WanderingAmylessly 2.0

On a cold December morning, At 1-something a.m., I screamed my way into the world. Time's been ticking away since then. From toddler ways to school days To career and marriage and childbirth, Wondering where all the time went, Wondering what it's all worth. Amazed when I Google to find Exactly how much time has ticked by: Twenty-one million, thirty-seven thousand Nine hundred fifty minutes. Oh. My. I hesitate to write this, Because I want no undue attention. I'd rather quietly mark the day In silent, brooding detention. Tomorrow, I'll knit and bake and shop, Decorate for the holidays to come. I'll drink coffee, read, listen to music, But from reality, I think I'll play dumb. No one can convince me, there's no possible way That I'm reaching a milestone so cold. Middle aged? Over the hill? Ten years from AARP? I refuse to admit I'm four decades old.

That Christmas card letter isn't going to write itself, is it? What did we do this year? My mind's a blank. I need inspiration. I need free time. I need a kick in the pants.

We're having Thanksgiving at our house this year. What's on the menu? Check it out... Turkey (a 14-lb. Butterball Fresh) Cajun corn bread stuffing New pisano bread and olive oil Mashed potatoes and gravy Sweet potato soufflé Roasted asparagus Sweet corn Cranberry relish Zinfandel and pinot grigio wines Pecan pie Pumpkin pie Margarita pie But FIRST: Breakfast is Bubble Bread ! Where are your stretchy pants?

I missed Henry's first swim meet, which was Sunday, because I went home to say goodbye to Les. I found myself wracked with Mommy-guilt as I prepared for the trip, hand-wringing over the decision. Henry was less emotional. Before I left, he said, "It's ok Mom. I'll be fine. But when you get back, will you please stop crying?" I'm still working on that. I had the next best thing to being there, though, on my drive back to Iowa Sunday morning. Tim texted me the play-by-play on the way. As I read the updates, I realized it was probably a good thing I wasn't at the pool. I would have been more nervous than the kid, and I, no doubt, would have made him a mess in the process. The iPhone commentary went something like this: Tim: Chaos. Or so it seems to me. He's been Sharpie'd though, so he looks like he fits in. (Sharpie'd: had his races and lane assignments written in black permanent marker on his arm) Tim: He's warming up. I'm nervous for hi

I never noticed until I started to blog this morning that the letters directly behind my name in my blog title are "LES." As soon as I realized that, I lost it. Again. I'm still trying to process the weekend. I changed my ringtone to the Beatles' Yellow Submarine this morning. We -- all 1,700 people who attended -- sang this song at Les' funeral, at his request. I think he thought he'd get quite a laugh at everyone's expense, looking down on us from heaven as we sang this goofy tune. It's now my favorite song. I brought my first media writing book, the one I happened across last week when packing for the trip home to Les' services, to work with me this morning. It now sits on my desk, nestled between my Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary and The Chicago Manual of Style . I stuck my pens and pencils in a new holder this morning -- a Wichita State University Alumni mug, in Les' honor. These are my ways of coping. I always took for gran

More or Les...that was the name of Les' column that appeared for years in the Ark Valley News (the paper he owned and published until he sold it a few years ago). I keep thinking more and more ABOUT Les as the days pass and the services draw closer. I'm hitting the road in a few hours to drive back home and prepare for the visitation, the funeral, and the informal reunion Saturday afternoon of past and current AVN staff members. Last night, as I packed for the trip, I ran downstairs to grab a suitcase. Sitting in the top of an open box nearby was my first college journalism textbook. I can't remember the last time I saw it. But there it was, this week of all weeks. I flipped through the pages and realized just how long it has been. The photographers on the front of the book were shooting film cameras. And there was no mention of the Internet anywhere. But the memories came rushing back, of watching Les at the front of a classroom, talking, showing examples, laughing, debat

I've been walking around in a fog all week, remembering my college days and how far I've come from those first reporting and editing classes. At work, as I've been interacting with fellow editors, I keep wanting to say, "How can you go on with work and life as though nothing has happened?" But they weren't the lucky ones who had the benefit of Les' care and attention. So I move through the moments alone, with only my memories keeping me company. Tomorrow I hit the road for an 8-hour drive back home to attend the visitation and funeral for Les. That's 8 more hours of alone-time to reflect. One good sign: thinking had been resulting in tears, but I'm transitioning to more smiles as I recall happy times. There's a Dan Seals song I keep thinking about: One Friend © Dan Seals I always thought you were the best I guess I always will I always felt that we were blessed And I feel that way still Sometimes we took the hard road But we always saw it throu

I remember the first time I heard the name "Les Anderson." A bunch of Wichita State University communication majors were sitting around on campus, talking about classes they planned to take. Several people warned me: watch out for Les Anderson. He was tough. He had a murderous grading scale. It was nearly impossible to get an A. They weren't kidding. But he wasn't tough just to be a tyrant. From his teaching sprang a fleet of incredible, successful journalists, writers, editors, broadcasters, public relations experts, advertisers, non-profit professionals...I could go on and on. Most importantly, he created a legion of people who wanted to make a difference in the world. The greatest gift Les gave to them all? He believed in them, cared about them for their own personal stories as well as the stories they told for class assignments or in the pages of his hometown newspaper. Les was my teacher. My boss. My mentor. My conscience. My champion. My friend. When I started c