Jamie Janosz

On my morning walk, I saw a 40-something man and woman jump out of their beach patrol van and run to the sand dune about 500 yards from shore. They were checking a sea turtle nest. May to October is sea turtle season on the Atlantic coast of Florida. This is the time when the mamas come ashore to lay their eggs, and Floridians takes this sea turtle stuff very seriously. Volunteers carefully mark and protect each nest, putting wooden stakes in four corners around the perimeter, securing it with a line and a stern warning sticker – not to disturb the protected nest. Almost every day, you will see volunteers trekking up and down the beach stopping to check each and every nest on the miles of shoreline. They’re looking for any damage (there are laws against disturbing the marked nesting zones), and they set up new markers when beach goers call in a sighting. They’re waiting. Waiting for those babies to hatch. When they hatch – it is amazing . The little babies...

Remember those thick, crusty scabs you would get as a kid? My skin-the-knee-years were in the early 70s, and I would often return from a wobbly bike ride with my knee scraped and bloody. Tears streaming down my face, I would park my purple, banana seat bike – with its white flower-covered plastic basket, in the driveway and burst into our ranch-style suburban house in search of my mom. She would get the “cure-all” basket out of our bathroom, wipe the dirt off of my injured knee, and apply Merthiolate (the pinkish liquid applied with a dropper) to my cut, blowing on it to soothe the sting. But the days afterward weren’t pretty either. The scrape would scab over. And it was hard to resist picking at its itchy ugliness. Blood, I learned, was not my friend. Not only did I fear blood, I was terrified of any sort of injury. A safety first child, I dreaded gym class and even opted out of outings to the toboggan hill or roller skating rink. Blood and fear were forever linke...

There's this exercise that isn't really an exercise. It's more like an instrument of pain and torture - called the "plank." I found it when I was googling "exercises for women over 50," specifically designed to get rid of that annoying pooch that resides right at my waistline. And I've been doing them. Kind of. If you know what a plank is, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Basically, you lie flat on the ground (stomach down). This is my favorite part. Next, you place your palms down, keeping your elbows on the floor (this is my second favorite part . . . it gets harder). Then, you push slightly up, raising your chest, torso and legs off of the ground. Use your upper arm strength, your amazing abs, and your toes. Your body should be straight with your stomach sucked in (more than I'm doing in this embarrassing photo), Your torso should be parallel with the ground. Now you count - oh, and don't forget to breathe. This looks amazi...

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 ...