Jamie Janosz

My friend Janet posted this photo of her childhood home on Facebook. Someone has rehabbed it a bit (nice tile back splash in the kitchen, by the way), polished the original woodwork, and is selling it. It is a charming Chicago-style brick bungalow. But that is not why this photo struck my heart. Immediately my mind was flooded with memories of our time together as little girls. Janet and I spent many Sunday afternoons in this house at 15751 South Park Avenue, in South Holland, Illinois. Even if the real estate company hadn’t given the street address and provided photos I would have recognized it. The Aarup family attended the same church as mine – our parents were friends. And, I became an honorary Aarup most Sunday afternoons after church, inviting myself over for Sunday dinner, playing all the way up until the evening church service. Janet’s house number, 15751, was the same backward and forward. I had it memorized; I had her phone number memorized also. But it is her f...

I’ve been reading a lot about selecting a “word of the year.” For some, it is seen as a divinely-given word that will help focus their heart and mind on where God is leading. For others, the word is carefully selected as a symbol of their focused dreams, desires, or wishes. And even while I admired the word choices of others, I honestly didn’t feel a desire to pen one of my own. After all, how could I put my current, mostly muddled feelings into one single word? But one afternoon, while driving back from Lowe's, I tried to express my current state of mind to my husband.  Earlier that morning, in one of those pop-up Facebook memories (which are quite helpful for a woman of my age), it said that four years ago, I had published my first (and only) book. I was shocked to realize how time had sped by.  In these four years, I’ve often been asked – what is next?  My answer continues to be: I have no idea. There’s plenty of reasons why. Life has been busy. I...

New Year's Day always feels a bit disconcerting to me. My Christmas decorations are looking a bit "tired" . . . to put it nicely. One of the sheep in my nativity set has fallen over , and three chocolate bars are laying on the hay, right next to the wise men. It looks a bit like a cryptic crime scene. Our once festively decorated dining room is now cluttered with a 50s fiberglass lampshade sitting askew on top of magazine ads, a pile of receipts, unpaid bills, and a Fannie May mint meltaway bar (missing two of the three sections of chocolate). Yep. This is me - not the Instagram version - but the real one. Rumpled and a bit cluttered. Forgetful and uncertain. This is the New Year.  For all of our celebrating, the grand countdown, the auld lang synes, the kisses, New Year's Day always seems a bit ordinary, even a bit disappointing, doesn't it? So here I sit - still wearing my flannel pajama pants, no makeup, Alfred Hitchcock on the tel...

for those I love who are struggling this Christmas ... It was only in mid-life that I discovered I adored brussel sprouts. We were having a holiday dinner at my Uncle Jim's house in the backwoods of Tennessee. His mother-in-law, Raymonda, had cooked the little knobby-looking veggies until they were burnt and caramelized. Overdone, I thought. But, I decided to brave a taste anyway. Suddenly, a vegetable I knew only as mini, soggy cabbage was transformed. Now these . . . these were magical brussel sprouts, cooked with olive oil and a bit of butter until they were a dark roasted blackish-brown. The charred bits were the most delicious. But while brussel sprouts become the best version of themselves when you burn the crap out them, I'm not so sure about people. And, this year, I've felt burnt to the crisp. As December rolls to a close, I feel like I must have charred bits showing from the wear and tear of 2016. And I'm not alone. A friend of mine posted ...

I'm reminded today, to be thankful for the normal. Even for ice cubes. Following the hurricane, there was no electric and no clean water. Ice became a hot commodity in our community. We arrived at the grocery store and someone said they had just delivered 10 pallets of bagged ice. People were joyful - carrying two or three bags in their shopping carts. Milt and I rushed to the aisle only to find it was gone all of it...not one cube to be found. Ordinary ice. Ice cubes that I take for granted. I throw them out if they fall on our kitchen floor or if I accidentally put too much into my cup at the soda fountain. I've received a huge reminder that we are to take nothing for granted. Normal is so good. And everything that we love or hate or even whine about can change in the blink of an eye. The hot mug of coffee I am drinking is a gift. That bed that I slept in is a gift. That person who we hug or argue with is also a gift...a tremendous gift. Even the lon...

Breathe in. Breathe out. The last time I was told to focus on the end product rather than my present, all-consuming pain, I was giving birth. Somehow sending my first and only child off to college 18 short years later feels a lot like that. And, no epidural this time either. This college-sending-stuff is hard, and it isn't pretty. We're on the other side now. We survived. And pretty soon I'll lose the memories of the pain we endured. So, before my brain turns mushy and remembers only the good stuff, I want to share a bit about surviving the transition. Because if I did it, you can too. At the beginning we were all excited. We went on a beautiful tour of the University of Chicago and found a restaurant that served amazing guacamole with homemade chips. The next year we had fun looking through glossy brochures, laughing about the endless emails that spelled her name "Sabrna" - and going on college tours with their tiny Target-decorated display dorm rooms....

Bill Clinton still has his charm, doesn't he? With his white hair and blue eyes, he has a bit of a drawl, a bit of a wink, and an impish, aw-shucks grin. And while I am not a card-carrying member of the Democratic party, I couldn't help but be drawn in by his nostalgic and romantic story of meeting Hillary - the long-haired girl with the huge glasses. But as he told the story of how they met, how he pursued her, how she mothered Chelsea, and what she accomplished, I noticed that he skimmed right over the crux of their story . . . his infidelity and their reconciliation. That was the part I wanted to know about. Didn't you? It's not because I am a scandal seeker. I just want to know how it worked. How did she go on after the Monica affair? How did she forgive his infidelity? Was he remorseful? Was she angry? How long did she hold it against him that their marriage had imploded on a national platform? What did it take for her to stay when she probably wanted n...