Tag: life

Grief & Loss · Nostalgic Posts

It’s Only Water

Beth DeFries4 Comments

One Wednesday night, this past February, my cousin sent a Telegram message in our family’s shore house management thread saying that the thermostat app was showing the furnace as on a constant run, an atypical readout, for sure. She asked if someone would be able to go by the house to check on the thermostat and see if anything looked “funny”. Mike and I offered to swing by.

On the drive to the house that evening, I felt unusually calm. It was cold. Freezing, really, though warmer than earlier in the week when lows dropped to as little as three degrees (F) in our area, after multiple weeks of consistent, below freezing temps. On the way to the house, the car was rattling so we pulled into a parking lot and found there to be ice thoroughly frozen into one of the tire spokes. We chipped the ice out with our bare fingers, too clunky in our gloves, and a windshield scraper and continued on in pursuit of ascertaining the root of our greater uncertainty.

We parked at the curb in line with the front porch steps, the ground still coated in long-frozen snow, remnants from January’s relentless winter storms. Once we reached the porch, I felt suddenly light-headed. My insides contracted. It was the sound of rain that caused this reaction, the sound of rain when it was dry outside.

I unlocked the door with the leopard print key copy that Arlene made for me a long time ago and we stepped into the entry hall. My heart started to beat light and fast.

“Where is it coming from?!” I said, or maybe I didn’t. From the volume, it could have been coming from everywhere. Panic was bombarding every fiber of my consciousness.

The first floor of the house can be walked in a circle, always a great feature as a kid running around with my cousins, or lately, running around with my cousin’s son. I can’t remember now if I went left toward the kitchen or right toward the dining room. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. It was raining in both directions, after all.

“We should turn the water off,” I said.

We went down to the basement where we found it raining as well. The water rose above the bottom step; we estimated it was about a foot high where we could see it. And here I once thought of indoor home swimming pools as the epitome of luxury.

Looking at the water accumulation, I could feel my pulse in my ears. My heart raced. All logic turned off and my adrenaline kicked into overdrive. I fully acknowledge my stupidity in this next action. Don’t try this at home, kids.

The water was icy cold and crystal clear as I stepped into it, not to mention mercifully un-electrified. Thank you, Nana. In the glow of my phone flashlight, I waded the twenty-five or so feet to the main water-shutoff in the corner, the water rising higher on my leather boots with the sloped grade of the floor (for proper drainage toward the sump pump). I reached for the shutoff handle and willed it to turn. I worried it wouldn’t for a moment. Then, thank all the gods and angels and spaghetti monsters in the universes, it did. I made it back to the steps, my jeans and wool socks completely soaked through inside my knee-high, squelching boots.

Once back upstairs, we wandered the dark rooms with our phone flashlights, sweeping the lights from corner to corner, like amateur ghost hunters. We waited as the downpour reduced to a drizzle and then to a drip, drip, drip. Dark streaks bled from the dining room ceiling and moldings, down the walls, agonized mascara tears- wood stain and over a century’s worth of rafter-buildup freed from their confines by water. The ceiling, the floor, the furniture- everything reflected the light with a slick sheen.

The rooms appeared to have been victims of a violent attack.

“We should take pictures,” I said.

The storm had raged worst in the dining room, which makes sense. That’s where the plumber ended up finding two burst pipes in the ceiling a couple of days later.

We called a few 24-hour emergency water remediation companies and plumbers that had exaggerated their hours and left a few frantic voicemails feeling increasingly less hopeful that we’d get someone out that night. There was a water remediation company’s van parked down the street addressing a neighbor’s water damage. I ran over to the van and asked the two workers if they knew what we could do in the meantime. One of the men pointed at the phone number on the side of the van and read it out to me. I called and left a voicemail. I never heard back.

Mike said he’d update the family. My gut reaction was to hold in the trauma, keep it to ourselves until we knew exactly what we were dealing with. My gut reaction was illogical and protective. It was frightened and guilty and unsure. Thank goodness for Mike who is impervious to stress and stupidity.

“It’s not great guys…” read the start of his message.

You can say that again.

I tried to mop up the water on the kitchen floor with paper towels, but it just kept refilling which led me to find some of the lower cabinets filled with water as well.

Ever since Mike and I helped to take on managing the house from my aunt and uncle during the spring of 2020, and then recruiting the help of my cousins and sister the following summer, the house and I have had our share of run-ins. My attachment to the place quickly devolved from seeing it as the haven I once did in childhood and when I lived in New York to seeing it as an increasingly unpredictable opponent. I always told myself I was doing it for my family, doing what I could to keep the place going for everyone. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to enjoy the place for myself.

A few weeks before discovering the water damage, Mike had asked me what I most enjoyed about spending time at the house. I answered that my favorite recent memories were playing Five Crowns in huge groups at the dining room table and when people are cooking in the kitchen like Nana and Arlene used to. Finding these two rooms assaulted by water felt personal.

When the house pulls a harrowing stunt, I get a craving for whiskey. Whether it’s 3:00pm on a sunny Friday afternoon and I’m drenched with spray from a hose with a faulty water shutoff as the renters are pulling up, or I’m sweeping remnants of storm seepage from the corners of the basement with thirty minutes till the next renter arrives because the previous ones left an hour late, the sump pump broke during a storm, and the miraculous emergency plumbing repair just finished up. As I stood in the emo version of my family’s house, I could almost taste that sweet, sharp elixir on my tongue.

We texted some of the pictures to Maureen and her husband, Chris. Chris texted back, “Dining room all like ‘I’m ok. Trust me,” along with multiple gifs of mascara-teared characters. I laughed in the hysterical way that precedes crying.

We decided we’d come back in the daylight to assess the damage and take more photos. I had my gym stuff in the car and changed out of my jeans, socks, and boots. We left the house to its dripping, to its settling.

We drove to a pub in Asbury Park. Maureen Venmo’d me $20 for a drink. I ordered an Old Fashioned. I remembered Danielle and Corey’s Old Fashioneds, plentiful and shared in the dining room at the house, just a few summers before. Would that happen again?

The idea that the house could be brought back to a livable state in three months, the repairs- covered by insurance, didn’t seem in the realm of possibility that night. The uncertainty was a big stressor. As we worked with my uncle to set up the insurance claim and adjuster walkthrough, I felt less alone along the path to the place’s resurrection.

My uncle brought a crowbar and a tin of sardines the day of the claims adjuster walkthrough. My sister and my cousins came. I braced myself as my uncle was the first to arrive, after me. I had brought tissues in anticipation of everyone’s arrival, their first in-person look at the damage. My uncle walked in and looked at a big, white recliner that sits in the dining room-side corner of the living room, a source of ongoing family debate.

He said something like, “It’s too bad that chair survived, huh?”

I laughed. He hugged me for a long time and said, “Thank you.”

We ordered pizza on the porch and didn’t eat the sardines. I showed everyone my pictures of the china cabinet with the glasses inside filled with water. We followed the adjuster around from room to room, listening, asking questions, confusing him with our matching dark hair, black coats, black pants, and snow boots.

“I’m the one with the glasses,” I said, trying to help him differentiate.

We formed a “Calamity Consortium”.

We settled in for the “marathon, not a sprint” that the insurance adjuster kept assuring us the process would be. The plumber came and tore apart the dining room wall and ceiling and fixed the burst pipes.

I continued to snap photos with each change of each scene over multiple return visits.

The water remediation company took days to come and even more to get started. It turned out that pipes had been bursting all over New Jersey due to the cold. When the remediators came, they demolished and dried. They dissected the rooms right down to their bones.

As the kitchen demolition was in progress, Nic and I were at the house and the demo team called us into the kitchen to show us some notes they had found on the wall behind where the cabinets had been mounted. Notes from the Keltys and the Kavanaghs, family and friends, looked back at me. Notes from when something similar happened back in 1978 or 1979.

“Academy of St. Aloysius Class of 1983,” read one.

“There’s Nothing Better than a Vetter. Grand Ma says,” read another.

There were declarations of love to “Alan” and “Derek” in rough handwriting, pencil on plaster.

As I read the notes, I felt the past community of the house building around us as though confirming we might actually come out of this ok. Theresa and Billy and Robert and Corine had documented their having been through this before with their signature dose of good humor. Maybe Grand Ma was right.

Since the damage happened, I think of times when someone has knocked over a glass and someone says, “It’s ok; it was only water.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever view that phrase the same way again.

Julia and Nic went to work at bringing the house back to life. Over the weeks, the floors transformed. The walls. The moldings. The window frames. Fresh paint covered the seams and the scars. New furniture was bought and delivered and assembled. We put Nana’s little houses and tchotchkes back on the reconstructed plate rail. Boats and birds and light houses.

It looked like our home again, but better.

We carried the old chandelier to the alley and set it on the grass by the trash. It looked like a cursed relic exorcised from a haunted house.

Fast forward to last week, which I spent at the house. I played with my cousin’s son at the new dining room table, getting crushed at Paw Patrol Uno and creating comic book and non-comic book drawings. We created “Ralph, the couch ghost” out of one of the white chair’s throw pillows, a beach towel, and my sunglasses. We watched fireworks on the beach. I enjoyed sitting on the porch in the evening with my cousins and my aunt, sipping rose and dodging the big dumb beetles that have a tendency to fly right at the window screens, drawn to the cozy glow, within.

I had moments of laughing in the way where it’s hard to stop, a common occurrence in the company of my cousins. I woke up to the birds and watched TV with Eric in the living room. I got a kick out of him immersing himself in his Sonic iPad game on the porch. “OH YEAH!”

Over the week, my relationship with the place started to transform back to its former state with each nostalgic little moment. I felt conscious that the house was for me too and that I enjoy it, that I can do it for me and that, dare I say it, I want to, I think. This place is good, I thought. Sure, it may throw a couple punches now and then, but what old house doesn’t?

Nostalgia is a curious beast. It cuddled up around my feet while I was sipping Wedgewood mugs of tea on the couch and the porch. It glowed reassuringly from the hall, beneath the door of the room my cousins and I always slept in, growing up. It chirped in the tree down the street in the mornings and blew through the whistles on the lifeguard stands. It transported and comforted and fed me. It fueled my relaxation.

Finding the water damage this winter was among the most stressful moments in my life. Enjoying the house again once it was fixed back up felt just as significant though. I know in my head it’s not a person, but I don’t know, it’s comfort and coziness and its gathering us together in a positive way felt pretty personal to me.

After all, I mean, it was only water, right?

Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts · Travel

Thank You, New York City

Beth DeFries2 Comments

New York City on a sweltering evening evokes a sense of truth and camaraderie that isn’t always evident in the city’s boroughs. In the heat, the city’s truest self emerges from its facade of splendor and grit, too warm to layer on the wanderlust a minute longer. It cranks up the AC, adopts a loose, languid appearance that is just enough to scrape by as presentable, and just tries to find the breathable oxygen amid the auto exhaust and amalgam of aromas and stenches permeating the air. Top notch cooking scents waft out of restaurant after restaurant on 9th Ave, quickly melding with baked trash at the curb, only to be sweetened by a hint of perfume speed walking past or a trail of wholesome sunscreen fumes.

As the city sweats, its residents pour outside and sweat with it. They plod the radiating sidewalks to and from work, home, and leisure activities. They dodge steam vents on street corners, waiting off the curb to cross before the walk sign illuminates. They’re wary of darting critters on garbage collection eve as the rooftops across the Hudson tug the sun lower and lower.

Last night, I went in to meet some friends for dinner and, having arrived early, took to winding my way through Hell’s Kitchen in the heat. It was ninety-four degrees and felt over a hundred on the long stretches between avenues where the cross-breezes were blocked by neat rows of buildings.

I popped into Deacon Brodie’s tavern on restaurant row to cool down in the dark and ordered a crispy, cold Modelo which I sipped as I tried not to puddle too much on the leather-upholstered bench where I sat. As my brain simmered, the understanding dawned on me that everyone seated in the bar had most certainly walked in drenched as well and after that, I melted freely and unnoticed.

My brain wandered through memories of past summer days and nights on auto-pilot as it used to when I lived in Brooklyn, navigating by the internal compass that every New York resident develops in order to get by. North, South, East, West. Uptown, Downtown, Brooklyn, Manhattan, etc. It’s the kind of auto-pilot that used to get me to the L platform after work in the heat of July and August without remembering the two-street-spanning underground walk from the 1. Most of my attention usually went into wondering what the real-feel temperature was in the station. 110F? 120F? In the words of my late nana, “Does anybody have a meat thermometer? I want to know when I’m done.”

The nostalgia was strong yesterday as I cooled down in what looked like a miniature version of our old local, Harefield Road, which we decided was still our local when we moved about a mile away from it back when we still lived in Brooklyn. We did that because, in a city as everchanging as New York, if you don’t treasure the things you love, they tend to disappear. In our experience, after too long, doors that once opened to a place that made the city feel more like home, were found chained or covered with paper, sometimes pasted with orange tax evasion signs, or sometimes with a note from the former owners thanking their loyal customers for a good run.

I shook the nostalgia from mind as my friend Katherine walked in, showing she’d gotten my text about being early and where I’d decided to wait out the time till dinner. Katherine is one of a few very good friends who stuck from my time working in New York in my twenties. When I moved to New York, I felt a strong need to make friends of my own, as grateful as I was for Mike and the people who I saw as “his friends” at the time, though they are mine too now. The most obvious place to make friends was through work.

My process was to throw my personality at the wall (the wall being co-workers and acquaintances) and see what stuck. As the years have gone on, I am sad to be on the other side of learning that some friendships don’t stick like others. Whether it’s a general lack of initiative to coordinate or attend that happy hour or draft that text or email, or fail to get a regular catch-up going, friendships end up slipping through the cracks. I often wonder how friends, who I haven’t seen in a while, are doing. I try not to wonder if they’d still classify me as a friend or if they have a metaphorical sign posted on a metaphorical locked door somewhere. Thank you. We had a good run. I’ve grown up a little every year and with growth comes understanding, be it bitter or sweet. I can walk away with memories of good times past, content enough.

I am especially grateful for the sticky friendships though, the people who willingly catch up with me regularly, who care to know what I’m up to, what I’m struggling with, and what’s going well. They bolster and share their own experiences and goals and I am happy to be part of that. From talking to people among my New York circle over the years, a sense of isolation and overwhelm seems to be a common experience for the city’s new arrivals. I am happy to have overcome that in my own experience and to be someone who helps fill out other people’s New York community.

Analisa filtered in next and we headed around the corner to dinner at Elephant Ear and were seated, acceptable enough in our stickiness, that all too familiar residue of New York City heat and pondered the spiciness of the Thai menu items as we waited for our cold drinks.

Ashley came last and the gang was back together again, giving the latest updates for the month, not needing to do the whole “So, what’s new with you?” opener because we’ve seen each other recently enough to have that bit covered. The thing that was new, however, was the temperature, the drastic transition from the east coast’s bitter winter to an abbreviated spring, only to be thrust into August in the middle of May. Oh goodness gracious me.

After dinner, we parted ways and I headed to Bryant Park to meet up with Mike. I entered on the corner of 42nd and 6th and suddenly felt like I was in my twenties again. The lawn was dotted with people sitting on picnic blankets, hoodies, and beach towels. The cafe tables lining the gravel path around the grass were occupied with friends chatting and lounging in the slightly cooled after-dark temperatures. Readers were immersed in their books which lay open on their laps or in the grass. And patrons of the outdoor bars sipped, snacked, and conversated.

Bryant Park Lawn

A hot evening in Bryant Park is a guaranteed time machine for me back to fond memories of my early days in the city. Meandering the paths with Mike. Listening to a live band playing. Strategists taking chess too seriously. The library, up-lit and impressive, sheathing its collection of knowledge, history, and adventure within. When the heat becomes more palatable after sunset, you can’t help but love such a place. At least, that’s how it is for me.

If you ever get to experience the magic yourself, I hope you won’t take it for granted. Just sweat and let your mind unwind. You can’t fight the grimy residue and really, it’s part of the experience anyway. Only when you are seasoned with salt and damp with sweat do you become part of the tableau for everyone else, worthy of such a unifying experience with the people around you, the New Yorkers who call the city home and the visitors who spend their time and money to make the trip there happen, perhaps only once in their lifetime.

So, this one’s for New York in the heat, for the loveable beast of a city that I once called home. For the place that pulls on my heartstrings in moments when I least expect it. For the place that reminds me how who I was and where I lived helped to make me the person that I’ve become. So, thank you, New York City. We had a good run.

Cozy Posts

Marvelous

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

It’s a slow Saturday here in our corner of the world. Breakfast’s been had and tea after that. Our pajamas have turned into our actual outfits by this point and there is little planned for the rest of the day other than to prep for some visitors later on.

I am clicking through Paris on Google Maps, acquainting myself with the city for a trip that’s still a ways off, but will surely have come and gone before I am ready to be done with it.

The neighborhoods swirl clockwise from the city’s center like a snail’s shell in mint and white shapes, each one dotted with landmarks. Le Louvre with its pyramid and crowded galleries. La Conciergerie and Place de la Concorde with their revolutionary significance. La Tour Eiffel glittering in the blue night. Montmartre glowing at the feet of Le Sacre Coeur. C’est très merveilleux, n’est-ce pas?

We cannot see it all at once and so the planning ahead is necessary. We must pick and choose our favorites. It’s so difficult, but in that is the challenge, the fun, the stakes.

Outside, the ocean’s a murky sort of seafoam, dotted with a heaping serving of white sprinkles, under an overcast sky. It’s my perfect writing weather and so I thought I’d do just that.

Just outside, the naked rose of Sharon braces against the breeze, stewing in envy of the nearby trees with their branches clad in bunches of youthful green.

Mike’s playing Noah Kahan’s new album and I’m drinking in the melodies like lazy sips of cool lemonade on an August day.

The posts here have been few and far between these days. I’m sorry if you’ve noticed and had hoped for more. I’ve been getting happily lost in fiction writing instead, wandering into stories that don’t have endings yet until they do, meeting strangers that become important people in my life, creating my own simulated versions of reality from my little desk.

Since quitting coffee over a year ago, I’ve felt less of an impulse to share the personal stuff. I like the quiet in my head, the space to create and rationalize, to come to terms with the thoughts that have slowed from a race to a brisk walk. I am happy despite some chaos this year. I accept myself as I am and all that comes with that and there is more peace in that simple act than I would have ever imagined. I wish that acceptance for everyone.

I hope that once you finish reading this, you reflect on the miracle of your mere existence and make whatever you like of it in a positive way, whether it’s the most, good enough, or the bare minimum. Just know that you are marvelous, whatever you choose, and for you, I am grateful.

Cozy Posts

In Like a Lion

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Bonjour, mes amis! It’s March and today just seemed like a good day to write a blog post. I have no idea where this particular post is going yet, so just bear with me and we’ll meander on the screen together. How’s that sound?

Like crickets.

Ok. Good! Allons-y! What’re we waiting for?

Life’s been a little stressful lately, but nothing we can’t handle with little tiny baby steps, day by day. The temperatures here in our corner of the world dipped into low single digits a few weeks back and let’s just say the pipes at my family’s home and rental property down the shore didn’t fare so well. That’ll be a story for another day though, once I can draft a worthy intro, unlike that in today’s post, and once I can process the whole experience and all that’s been in the works since, amid a reconstructed setting.

Today’s a morning for decaf Earl Grey in my favorite mug, a big little thing that’s helping me keep sane amid the upheaval of the past few weeks. Writing has been another salvation, when I get the time for it, and reading, of course. I’m crawling through Maeve Binchy’s Circle of Friends and having a lovely time of it, with Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere on deck.

I’m wrapped up in a big fuzzy, brown sweater today and my most comfortable blue jeans, my cross between Hagrid energy and power outfit for the day, with a big splash of cozy. I feel tired already and there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep on the couch at 9 pm yet again, in exactly what I’m wearing, too warm and cozy under the sherpa fleece pumpkin blanket that Danielle and Corey gave me for my birthday a few years back now, so there’s that to look forward to… What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as the saying goes, and also makes you inexplicably sleepy, apparently.

We change the clocks this weekend and the days are getting lighter for longer. Spring is on the horizon and, with it, warmth and progress. I’m looking forward to some travel this month, to white sand and turquoise waters, to good music and a reunion with a goddess, but more on those adventures to come.

In the meantime, stay sane, stay warm, and find a little moment of happiness in today. 💖

Books · Health & Lifestyle

On Love Languages

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

On one of my visits to the library this past summer, I approached the circulation desk and set down the book that I’d come to check out. As I fished out my library card, the librarian picked up the book, beamed down at the cover and said with giddy satisfaction, “Ooh! A love story!”

I can see how she might have gotten confused. The cover did have a couple embracing on a beach, backlit by a sunset, after all. I had also just finished reading Stephen King’s horror fantasy epic, The Dark Tower series and could see why she might be relieved to see me choosing something a little more frivolous in nature from the shelves.

As a seed of intrigue began to grow within me, I wondered if I should correct her or not. On the one hand, I wanted to see her reaction. This felt important, for some reason. For me, for her, and for the library assistant who was an innocent bystander throughout this entire exchange. On the other hand, it was almost guaranteed to spawn an awkward situation. I decided to lean into the awkwardness, mostly just out of curiosity, wanting to see what would happen.

“More of a self help book, actually,” I said.

The librarian looked down at the cover again and I watched as her expression turned from confusion to alarm as she read the title and the subtitle there. The 5 Love Languages, The Secret to Love That Lasts.

Hindsight caught up with me immediately and I thought to myself, Now, why did you do that, Beth? This poor woman.

She scanned my library card quickly, cleared her throat, and said, “Well, good luck.”

She pushed the book back toward me across the counter. And with that, I walked out of the library trying to suppress a smile until I was clear from view.

I took Gary Chapman’s acclaimed book out of the library that day after having had a recent conversation about it on a family vacation this summer. That conversation was not the first time that I had heard about the book or been asked by friends, to my own confusion, “What’s your love language?” That conversation did, however, pique my interest enough in Gary Chapman’s process to want to read the book for myself and see what all the buzz was about.

It took me a few hours to read through the entire book on that summer day. I enjoyed the direct language and the real-life anecdotes sprinkled throughout the guide and once I was through, I took the assessment at the end to identify what I had come to learn in the first place, my own love language.

According to Gary Chapman, the five love languages of human relationships are as follows:

Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Receiving Gifts, Quality Time, and Physical Touch.

These categories do not only pertain to how you receive love romantically, but how you receive love in your other relationships as well, such as with family members, friends, and community members.

As I read through the book, I found myself trying to identify how different family members and friends might best receive love and could see how expressing love towards them via my own receiving love language or my secondary love language, would not be equally sufficient across the board for them all.

According to the assessment, my primary love language ended up being “Words of Affirmation”. This tracks, friends. Of course it’s the words one, right? When I think of the times I feel most loved, it is because someone is expressing positive sentiments towards me with their words and tone. The times when I feel least loved can be traced back to hurtful or indifferent words and / or harsh delivery. I had been wondering as I read if my language would be “Words of Affirmation” or “Acts of Service”, as I found myself reflecting on how I communicate love to others and noticed that I naturally express love through acts of service.

As I told my husband about my takeaways from reading the book, I asked him if he felt loved when I did things like doing the laundry, the dishes, or cleaning the house. He looked at me, confused, as I imagined he would, as though it was crazy to think anyone would feel love from such acts. Some people do, ok! My person, however, does not, and it’s helpful to know that now. I made a quick mental note, then and there, that I would need to make a conscious adjustment in how I express love, catering toward my loved ones’ suspected languages, rather than relying on my own natural tendencies to effectively accomplish that task.

It was funny to me how quickly I went from being a little embarrassed about checking out a relationship self-help book from the library to sharing the merits of said book with my closest friends. Having checked the book out with the goal of improving my skills in communication, I wanted to share the resource because, in my opinion, it’s nice to have the information before you actually need it. And though it’s nice to think you aren’t going to need it, the truth is, there might come a moment where it could offer some support that you might not naturally be equipped with in your mental and emotional arsenal. In other words, relationships can be hard sometimes. The most important things often are, though, aren’t they?

In anticipation of Valentine’s Day which is coming up this week (but also just for everyday lovin’), here are some suggestions for how to show love for each of the love language categories:

Words of Affirmation:

Verbally express positive sentiments toward your loved one via phrases such as these: “I love you because…” “I’m proud of you for…” “I appreciate how you…” “You look beautiful/handsome.” “You are smart.” “You are talented.” “I love it when you smile.”

For Words of Affirmation people, remember that tone plays as much of a role as the words themselves do. Sincerity and a light, positive tone can go a long way with these word lovers.

Acts of Service:

Do something for your partner, friend, or family member. It helps to know the types of services that they would be the most grateful for, of course. That might be a learning process to figure out, though try thinking back to conversations you might have had with them. For example, is there a chore that your partner always does that they don’t particularly enjoy doing, such as doing the dishes or figuring out what to do or make for dinner? Why not take that off their hands once in a while, unprompted, even if it does not feel natural to do so.

Other examples could be decluttering a space, taking the car for an oil change, taking the dog for a walk, meal prepping, taking out the trash and recycling, or giving them a shoulder massage.

Receiving Gifts:

Does your partner light up at the sight of a little gift bag or a bouquet of flowers? Do they show unbridled joy for that meme you saw and texted them just because it made you think of them? You might have yourself a partner then whose love language is gifts.

“Gifts” don’t have to be expensive to be appreciated. It helps if they are thoughtful or personal somehow- a flower picked on a walk in the park together for example or a seashell from the beach, just something you came across with them in mind is all it really takes. That being said, purchased items are appreciated by gift lovers as well. Try to get a sense of the things your partner gravitates towards when shopping or travelling to get a better sense of something that would not only make them feel loved, but be practical and enjoyable for them as well beyond just being a positive association with you.

Quality Time:

Making time for loved ones might not come naturally to everyone, but it certainly goes a long way for people who have Quality Time as their love language. Don’t scroll on your phone at dinner. Be present and listen to your partner and ask them about their day. If your partner isn’t a big talker, maybe you do the talking by bringing up an article you read or an interesting YouTube Video you recently watched or an advertisement for a travel destination that you noticed on your commute.

I just finished reading a great novel, A Gentleman in Moscow by, Amor Towles, in which two characters enjoy playing a particular game every time they are waiting for their dinner to come at a restaurant where they establish a category, such as ‘things with stripes’ or ‘famous trios’ and alternate naming examples with the goal of being the last to run out of examples.

Play a boardgame, do a puzzle, talk about your goals for the future. Just remember that quantity is not the same as quality, so make sure the time is filled with conversation or an experience and not idle.

Physical Touch:

Even so much as sitting next to your partner with some part of you touching them goes far with this love language. There is the obvious, of course, but remember that there is also love in smaller gestures. Holding hands, giving a shoulder massage, giving them a hug or a kiss, even brushing or combing their hair can be ways to show your love for them. For times when you are a not physically near each other, try sending a picture of yourself smiling or adding emojis that represent touch to text messages that you exchange with them, just something to bridge the sensory gap of distance and make you feel closer than you physically are.

I hope this post inspires some of you to reflect on your own relationships and communication styles. Whether your relationship is absolutely perfect or more of the rollercoaster variety, perhaps it is more in your power than you thought to be a better master of your own joy and your ability to create joy for others around you. Not all partners have the same love language and expressing love in a different love language than your own might take some extra work. With that said, the payoff might be bigger than you think and could even lead to a partnership of more consistent mutual enjoyment, fulfillment, and of course, love.

In case you are still wondering about that poor librarian, I regretted making her feel awkward that summer day pretty instantly, but also Mike and I had a good laugh about it later that night when I told him about the exchange. Maybe sometime I should take out a book on being a more socially acceptable human being (or perhaps an actual love story while that same librarian is working) 🙃. I have too many books on my to-read list for now, however, so please take me as I am in the meantime, and thank you for your patience, world.

Though it’s all too commercialized here in the US right now, remember that once the heart-shaped balloons and chocolate boxes are taken down from the shelves, love should still be an everyday priority in each relationship that you have with your loved ones. Thank you all for reading this post and for being part of this community. I am thankful for you all for fueling this creative outlet of mine. 💖

Books · Cozy Posts · Health & Lifestyle · Mental Health · Reviews & Reflections

In Pursuit of Living Well

Beth DeFries5 Comments

It’s January once again, friends. The treadmills at the gym are more populated than usual, the temperatures outside are biting and sharp, and the potholes are expanding into craters with each new round of salt and snow.

The December electric bill revealed a number that I was shocked to see, so I’m choosing to live in fleece, chunky sweaters, thermal leggings, and wool socks regularly, to keep the cold at bay and the thermostat a little less high. I boil the kettle a few times a day and bundle up for brisk walks through the park or to the library.

In 2025, our resolution was to travel somewhere different every month and that was fun and a little bit intimidating at the onset, to be entirely honest. We actually managed it though, something I was skeptical would happen if you talked to me this time last year. These trips have enriched our lives and fueled our sense of adventure, though I’m not itching to go anywhere else just yet. The break from constant trip planning and booking and financing is a welcome one. I’m sure I’ll be desperate for some journey sometime soon, but for now, I’ll take the calm with gratitude.

2025 was a year of trying new things, of starting from square one, and of pursuing my creative goals with more focus and intention. The act of writing my January Postcard on this same day last year served as a major catalyst for this switch in my creative approach. Here’s hoping this post leads me to as much motivation as that one did.

I read a few books this year that helped me improve my productivity, nutrition comprehension, and relationships. I am grateful to have come across these books and to the library for having them. I’d recommend them all: Atomic Habits by James Clear, Eat, Drink, and Be Healthy, The Harvard Medical School Guide to Healthy Eating by Walter C. Willett, and The 5 Love Languages by Gary Chapman, particularly this last one which really had me reflecting on all of the relationships in my life as I read, from that with my husband to that with my family members, my friends, etc. I think that it is extremely important to be conscious of how the people that you love best receive love.

Coffee has not been a part of my diet since mid-April and I’m really proud of myself for this. This is the longest I’ve gone without coffee since before I started drinking it my sophomore year of college. I don’t miss the impulsiveness, the anxiety, and the aggression that accompanied the habit, for me. Whenever I hear a car honking at someone on the road these days, I think, “Somebody hasn’t had their coffee.” No, I don’t miss that agitation for myself one bit.

I haven’t set a resolution for this year yet. Perhaps I’ll aim to be more mindful, to be intentional with what I consume, and to be better at recognizing all the little things that are good rather than all the little things that are bad. I don’t know if a negative bias can be flipped, but I am going to actively try. In broad terms, my resolution is to live well, for myself and for those around me and to not take away from them living well. I will read plenty and write plenty because it gives me a sense of purpose and fulfillment which leads to more happy days. I will spend time in the company of the people who I love and I will be present and grateful.

I hope you are all reading this somewhere warm and pleasant, whether it is at home, in your office, or on your phone. Wherever you are, I challenge you to internalize three things that are good today, as you are, no matter how big or small. Two for me are writing this post and knowing that some of you are reading it. Thank you for being you and for being part of this cozy community. Cheers to all that 2026 has in store for us, the ups, the downs, the learning moments, the successes, and the failures to balance them out and make the good moments really shine. Wherever you are and whatever you do, I hope you are living well. Thanks for reading!

Cozy Posts

Stormy October Morning

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Hello, dear readers, dear friends. It’s been a little while since I’ve written here and I thought I’d draft a snippet of a picture for you all of a cozy, little morning on this stormy, October day. I invite you to bundle up in a big, comfy sweatshirt or a warm sweater and imagine yourselves drinking something rising with swirls of steam that warm your cheeks, the ceramic of your mug pleasantly hot against your palms and fingers as you join me on the big, blue couch. Help yourself to a squashy pillow for your back or a warm throw for your lap. Kick off those shoes, put your feet up, and get yourselves nice and comfy.

The wind howls outside and the waves of the Atlantic are churned, abundant with choppy white. The branches of the trees dance, the fragile leaves rustle, and the seagrass bows with the occasional strong gust. The bones of our home creak with each brace against the elements, sheltering us well from the storm as we look on from our perch, set high in the hill.

Inside, the lamps are glowing, casting little pools of gold in the corners of the room. The curtains are open to take in the view of the gray, blustery day outside- a Nor’Easter, in fact, a storm not bad enough to have a name, but a storm no less.

I taste the faint hint of orange peel in my tea and savor the lingering warmth from a hearty breakfast of steel cut oats with peanut butter and maple syrup. Soon it’ll be time to reheat the kettle. Would you care for a cup? Tea, hot cocoa, coffee perhaps? How do you take it? Milk? Sugar? Cinnamon?

Today calls for reading, don’t you think, something inviting and adventurous. I’ll pick a book or maybe two from the wooden shelf stocked with favorite reads, family photos, handmade pumpkins, and the little, wooden chess board that my dad made. Where shall we venture today, friends? I’m favoring a visit to the Burrow, myself, I think. I slide Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets off the shelf and flip to page 32 for a healthy little dose of cozy.

I’m a skip ahead-er when it comes to my favorites, finding the scenes that evoke a sense of comfort for me. Any other skip ahead-ers here with me on the big blue couch this morning? What are you reading today? Where are you off to in the imaginary world? Who are you off to see? To meet?

The rain drip, drip, drips from the door overhang outside and the neighbor’s coffee pot bubbles next door. I still miss the sound in my own kitchen some days.

I imagine the deer, who often visit, sheltered from the wind this morning, huddled and warm somewhere beneath a colorful arbor of branches, enjoying a breakfast feast of lingering greenery and late blooming flowers, undisturbed by people.

I’m headed to the Shire next to savor some peaceful nature, myself. It feels like a good time to pay another visit to a merry band of sweet, brave hobbits I’m acquainted with as they embark on an adventure that I’m absolutely certain will be bigger than four little hobbits could ever possibly anticipate, while somehow being just the right size, all the same.

You are welcome to linger as long as you like. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be nestled over here in the crook of the long, cozy seat of the big, blue couch with some squashy pillows for company, wandering another world for little whiles at a time.

Books · Cozy Posts · Travel

Monday Observations

Beth DeFries4 Comments

I’ve been waiting for a cool, gray day where the seagrass sways and the rose of Sharon bows in the damp and the breeze. The curtains billow at the open windows, faithful spectrals awaiting loves long lost at sea. Come back to me, they whisper, unanswered. I don’t have the heart to tell them.

The ocean’s an unraveled bolt of fabric, pre-hemmed with white and ready to cut, too unwieldy for the machine, too expansive for the hand, destined to sit on the shelf, admired and fading, to inspire projects too elaborate for fruition, aspirations never addressed, dreams destined to remain unrealized.

A freighter snails its way along the horizon line, containers catching the view from the highest stack. “Bon voyage, mes amis!” je dis, “Et merci pour votre service!” I’ve been practicing my French again. Montreal’s this week et je suis un peu rouillée, j’ai peur.

I write at the window, sipping Earl Grey without caffeine, feeling the lack of coffee today, but that’s ok. We cut our demons for a reason, right? We feel the lack of them sometimes, but we must carry on. The golden glow of the table lamps helps to fill the void left behind by coffee’s lack. I savor over-steeped bergamot instead, robust and resonant in flavor. I warm my cheeks, my hands in swirls of steam.

I’m feeling the doubt of sharing a long-form fiction project with a handful of friends a couple of weeks ago now, doubt being my greatest talent, or at least sometimes that’s how it feels. I bolster myself. Have courage; it’s there somewhere inside your head, in your heart, in your gut. Be proud of your words, that collage of letters, chapters, characters built in your mind. You love them and they deserve the chance to be read.

It’s Monday and I’m getting excited for the new adventures this week will bring, the sights and smells and tastes and sounds of a place I’ve never set foot in before. This week, I also anticipate finishing reading a series that I’ve been reading for over a year now.

I went to forty-sixth and second in New York. They sell roses at the market on the corner across from Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza. There is no turtle in the fountain, but the fountain is there and I wondered if anyone has reached the tower sitting there in that little urban oasis, tucked away from the fray, somehow in another world. In. Mid. End. Keystone. There’s just one thing left to do. Read. And then I’ll know what it was all for, this journey, this year. And when I’m done, I’ll buy a rose from the market and I’ll leave it on a bench for another adventurer to wonder at. For what is life without wonder? What is life without intrigue and imagination?

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

The Adventurers

Beth DeFries1 Comment

We live for adventure, you and I.

We live for it here,

for each step, each breath, each song

sung along to in the kitchen, the shower, the hallway,

doing laundry and dishes that have to be done.

Life is a beautiful mess with you.

The mess just means we’re living.

We wear out our shoes and our jeans,

our socks and our old tee shirts.

There’s sand in the bath, hair on the sinks, and trash in the waste baskets.

We live and it shows.

It sounds and it looks and it smells like us here,

as it should,

as we’d live it.

We crave the smiles and expressions,

the weekend mornings spent lounging,

reading books and articles,

watching shows and “content” and DVDs,

playing games about planes,

even booking tickets on real ones, every so often.

We capture little moments throughout the day

and keep the ones that stick to make us smile later on.

We savor quiet nights, cooking aromas, and sampled tastes,

the smell of sunscreen and oatmeal in the mornings,

cold cream, soap, and toothpaste at the end of the day.

We capture visions from hilltops, from mountains, 

climbing up the little bumps on the world

to soothe our hunger to explore.

We store them in our heads and in pictures,

file them away for use in our dreams, our memories.

We make shadows in the sun,

heat at our backs, giants on pavement, 

their footsteps synchronized with our own,

tagging along on our meandering journey.

We set our sights on now and tomorrow and the next day, 

only looking far ahead when it’s practical to

which, let’s face it,

you do for the both of us, oftentimes.

We are an amateur cover band with no audience, 

singing bluegrass, indie, rock, and pop

to the tiles, the walls, the car windows.

We are background noise you only get on the hundredth listen,

wandering a broad and varying soundscape.

The music is often on, it seems,

but sometimes there’s silence and we like that too.

There’s sleep 

and days full of nothing

but sitting with you on the big blue couch

in this place where we live for the adventure that’s living,

in this place where we live,

you and I.

Mental Health · Poetry · Social Media · Travel

On Crickets and Fireflies

Beth DeFries3 Comments

I was reminded last week, by some truly lovely friends, that a handful of people actually read this. They brought up that I’ve been “pretty quiet over there” for a while. I was surprised that anybody noticed, to tell you the truth. I’ve been a little blocked with the personal stuff lately, see, or maybe just a little more reluctant to share for worry that people aren’t interested because that’s how it seems when you send personal writing out into the world and get crickets back. It’s pretty quiet from where I sit too sometimes. That’s just part of the process though, I tell myself. If people want to engage, they will. If they don’t, they won’t and that’s just fine. I need the outlet either way sometimes, the one way radio, so to speak.

The inspiration for the stuff that seems to do well with my readers on here, whom I don’t actually know- poetry (which still surprises me) dried up soon after I nixed coffee over two months back, which I don’t really understand, other than to know that I’ve never felt more emotionally stable than I do these days. Wouldn’t it be nice if the urge to write some rhymes or freeform comes back and I get to keep this nice, calm brain? Is life that good? I sure hope so.

It’s been hot here in NJ for the past few days after feeling like March for weeks beforehand. I was tired of the rain and the cold, but I wouldn’t mind if the cool, stormy weather came calling again, looking for a place to crash after a flight delay.

We took a trip to Miramar Beach, FL this month. I didn’t write about it and I probably won’t beyond this. It was restful and fun with a lot of family time that made me smile and a few dips in the turquoise Gulf that’ll have me missing that beautiful, warm water with each icy plunge into the Atlantic this summer.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was lucky enough to see some really wonderful friends last week, then some more later in the week, one of whom I hadn’t caught up with in many years. I’m pretty terrible at keeping in touch, it turns out, other than writing here and even that’s not been so good lately. I don’t even use social media anymore. It felt too inauthentic, the line between “friends” and strangers too blurred.

When I’m with my people face to face, I try to make up for lost time. It’s always so refreshing to see a familiar face, to hear their laugh or tone of voice, or to catch the unique little mannerisms or humor that make my loved ones who they are. It’s like watching fireflies in the indigo night, little blips of brilliance that transform the dark to magic.

I hope you are all happy and staying cool and thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Jean, for calling me out. I needed it. 💖