Thursday Th(ink)s - November 13, 2025

Remembering While I Still Can

I’m in the Thursday of my life—the long afternoon between what was and what will be. The end

of the week is coming, the pace has slowed, the light is softer, and remembering has become

sacred. This week, remembering takes center stage, helped along by poppies, bagpipes, and the

faint sound of both “O Canada” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” in my head.

In Canada, November 11 is Remembrance Day. On the 11th month, the 11th day, at the 11th

hour, we pause for silence to honor those who fell in service to Canada. Known for its

peacekeeping role, our armed forces are small but mighty—a triad of land, sea, and air

protectors. Give me a poppy for my wool coat!

If you grew up in Canada, you know we won the War of 1812. If you grew up in the USA, you

think we lost it. (Elbows have been up ever since.) That war ended with the Treaty of Ghent,

eased tensions, united Canada’s French and English who lived in the same neighbourhoods, and

gave both countries a polite border—no wall, just a quiet, “Sorry about the need for one.”

Brunede Kartofler (caramelized potatoes) recipe inside. Now THAT'S potatoes! Thanks, Enjer, for your service to the Danish people.

My father was a Danish immigrant. His father—my Bedstefar—told stories of his “heroic” work

in the army during German occupation. His job? Potato peeler. He single-handedly sustained the

army, or so he said. We believed him. I still do, even when I buy my potatoes, mashed and

packaged in sustainable plastic and cellophane, at Costco. My, how the farm girl has fallen.

Navy's certification of certainty: pollywog to shellback.

In the U.S., November 11 is Veterans Day—a time to honor those who serve and sacrifice for the

common good. My husband was of age for the Vietnam draft, but unlike many of his surfing

safari friends, his number was never called. His father, though, served in WWII on the USS

Wasp—a replacement for the one sunk in the North Pacific. A Pollywog turned Shellback, he

carried his memories proudly until his dying day. Our daughters still wear Grandpa’s Navy hat in

tribute to a good and honorable man.

Child number two (some years ago!), never without a book in her hand or a hat on her head. Thanks, Bob, for your service to the people!

All this to say—remembering is a gift. Especially as we age. Some memories ache. Some

comfort. Some pierce with joy. Like my spandex yoga pants, my memory bank always seems to

stretch for one more thought, one more recollection settling in, making itself at home.

But sometimes the memories quit. They vanish, and we don’t know why. It’s more than “Where

are my glasses?”—it’s “Who am I?” and “Who are you?” stuff. “I can’t remember how to live”

stuff.

Dying is built into our memory bank. Living is not. We won’t forget how to die, but we must

remember how to live.

This week of remembrance, I’ll remember that aging means I’m still living.

Thanks be to God.

Big Brains:  "Halleluiah, I’m sixty now, and even a little more, and some days I feel I have wings." -Mary Oliver

Old Souls: "When you see me sitting quietly,

Like a sack left on the shelf,

Don’t think I need your chattering.

I’m listening to myself." -Maya Angelou

The Ancient of Days: 

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." Revelation 21:4: 

Norma Jean Quote:

“Some memories ache,

some comfort — but all of them

remind me I’m still alive.”

Thursday Chat: Some days I can recall my childhood phone number but forget why I walked into the kitchen. Still, the fridge is in the kitchen. So, all is right with the world when a chilled Sauvignon Blanc and cheese are available.