Canada was the first country to send disaster relief to the U.S. after Hurricane Katrina and Canadian water planes have flown to California to help put out the wildfires.

Lately, I find myself feeling anxious about the state of the world. It seems like everyday brings new challenges; political unrest, economic uncertainty, and environmental crises. The constant barrage of bad news makes it hard to see a clear path forward. It’s as if the world is teetering on the edge. I am an optimistic person so is my f.e.a.r. (false emotion appearing real) just that, false?

I’ll continue to focus on positive thoughts, avoid the news, read great books, garden, walk my dog, ride my bike along the Choptank River, and increase my daily dose of Ashwagandha.

In a world that often feels overwhelming, filled with stress and uncertainty, finding comfort and stability can be difficult. For me, that comfort comes with four legs, a wagging tail, and unconditional love. My dogs have always been more than just a pet — they are a lifeline, a source of emotional strength, and true companions through life’s ups and downs. The bond I share with my dogs has had a profound impact on my mental health, teaching me valuable lessons about patience, love, and the importance of connection.

Our little French Bull Dog, Fanny is going on sixteen years old, she’s the final member of our “four pack.” We had Chuckie, an English Bulldog, Bogey, a Boston Terrier, Ruthie, a French Bulldog and Fanny. After Ruthie’s death, we talked about bringing a new puppy into our family but we had concerns about the impact on Fanny. Would another dog be a good idea? Time passed and we became comfortable with having just one dog. Then one day last fall, there was a photo on the Dorchester County Animal Control website of a little black dog. This dog “spoke” to me. Without delay, we made an appointment to meet this dog.

The “meet and greet” was as expected, the dog was very excited and nervous. I knew immediately that this little girl was going home with us. She sat in my lap with her head on my chest in the car on the drive home. We learned that she was 3-4 years old and had come from a “hoarder” breeding situation in the D.C. area. Her skin and ears were a mess and she hadn’t been fed properly. Her once floppy ears had been cropped, crudely, with stitches protruding in several spots and she had just weaned a litter of puppies. Every experience for the first few months was new to “Cookie.” Her skin has healed with a wild salmon and sweet potato diet and she loves her healthy blueberry and apple training treats. “Cookie” has become a treasured member of our family, her exuberant personality is a daily source of joy.

One of the most powerful aspects of having a dog is the unconditional love they offer. No matter how hard my day has been or how low I might feel, my dogs greet me with excitement and affection. Their love is pure and without judgment, providing a sense of acceptance that is often hard to find elsewhere. This consistent emotional support creates a feeling of safety and reassurance, knowing that I am never truly alone.

Scientific studies have shown that interacting with dogs can increase levels of oxytocin — the “love hormone” — and reduce cortisol, the stress hormone. Simply petting my dogs or sitting quietly beside them helps to calm my racing thoughts and lower my anxiety. Their steady, calming presence reminds me to breathe, slow down, and be present in the moment.

Perhaps the most profound way my dogs have supported my mental health is through difficult moments. On days when sadness, stress, or loneliness feels overwhelming, my dogs are always there. They sense my mood, offering a gentle nudge or curling up next to me without needing words. This quiet, steady companionship provides a grounding presence, reminding me that I am not alone and that healing takes time.

In a world that often feels chaotic, my dogs have always been my anchor — a constant reminder that love, companionship, and healing can come from the most unexpected places.

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. 

My alarm clock radio was playing “If You Could Read my Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot on the first Monday of daylight savings in 1970. It was April 27, spring in Wyoming. It was eerily dark and quiet, except for the wind, at 5:30, (really 4:30). My English class on Utopias began at 7:00 so I was the first and only one up in my family.

My morning beauty routine consisted of taking out the ten, large orange juice cans that were pinned on my head, brushing my teeth, washing my face, moisturizing, and swiping the mascara wand across my lashes. I parted my hair down the middle and pulled it into a tight pony tail. My outfit had been carefully chosen the night before. The dress code in Casper schools had been amended while I was in junior high, permitting girls to wear pants, jeans even, but I chose my “baby doll” style mini dress with “hot pants” and brightly colored tights. My shiny, chunky heeled boots completed the ensemble.

Leaving the house at 6:30, I felt the full, literal force of the proverb; “it’s always darkest before the dawn.” Without the moon, it was pitch black and freezing as I headed out on my six block walk to school. Thankful for the street lights and porch lights, I tiptoed around patches of newly drifted snow. My boots were made for show, not the work of walking on icy sidewalks. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the lights of my school, this first walk of Daylight Savings was the scariest and most treacherous ever.

“Rainy Days and Mondays,” by Gordon Lightfoot was playing on Pandora when I awoke at 5:15 (really 4:15) on Monday, March 10, 2025. I hadn’t slept a wink, I was anxious about missing my alarm. My husband and dogs were peacefully sleeping, our normal wake up time was an hour away. My chickens were out of sorts, their schedule had been working for six months. It had been light enough in the morning for several weeks to actually see my chickens without a flashlight. On the first Monday (and every day that week) of daylight savings, it was really tricky walking to the back of my garden to feed the girls, I didn’t see them because they were sound asleep.

In a letter to the editor of the Journal de Paris, Benjamin Franklin jokingly proposed that Parisians could save money on candles and oil by waking up earlier in the morning and making use of natural daylight. Daylight savings was fully adopted during World War l to conserve fuel. By setting the clocks forward in spring and back in fall, people can take advantage of longer evening daylight, reducing the need for artificial lighting and saving energy.

The effectiveness of daylight saving has been debated for decades. Modern studies show that energy savings are minimal. Research shows that the change in daily routines may lead to higher energy consumption overall. Additionally, daylight savings time has been linked to negative health effects, such as sleep disruption and increased risk of heart attacks and accidents immediately after the time change. Though it may provide more daylight for evening activities, the overall benefits remain mixed and controversial.

Daylight Savings interrupts our natural circadian rhythm. Sleep deprivation due to losing that hour in spring, leads to difficulty concentrating. Studies also show that morning light exposure decreases the risk of seasonal affective disorder. Lack of sunlight in the morning can lower serotonin and dopamine, affecting mood and mental health.

Daylight savings wreaked havoc with my health this past week by disrupting my sleep and leaving me tired and off-balance for days.

For those concerned about fourteen year old me walking to school alone in the dark, my memory of being scared was only about falling – not being attacked or kidnapped. The only real threat in being out at night or that early in the morning was freezing to death. I don’t remember many of the walks afterward, probably because my parents started driving me to school until the sun rose before six thirty.

In 1970, my Dad, still City Attorney for Casper, Wyoming, had formed a new law firm with a law school friend and fellow veteran, John Dobos. The third partner to join the firm was former prosecuting attorney for Fremont County, Wyoming, Gerry Spence. Gerry Spence became known for winning some very high profile cases. He would later win the Karen Silkwood case, he was a consultant on the OJ Simpson case, and he represented Imelda Marcos in a fraud case.

The first couple of months in his office was uneventful, Dad really enjoyed the camaraderie of having these men as partners. The second month settled in and the cracks in the relationship with Gerry Spence started to appear. On the surface, Gerry seemed like a typical Wyoming native; ruggedly independent, a strong work ethic, love for the outdoors, and deep rooted values. Dad originally approached Gerry about joining his law firm because Dad thought that he and Gerry were like-minded, keeping personal issues “close to the vest.”Gerry seemed to value honesty and handshake deals. Gerry also had a strong sense of patriotism and state pride, all of which were important in my Dad’s estimation.

After the second month, it seemed obvious that Gerry was “a different breed of cat” than my Dad and John Dobos. One Saturday morning my brother and I went with Dad to deliver a brief to Gerry’s house. We were waiting in the car as Dad knocked on the front door. Gerry greeted my Dad wearing nothing but his “birthday suit.” Using his parka, Dad awkwardly attempted to block our view of Gerry. After handing over the document, Dad practically ran back to the car as Gerry stood at the full length, glass door waving. That encounter made for some great cocktail party stories later on.

Gerry eventually made some changes in the weekly partners’ meetings after attending a structured, facilitator led, weekend on “sensitivity training.” He felt that it was important to raise awareness and foster understanding of different perspectives amongst the partners. His goal was to encourage respectful dialogue and promote empathy in order to best serve their clients.

The first meeting began with the three men and their secretaries holding hands, breathing deeply. Next the group moved into a one minute mantra, still breathing. The meeting then progressed normally, until the end when Gerry would give everyone “homework.” The “homework”consisted of a leading personal question to be answered and shared at the next meeting.

My Dad was a member of the generation that espoused keeping your private life to yourself and meeting obstacles head on, so bearing his soul to his colleagues was an uncomfortable ask. Dad was kind, generous, and humble so he acquiesced. After reading my Dad’s diary from his horrific, daily experiences in the Pacific during WW2, I suspect that my Dad suffered from PTSD. I believe that his work as the Chancellor of the Episcopal Church of Wyoming and as a Pro Bono lawyer for the Shoshone Tribe were subconsciously a big part of his mental health regimen. My Dad discovered that lengthy conversations with my Psychiatrist uncle, also a WW2 veteran and “helping others,” were the best coping strategies for him.

For a couple of months, Gerry and his “sensitivity sessions” were the primary topic during my parents’ nightly pre-dinner cocktail hour. Eventually things settled down at the office as my Dad finally saw the value in the “sensitivity sessions,” personally.

Fifty years later, I am in the second year of a monthly “sensitivity” class regarding equity. The class can be challenging at times but it is of the utmost importance now more than ever. As Proverbs 2:9 states: “then you will discern righteousness and justice and equity—every good path.” Equity in the Bible means having compassion for one another. True equity requires more than just acknowledging differences – it demands action, understanding, and a commitment to creating spaces where everyone has the opportunity to thrive. Equity isn’t a destination – it’s an ongoing process that challenges us to see, hear, and uplift every voice.

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. 

“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” has always been one of my favorite books so I was very excited to read, Percival Everett’s book; “James.” Everett brilliantly reimagines “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” from the perspective of Jim, the enslaved man. Jim is described as an intelligent and literate man who strategically adopts “incorrect grammar” to navigate his perilous life, mainly when speaking to white people.

I first read “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” at age twelve in eighth grade. Both of my parents were fans of Mark Twain’s books so the nightly dinner table discussion was centered around passages in the book, mainly the written vernacular and themes of race and morals. I learned the meaning of irony while reading “Huckleberry Finn,” Jim is the most civilized character in the book and he is a slave. The free men in the story mistreat Jim over and over again, all for personal gain. Ironically, it also turns out that the entire time that Jim is a “runaway,” he’s actually been a free man, his owner having given Jim his freedom upon her death.

The same year my English class read “Huckleberry Finn,” we studied the film “Porgy and Bess” in music class. “Porgy and Bess” is considered controversial because, despite being a story about African American life, it was written by white people who have been criticized for perpetuating stereotypes of Black people through its characters and dialect. “Huckleberry Finn” written by Mark Twain, a white man, is accepted by critics as characteristic of the time in America, but those critics also believe that his racially charged language contributes to negative stereotypes.

The dialect of the characters in the movie, “Porgy and Bess,” and the book, “Huckleberry Finn,” was a big part of the lesson in both English and music classes. My naive thirteen year old self wrote a report stating that the characters in the movie should have southern accents because it reflects the way that people actually spoke, and I didn’t see them as exaggerated and offensive. To support my theory, I used my family members who lived in Texas, Georgia, and Louisiana as an example. If everyone spoke in perfect English, it wouldn’t accurately reflect the time period or setting. I believed that the way people spoke was an important part of their identity. I knew that in certain regions in America, people spoke with a heavy southern “drawl.” My parents had read “Br’er Rabbit” to me as a very young child, another example of characters in a book with Southern accents.

“Porgy and Bess” was a collaboration between George Gershwin and author Dubose Heyward, a successful writer from an old South Carolina family. Gershwin insisted that all performances be by all black casts. While the play opened up valuable opportunities for black artists, it was criticized by some as an inappropriate depiction of black culture.

I know that my life has benefited from my public school education, my teachers were “ahead of their time” in that they didn’t hesitate to teach and discuss controversial subjects. I found in my reading of “Huckleberry Finn,” that despite being a slave, Jim is the only character in the book who is portrayed with significant dignity. Jim’s character is moral, good-hearted, and intelligent, which the novel; “James”proves.

Percival Everett felt that it was crucial to change the way Jim speaks in “James,” to challenge the stereotypical portrayal of enslaved people in literature. Everett suggests that enslaved people would often use coded language to communicate amongst themselves while appearing to conform to their oppressors’ expectations when speaking in front of them. By giving Jim a more articulate and sophisticated way of speaking, Purcival Everett directly confronts the racist metaphor of “the ignorant slave.” By allowing Jim to express himself fully, he becomes a complex, intelligent individual, not just a stereotypical character.

Purcival Everett’s, “James” is both a tribute and a critique, he reshapes a beloved classic to reveal deeper truths about race, storytelling, and the enduring struggle for dignity. “James” challenges the myths of American literature by giving voice to an enslaved man, Jim, offering a powerful meditation on race and freedom.

My first job after being a “stay at home” mom for thirteen years, was working for the Dorchester County Health Department. My job title was Health Educator, my college transcripts were heavily weighted in the psychology, biology, sociology, and anthropology subjects so I met the State of Maryland criteria for that position. I attended every training regarding health and grant writing. It turns out that those trainings came in handy for properly running a healthy restaurant.

Years ago, Cece and I were shopping at the Annapolis Mall and stopped at the food court for lunch. I had just completed a blood borne pathogen (infection prevention in the workplace) training earlier that month. I watched the woman who was wearing plastic gloves while making the sandwiches. She paused and “rang up” the customer ahead of us, wearing her gloves. The man gave her cash and some change, which she put in the cash register, still wearing the gloves. At the end of that transaction, she walked back to her sandwich station with the intention of resuming our sandwiches. I quickly said, “excuse me, do you mind switching to a pair of clean gloves, please?” Cece was mortified, the woman was annoyed but did as I had asked. The staff at that restaurant had clearly not had any glove/hand washing classes, the proper procedure is to remove the dirty gloves, wash hands, then put on a new pair. This woman also incorrectly removed her gloves by the fingers not the cuff.

I was shocked to see the state of the kitchen when we bought our restaurant, I knew the rigorous health requirements set by the health department and naively thought that to be in business you must comply. As a family, we had eaten pizza there often. Matt used a shovel to scrape the three inch layer of grease from under the mats on the floor in front of the fryer. Some of the food in the walk-in was rotting in its original can. The ice machine was covered in mold. The dish machine probably dated to the 1960’s, it lacked a sanitation cycle and never reached the required temperature. Needless to say, we gutted the entire place, replacing every fixture and appliance.

Food handling is a huge undertaking and responsibility. We trained our staff using the latest guidelines and bought every food prep tool available to ensure that we achieved all of the rules of food safety. We had a great working relationship with the health department.

General Tanuki’s was a beautiful, creative job for twelve years. It was the hardest job I’ve ever had. We put our heart and soul into every aspect of that business. Coming from California where sushi restaurants were everywhere, we decided to cook the food that we loved and we did that, everyday. Now we mostly eat at home, sometimes cooking some old Tanuki’s favorites. Matt makes Tanuki’s fish taco for “Taco Tuesday” and we have the curry monthly. We make pizza with our grandchildren, they haven’t experienced the “Cuban pizza,” though. Friday is burger night and the French burger with Brie and mushrooms is a favorite.

We miss our wonderful customers, so many regulars became great friends. We miss buying amazing products from our food purveyors. We miss the weekly wine tastings and getting to meet new winemakers. I miss Matt’s delicious margaritas made with fresh, handmade ingredients, the best tasting drink, well deserved at the end of a long shift. I miss the camaraderie of “being in the trenches,” making delicious food and drinks on a busy night with people I enjoyed working with. I miss working with my family, most of all, trusting them, knowing that their hearts were in the best place.

I had an epiphany during one of our health department visits, the inspector and I were talking about the weather. I was lamenting the many cold February days and her response was; “I’m grateful for any weather, I’m a cancer survivor.” I think about that conversation everyday when I’m outside, on cold, hot, and gorgeous days. The double entrendre of “the weather” and its irony is always striking to me. We weather many hardships and happy times throughout our lives, it’s a gift of life. We “weathered” the highs and lows of life as restaurant owners and the weather is fine looking forward.

Grandmacore is a recent trend embracing knitting, crochet, and baking to unplug, de-stress, and enjoy slow living. Homes are often cozy, nostalgic, and whimsical in their style. Grandmacore has become popular because it evokes a feeling of comfort. Generation Z (people born between 1997 and 2012) have found kinship with Grandmacore because it helps them feel safe and believe that adulthood might not be that bad.

Patchwork quilts, chintz wallpaper, novelty teapots, and doilies are now popular items being sold at Target and Walmart. This trend draws inspiration from a grandmother’s cozy and eclectic aesthetic. Laura Ashley is the perfect example of the style, embracing floral patterns and vintage furniture. Grandmacore has been a part of my decorating style for my entire life.

Most of the furniture in my family was inherited and had a story. These stories brought a sense of a life and love of each piece. My maternal grandfather was a great collector of art and antiques, I can still recite the cities where he bought most of the treasures in my home. I grew up knowing the difference between a spider, Federal, or Sheraton table leg. I learned that sconces hung on the wall and candelabra sat on a table. I loved my Mom’s Regency style settees and her Louis XVI arm chair. Mom’s vatrine had cabriole legs and held tiny silver baby rattles and Aztec carved heads. Her eighteenth century burl wood break front displayed many generations of Wedgewood and Coalport china as well as her collection of Demitasse cups, (demitasse cups are perfect for tea parties with grandchildren). My Dad’s dresser was a favorite, it was a “tall-boy”with canon ball feet.

I was horrified when visiting my sister’s house years ago. She had actually gone to a furniture store and had bought most of the contents of her home. The only antique was my family’s marble topped wash stand from Florence, Italy. My great grandmother’s portrait was leaning against a wall in her basement and in its place in the living room was a huge mountain lion.

My children also grew up in a house full of stories with their family history all around them. Chair cushions needlepointed by a great aunt, bronze end tables with marble tops and early American dressers. The bed frames that they slept in nightly were their grandmother’s childhood beds that had traveled around the globe. Our dining room table was handmade in South Carolina before the Civil War.

It makes me very happy to see evidence of the love and coziness of their childhood home reflected in all four of my children’s design aesthetics. No one wants anything to do with my antique silver, all four spent too much time polishing it, silver is a lot of work. However, with the new taper candle movement, Cece has accepted some silver candlesticks.

As people continue to seek spaces that offer solace and a connection to the past, Grandmacore offers a charming and nostalgic escape. Grandmacore style can create inviting, personalized rooms that celebrate the beauty of history and the comfort of home. Grandmacore’s key components are thrifting and up cycling which increase awareness of sustainability. Repurposing vintage furniture and decor items align with eco-friendly practices. In this era dominated by technology, Grandmacore brings back memories of simpler times and the charm of well-loved, lived in spaces. This aesthetic is not just about decoration; it’s about creating a warm and inviting sanctuary.

I’ll be here in my sanctuary, with my husband and dogs, sitting by the fire, drinking tea, eating homemade soup, and knitting mittens for my grandchildren, waiting for the next snowstorm.

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. 

Sundays were always a big family food day in my home growing up. We’d go to The Petroleum Club after church for brunch, the buffet was magnificent. My parents would truly take advantage of “the day of rest,” we’d eat and socialize for a couple of hours. Dinner on Sundays was a fancy affair, my grandmother was always invited. Mom would make a special dessert like cream puffs or her “ladyfingers” icebox cake (tiramisu), Dad would whip something up like lamb chops with mashed potatoes and spinach. We’d watch Grandma’s favorite show, Lawrence Welk and then head to bed.

We had special birthday and holiday menus and Mom would fry chicken with scalloped potatoes or spend the day making tamales but Super Bowl food was never a part of the rotation.

It wasn’t until Super Bowl XII in 1978 that I understood the full extent of the joy of a Super Bowl party and its food. We were living in Denver and The Denver Broncos played The Dallas Cowboys. I was nine months pregnant with my second child on January 15, 1978 when the game was played. The Super Bowl party’s menu included “hot wings,” seven layer dip, “pigs in a Blanket,” and potato skins.

As a baby gift, I had been given an “Orange Crush” Broncos, tiny, track suit to match the team jerseys that all the party goers were wearing. Everything at the party was orange and blue, the tablecloth, plates, and napkins. It was a very festive celebration, until the Broncos started losing. A few of the guests actually left at halftime, walking out the door shaking their heads. The final score was Cowboys 27, Broncos 19.

Super Bowl XIII between The Cowboys and The Steelers was played on January 21, 1979, and I was living in Coronado, California. My Mom was visiting and we spent the day at The San Diego Zoo. We ordered dumplings and spare ribs for dinner from The Chu Dynasty, our local Chinese restaurant and didn’t watch the game. The Army/Navy game was the most important football game in my neighborhood then. We were mostly Navy wives whose husbands were deployed on one of the three aircraft carriers down the block from our houses.

Super Bowl games were televised in Hawaii in the morning. TV’s were rolled out onto lanai’s and the party goers would stand around grills drinking beer while watching the game. The potluck buffet included; Lumpia, macaroni salad, seven-layer dip, fried wings, Managua, kimchi, and burgers on the grill. There was a sea of different jerseys, everyone was from somewhere else and Hawaii didn’t have a pro football team. After the game, we’d nap and head to the nearest swimming pool or the beach.

Super Bowl Sunday became an important celebration when I married my husband, Matt. Roger Staubach was John General’s lab partner at The Naval Academy and so we were all Dallas Cowboys fans. The General family was serious about their Super Bowl parties; one year, they hosted the game at the Avalon Theater, the best party ever. Other years we watched at John’s house, a deconsecrated church (All Saints) on Longwoods Road that he had renovated. The great room was perfect for parties. John’s Mom, Peggy would always make her clam dip with Ruffles potato chips. There were submarine sandwiches, seven layer dip, crab dip, pizza and of course, wings. There was always some good-natured betting and some shouting at the TV.

For the past seven years, Matt and I have been eating a plant-based diet, so our “hot wings” were actually cauliflower. Seven layer dip was always an option also. We are planning a quiet night this year, I’m really looking forward to the commercials.