We’ve come full circle: playground to workplace, back to playground. Having sold my business last year—one I owned for most of my adult life—and being theoretically “young” enough to fully enjoy the years ahead, I’ve been thinking a lot about the snowbird phenomenon. Once upon a time, I viewed snowbirds with thinly veiled scorn. These unfaithful fleers of their hometowns who skedaddled to warmer climes at the first sign of winter? Wimps, I thought. In the Mid-Atlantic, we’re talking about a couple of months of discomfort and the occasional snowfall. This isn’t Minnesota, for Pete’s sake. Toughen up. Then I
Or maybe not. I read a lot of murder mysteries, crime stories, and even the occasional supernatural thriller. I admire writers who can dream up elaborate plots full of twists, turns, and dark motives lurking just beneath the surface. Which is probably why, when I had a slightly inexplicable experience during a four‑night hotel stay, my imagination didn’t just wander — it sprinted. My husband has hunting friends in Iowa, and we decided to stay in a small town for four nights so he could join in the fun. No Airbnbs were available, and once you added “pet‑friendly” to the
I sold my printing company almost two years now, long enough to assume I had wrapped up any leftover emotional debris from more than three decades of leadership. Thirty-five years as a boss tends to do that. You accumulate stories, scars, and a surprising amount of affection for the people who kept showing up every day and doing their level best to help build something real, lasting and meaningful. And then, without warning, Facebook taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that memory is subjective, perspective is optional, and some people prefer their history with a fictional twist. This