Category Archives: Vermont

When Your Parents Die

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Some years back, a wise Vermont friend told me, “When both of your parents are gone, it’s as if a roof over your head has suddenly disappeared that you never even knew existed.” I wondered what that would feel like.

When my old Fathah recently died (he loved being called “Fathah” with a Boston accent), I found out. Even though we had been taking care of him, not he of us, he’d remained always somehow … in charge. Now I’m adrift. Untethered. When my mother died six years ago, I became an easy crier. So when people offer me condolences with those pained eyes, I lose it. Which makes me want to avoid people. No roof. I feel for people whose parents died young. Their roof was more evident, and necessary.

I was fortunate to be in the room when he went. It was painful, and beautiful, and profound. And painful. I had raced to be there in a rental car in the dark and somehow made it. Maybe he’d waited. 

Just as I got there, 21 members of his choir arrived to him in his bed. I’ll never forget it. They did parts of “Peace like a River” and “Amazing Grace,” a song I never cared for untilI learned its history just this year. He opened his eyes and smiled. Someone made a crack about football and he smiled wider. My father was nearly deaf. Yet he heard them. 

He couldn’t speak, so I “watered” him with straw-fuls of water, and said a lot, which flooded out of me as I wept. I sang into his “good” ear a gospel song he loved, “Down To The River.” And a bit of the Eagles. I was lucky because so many people camp out for days or weeks and the second they go for coffee, their parent takes off. I am certain that at one point he could see me. My father was blind.

He stopped breathing. Then his heart slowed. The nurse got a stethoscope. She said softly, “He’s going.” Pause. “He’s going.” And then my Fathah left the earth. 

I had an awful time leaving his body behind. What if he was still in the room? My sister said by phone, “No way he’s still there. He hated it there. He’s back at the house!” I drove to his house, rolled in my luggage, turned on all the lights inside and out, cranked his beloved Eagles, surrounded by 1,000 photos my parents had framed, and keened.

I’m not a fan of the simple “Sorry for your loss,” or (to vets), “Thank you for your service.”  Each feels a little pat. I’ll say instead, “I’m just so sorry,” or “Thank you for what you’ve done for our country.” I know vets who have given so damned much. I liked it when one person wrote me, “I’m sorry for the loss,” and another: “Well, that sucks.”

The Gifts of the People 
When someone I haven’t seen in a while asks, “How’s it going?”, I sometimes exclaim, “My father died!” It’s all I need to say. Now their expectations of me are lowered, and the window opens for their wisdoms, which have been legion. A sampling:

A brilliant comedy writer friend who’s lost many people texted, “You never get over it. But you get used to not getting over it.”

A tennis pal wrote, “Death is such a part of life … natural, normal, and PAINFUL. We are all holding you up!” Later: “Think about jotting down some favorite memories. Stuff that doesn’t make the obit. It might be an ongoing list you can reflect on just for you. It’s a giant swing of emotions when it’s a parent.”

A library friend emailed, “I think of my parents as the wings that keep me going. I’m made of their DNA, so they’re always with me.”

Someone else said: “I never realized what a big deal it is when your parents die. Then mine did.”

A cashier said, “When you don’t have a good relationship with a parent and they die, you never get a chance to repair it.” A few people said this. My internal reaction was, “Well, it’s really the parent’s job to repair it.” But a healer I know recounted how he, as a young child, initiated the repairing. His father even mentioned it to him upon his deathbed.

The officiant at Fathah’s service has been a minister for decades. I asked how he keeps doing it. He said, “I do it. Then, I move onto the next person to help.” I have found that, indeed, helping others is a massive balm. Traumatized people agree.

A lovely local minister I’ve never met offered a phone call. He said many things that helped. “Everyone is surprised at their emotions when someone dies … it is a matrix of circumstances and personalities. You’re not in control of their death, or your feelings or thoughts. It is beyond your ability. Unless the feelings are intrusive, ongoing, embrace them.” 

He went on. If you had a difficult relationship: “Examine in your heart why you are having these feelings. You cannot get to the bottom of it, but it can help to get inside their head. Ask God why they said or did the things they did.” It was odd he said this, because I’d recently had an epiphany where I “got” that my father’s criticisms were sometimes about his concern for me. He thought I was making the wrong decisions or on the wrong side of politics. He feared for me.

A dear contemporary whose husband died a 2 years ago wrote, “I feel like I’m in Stage 15, not that I have numbered them. Lots of examining stuff in a new light, as if I’ve moved onto higher ground and am looking back and down. Still pain, but a softer ache. Regret and acceptance.”

Ah, regret. That has been terrible. Not just the second parent to go, but the one I had a less easy relationship with. Also, he went so quickly. I thought we’d have weeks together, not one hour. When I find the clippings I was to read to him, the earbuds for him to hear my audiobook — or music — a memory of Christmases past, a post-it of cheery news about Barnard and Vermont … I bawl with a burning regret. I never got the chance. People say, “Read it to him now!” Oh friends, it’s so not the same. And much as I grieve for myself, and his wish to live longer, I’m relieved he’s out of pain.

Recently, an old friend and I were talking about the loss of certain houses in our lives. When I brought it up, I thought she’d think me petty, but she was totally on board, regaling me with stories of her grandparent’s magical house (replete with a non-working carousel and working miniature trains big enough to ride). Others agreed. 

You can picture every inch of the house. The old appliances and countertops, the cabinets, lighting, the bed you slept in so soundly. If they die, you go through every inch of the place deciding what to keep. Your parents’ entire lives are chronicled in the house. But you’d need a museum to keep it all. Then someone buys it and utterly destroys its character. White cabinetry? A tear-down? When the house goes, all the memories that were inside … vanish. They are now only in your head. And as others pass on, there is ultimately only one Keeper of the Memories. Which is the strangest thing.

What I have mostly found is this: no matter what shape they were in when they died, you always wanted more time with them. Even just five minutes. You don’t want them to suffer, at all, but at least when you had to take care of them, they were still in the room. You could still be loving, even if it was only going in just one direction. You don’t want them to go.

I have heard this sometimes happens even when the parent was declining with memory loss. Initially, they’re on the phone trying to figure out whom they’re speaking with (their own child), or rooting for the wrong team in sports — some of it tragic in the moment and later comical, or vice versa. Then it gets worse. Much worse. But children do not always feel relief when that parent dies. They don’t want them to go.

There is no way I’m going to grieve this time as long as I did for my mother (3 years?). Fathah had a great life and knew it. I’m going to grief counseling, the gym, the woods, acupuncture. I’ll call those who offered to talk. Including Hospice personnel, God love them.

Take Dictation
One last piece of advice. As trips to Fathah 1,000 miles away became increasingly undoable, I’d take “dictation” from him by phone about his life. He loved talking — and having a secretary again, I think. All of his gems informed the obit, and gave me things to tell my family and his sister that we never knew. It also explained some things.

I leave you with a laugh. My dad had a great big sense of humor, and would be thrilled I ended with this. It’s the funniest, yet loving, obit:

https://www.fayobserver.com/obituaries/m0028451/

Goodby, Fathah. I love you so. Thank you for everything. Good night.

Ann Aikens is an author, columnist, speaker, and blogger. Her darkly comical book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, was published in 2023, her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find events and bookshops at annaikens.com; her blog is uppervalleygirl.com. Her father was delighted by her humble scribblings.

20 Years Later…

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Pilgy the Pilgrim awaits the guests, in his dual roles as Sentry and Greeter, as he has on this day for 20 years since I bought him at the then-existent Ben Franklin store (like Woolworth’s).

Where I go, he goes. May he have the pleasure of greeting YOU one day. I have not yet washed his little plastic fanny.

Pilgy says: Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Desperately Seeking Zero Waste

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Dear Reader may find this loopy, or just annoying. But some of you can relate.

I cannot discard non-biodegradable garbage of any kind. If I go somewhere with no recycling (a Massachusetts nursing home, a Maine hotel), I throw my soda can in the garbage in disgust. Later, I secretly retrieve it, and put it in my car. Can’t help myself. 

Maybe my aversion to throwing things out began with Poverty Mentality, but definitely resourcefulness. As a child, I would decorate my dollhouse with refuse. Inspired perhaps by the TV show “Land of the Giants” – which we would re-enact with our Barbies® – I’d use a toothpaste cap as a dollhouse wastebasket; tiny sea shells as ashtrays (one in every room!); a clear marble as a crystal ball. I fished mini-detritus out of the trash at home, my imagination spinning.

Now, I discuss needless waste occasionally with a similarly obsessed colleague. Yet even she once talked me into throwing out a damaged binder clip. She said, (and it’s not the first time someone has said this to me): “It’s garbage.” I sighed. Okay. But how many mangled binder clips alone litter this earth? Face masks? Fact: plastic grocery bags and sandwich bags take 1,000 years to decompose. There is massive trash on the ocean floor. It is called “marine debris,” and Saturday September 20th is International Coastal Cleanup! Go here to find a coordinator worldwide. 

In my defense, I can discard a tattered sock (after I use it to clean something) or other rubbish no one else in their right mind would want (a scratched CD; half a shoe).

Once I asked an acquaintance about what to do with small pieces of foil. Zero-sort recycling companies typically demand that objects be 2” by 2” at minimum – or they can “break the machine.” The acquaintance suggested rolling the bits into larger pieces of foil, forming a 2 by 2” ball. Which I do to this day. I collect the bits in a jar with glee …
x-treme recycling! Picturing them in landfill makes me go berserk.

I also say, “No flower before its time.” When a vase is starting to croak, I pull only the dying flowers and leave the living. Also with grapes and such. I really push it. And while I won’t eat something that’s “going by” in its raw state, I’ll cook it. Food waste in this world of people literally starving to death is, simply, criminal. Rotting food in landfills produces methane, an even more potent greenhouse gas than CO2.

I won’t knowingly use AI. The (coal-powered?) giant computers required to run it, tons of water as a coolant … no thanks. It’s hard to avoid AI now.

But I’m no saint. I use paper towels. Saran wrap. Toothpaste. Glitter is the enemy of the environment, per my SIL, so I feel terrible when I wear glitter nail polish or vintage clothing with sparkles that fall off. I discard much of the Bloomin’ Onion at the Tunbridge Fair. My favorite commute was at the Comedy Cellar when I walked downstairs and was … at work! My least favorite: Driving to Dartmouth for seven years from central VT. The li’l Stagecoach bus back then killed my back. But the car killed my carbon footprint. For life.

Happily, many Vermonters are lucky, with easy backyard composting (food scraps being banned from our landfills in 2020). At the New World Festival, the dining “plasticware” was wood. Many events have cans marked for Waste, Compost, or Recycling. Love it, if not the reprobates who ignore the signage.

A friend who often has guests saves to-go coffee cups and lids. When you leave, you get a nice, hot coffee for the road. We both re-use paper towels and zip-lock bags. Don’t worry, it doesn’t get more disgusting than that.

People who don’t care about reducing, recycling, reusing, repurposing …. what? Do not all Earthlings care about the horrors of droughts, high-powered storms, heat waves, and sand storms (in Phoenix?!)? Twelve-cylinder vehicles idling with no human in sight: what gives?

A young journalist at work recently brought her lunch salad in a plastic container that originally had food in it from the store. Re-use! I wept. Here’s another weeper.  What great American novel is this quote from? 

“These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall … this lovely world, these precious days.” Submit guesses to ann@ourherald.com. No cheating!

Let’s keep our world lovely, shall we? I close with what a nutter friend once said about the idiocy of importing bottled water from other countries. He said, “Look. Look around! We have plenty of water. Right. Here.” He also had my favorite bumper sticker: “I’m Sorry for Driving so Close in Front of You.” But I digress. Good day.

Ann Aikens’ comical, uplifting book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, is available online and in Vermont shops, the audiobook on Amazon.  She has written her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find more of her writing at uppervalleygirl.com; information at annaikens.com.

Double Whammy Double Your Fun

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Not only is the crazy NIGHT BLOOMING CEREUS throwing out 4 buds (a first…more on that later), my humble book is available on Amazon for ZERO DOLLARS thru July 31 (midnight Pacific time).

So stay tuned for NBC 2025, apparently a banner year. The next images will be more clear. And don’t hold your breath, it’s not entirely likely that all 4 buds will bloom. I’ve never had more than one.

Digital is FREE for 2 days. Also avail in PB, HC, and as an audio book. Film at eleven.

Creature Comforts and Deciding to be Happy

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Green Up Day is for me, as it may be for Dear Reader, one of Vermont’s top 10 events. I examine every piece of detritus that I bag – and wear latex gloves. It is all brought to the dump by others at no cost to us collectors. We leave our findings road side in green garbage bags for them to transport.

The good people of the Land honk as they drive by. I know they’re not the same people that thought it a good idea to sully the Land – with cigarette butts, vape refuse, car parts, micro- and macro-plastics, undetermined rubber-plastics in shapes that make no sense at all, and things far too disgusting for print in a journal as lofty as the Herald, in the small stretch of mileage I clean up. I ponder items I can’t figure out (what is it?), and ignore my pants falling down as I bend over. Did I say lofty?

Making a place nicer is so uplifting. I can’t imagine why people enjoy making it grosser. With every roadside can of Truly, made by the Boston Beer Company, I wonder, “Truly? You truly thought it OK to toss this out your car window?” Who are these miscreants? These degenerates. These litter bugs.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the decades, it’s not to waste time getting steamed up over the behavior of inconsiderate juveniles, who are, let’s face it: often adults. Let us save our anger for more worthy causes.

Now I have known some preternaturally cheery people – children aside, who are hopefully joyful because they haven’t been battered by life yet (and yes, horribly, many have been, worldwide). But included in the chipper group have been, oddly, people who’ve actually had it the hardest in life. They don’t seem to be peeved or self-pitying much.

Thinking about them, during my recent bouts of anger and dismay, made me feel not exactly guilty. More like … inept. What is their secret? Were they just born that way?

The more people you know, the more triumphs you hear about, also the more sorrows. You hurt for others who are in pain. The older you get, the more sorrows you experience yourself, and the more you hear about. And much of this you can do absolutely nothing about. Aside from lending a hand, a shoulder, tears, a smile, some cash.

But at one point this winter, I’d had it with feeling lousy about 27 (however valid) things. I recalled feeling happy, mischievous, adventuresome (!) as a child. I got a little ticked off, frankly, that things had headed south, in the world and in me. And I figured, dang it, I can have both. I can be both. I can be a sad, angry person as circumstances dictate, and I can be a jolly nutter as able. I can stubbornly refuse to let people and events hammer me down into chronic misery. What good am I to the creatures of the Land if I’m always in the hole? I decided to make an effort at being more cheerful.

I rested during snow, then rain. Slept in. Made nests of pillows and blankets. Called friends and fam I haven’t spoken to in ages. Wrote funny cards. Paid brief, comical visits to acquaintances. Pondered happy thoughts more. Read the writings of spiritual scholars more. Regarded our gorgeous natural landscape with awe more. Drove to faraway friends.

Mainly, I did things that felt good, so that I’d feel good. I don’t mean drinking a handle of bourbon, but if I wished to lie in bed watching TV and napping and eating all day on occasion, I did. So many people lack these luxuries; I felt they should be relished.

Well, I’m here to tell Dear Reader it really has mostly worked. It has. The arrival of spring and summer didn’t hurt a bit, even though, as per usual, April Showers brought May showers brought June heat. But events that would normally have thrown me off my horse just sort of glided by into the past without much ado. There was plenty to marvel at–particularly as spring sprang–with its usual unexpected vigor.

Then the test came. It was yet another dreary, rain-soaked Saturday. There was a lot of drama going down, not of my own making. I’m not a fan of drama. I admit I spiraled downwards, hell bent for leather. Sometimes, people are simply disappointing. Even cruel.

Clearly, maintaining a state of happiness can be a bit of work! It is not normal to be perpetually giddy, without a bunch of ketamine and hallucinogens anyway.  And while I am here to experience all of life’s emotions, I now seek a higher percentage of joy.

I’m no saint. I eat at McDonald’s, now that they don’t use Styrofoam. When I became a pescatarian for Lent, that Filet o’ Fish sure came in handy – and mighty McTasty, by Jesus – 100 times better than I remembered. 

And I say stupid things sometimes. I’m far less adult than I should be at my age. . I don’t know a lot. But I do endeavor these days to be kinder to myself and others, and to be a better human, on a weekly basis. Do good deeds. Be more loving. More smiling, regardless of that week’s degree of difficulty. Join causes that matter to me. Incite laughs. Compliment people out loud. Help strangers. Worry less. Ignore meanness, at least that directed solely at me. Is this a guaranteed formula for endless happiness? No, but I do recommend making the effort. There is a payoff, it seems. Try it, if you like? Report in as able. Good day.

Ann Aikens’ comical, uplifting book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, is available online and in Vermont shops. It was recently released as an audiobook on Amazon.  She has written her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find more of her writing at uppervalleygirl.com; information at annaikens.com.

Free eBook NOW thru Sunday (midnight Pacific time) Audiobook now LIVE. Podcast coming soon. Prizes! 🎁

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Free downloads at the Amazon. Click on the free $0.00 eBook at upper right. No need to own a Kindle. Sign up for my e-list at www.annaikens.com and win a Prize! And my undying LERV.
Have I listened to my own audiobook yet? No I haven’t. It’s hard.

Pretty please REVIEW if you’ve read a few pages. Not just Amazon stars, but words?

Let’s Figure This One Out Together

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In the Bleak Midwinter

Oftentimes, this column starts as a handful of tips I’ve gleaned over a month, via reading and conversations. I cobble a column together for Dear Reader around those tips, tying them together with an emerging theme. The theme becomes the title. It’s not an intellectual process; it just unfolds. Let us see, together, where this one goes, shall we? I’m curious myself.

This December, for many, was a month of x-treme holiday busy-ness (performances, volunteering, religious services, gift-getting and making, and decorating—which always unearths some cry-worthy old family ornament or photo or child’s art). Many felt the holiday prep time too compressed this year, a full weekend shorter than usual. I think this is why people kept saying, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas.” Or maybe that’s just the age of the crowd I run with. 

With all the socializing, there was much discussion of the Current State of Things, at home and abroad. There was some hopefulness, a lot of apprehension, and less faith in governing bodies and corporations (and people) than I’ve ever heard in my lifetime. Maybe that blasted pandemic rocketed us into not just a new direction, but a new dimension entirely. In 10 years it’ll all make more sense. Like when a presidency or marriage is later re-evaluated in the longer scheme of history. Too soon to tell.

For now: some tips. Then let’s see if we can extract the columnular Theme, which so far remains unclear.

Hang Out with Others if it Kills You
You may have over-mingled last month. But while allowing less time for solitude and wintry deep thots, spending time with the right people is a sane-making distraction at the least, and a whale of a good time at the most. Get in the habit of getting together, no matter the temperature, before that nasty Cabin Fever kicks in.

Jar of Thanks
There is a free magazine available in churches (stay with me here). “The Upper Room,” written by ordinary folks worldwide, has a daily Bible quote with an uplifting personal story from the “ordinary” author. The one for New Year’s Eve was by an American who writes on a slip of paper every day something he’s thankful for, and puts it in a jar. On New Year’s Day, he empties the jar and reads them all. I started mine, in a funky vase that catches the light. Dear Reader can start one late, who cares? It’s proves a lovely way to end the day. I bet it’ll make New Year’s Day a real bawlfest. “Oh, remember that? How dear! Boo hoo hoo.” Can’t wait.

Make Goals, Not Resolutions
Attainable goals. Not, “I’ll go to the gym every day for 5 years.” (Or: making a list of your accomplishments in the prior year can be more fun.) My main goal, if I may reveal: to feel cheery in the face of all manner of reasons not to be. Despite terrible things happening, it does no one any good to feel hopeless or lousy. Acknowledge the event, do something about it if you can, then shift gears. Wish me luck, I’m not good at this. Others are. I’m open to advice.

Lie to Yourself
…in the mirror and say, “Damn, I look better already!” Maybe you do.

Spread Reasons to be Cheerful 
The New York Times, which keeps stats separate from the FBI, calculated in 2024 an actually far lower rate of murder than in recent years, along with other violent crimes. It’s not often you see “violent crimes” or “murder rate” in a piece meant to be uplifting, but there you have it. Now go look at NASA’s Image of the Day. Exquisite or weird, each is mindblowing and broadens your perspective.

Share Helpful Tips
Here’s how to glue different materials together, suggested by a techie whiz kid I know.

How to fix your own devices: Nearly every appliance and electronics device, large or small, bears a plate or panel with the model# and serial#. Take a photo of it. Then go to www.partselect.com, where you can search by brand, model/part, or symptom.

Good Deeds
… are as strong a medicine as laughter. Focusing on others, not yourself, and ameliorating someone else’s situation, well, what’s better than that? It’s even in The Wizard of Oz: “Back where I come from there are men who do nothing all day but good deeds. They are called phila… er, phila… er, yes, er, Good Deed Doers.”  They must be very happy people, Mr. Wizard!

Have and Cause Laffs
Years ago, a colleague’s son visited his grandmother at Christmas time and saw her miniature nativity scene. Upon returning home he remarked, “Grandma’s Jesus dollhouse is really cool.” 

A friend who’s half Jewish/half Catholic celebrates both holidays. When her kids were young, the rabbi from Chabad House arrived unexpectedly. They couldn’t not invite him in, so they all maneuvered him to keep him from seeing their Christmas tree. “Check out our new painting!” or, “Oh look, a bird!” Still cracks me up.

I highly recommend hanging around people who have contagious laughs (Anderson Cooper?), and listening to the recent “Fiasco!” episode of the This American Life (now on podcast). These true stories of fiascos are hilarious. I was laughing so hard I almost drove off the road.  People who drove past me then also snickered. It made me feel we were all in this together, which we of course are.

So, what does Dear Reader think these ingredients create thematically? The pieces seem to be this: help others, and spread good cheer, hot tips, and big laffs. Which we will definitely need in 2025, which promises to be a weird one. How we start the New Year is important; start early on establishing new habits this year. (I began my year with a snowy walk and a nap. Not bad!) Adversity has been and will always be there, as will wrenching stories of ills befalling others.  Our good spirits and good deeds are the best antidote. We are indeed all in this together.  

I have absolutely no idea how this can coalesce into a succinct columnular title. Wait:  I think it’s the one I already wrote; just make it about the year ahead instead of about this humble column.

Tell me about your first good deed of 2025. How was it, exciting? I’m certain it was. Good year, Dear Reader, good good-deed doing, and good day.

Ann Aikens is an author, columnist, speaker, and blogger. Her darkly comical book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, was published in 2023, her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find contact info and bookshops at annaikens.com; her blog is uppervalleygirl.com.

Good Time of Year for Repairs

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As we’ve been snowed in, and will (hopefully) continue to be early and often, it’s a great time of year for puttering. This pony’s leg broke off above the fetlock … 10 years ago? It’s in a Baggie that I trot out with all my ornaments every year — and never deal with — before putting it away in January.

This is the year. With advice from This to That, a website tip from a whiz-bang smarty colleague of mine. “Because people have a need to glue things to other things.”

‘Tis The Season to be Gifty (and Thrifty!)

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For me, gift shopping has to do with the experience. I rarely buy gifts online. I much prefer holiday craft bazaars and going to magical shops like New Moon and Royal Towne Gifts in Randolph, Free Verse Farm Shop in Chelsea, Althea’s Attic Boutique in Montpelier, Yankee Bookshop in Woodstock, a dozen others. Go see the lights in Bethel one night! Lovely.

Books make great presents because they can be re-gifted to friends or donated to charities. I’m currently digging a book by local publisher, Inner Traditions in Rochester, “The Culinary Pharmacy: Intuitive Eating, Ancestral Healing, and your Personal Nutrition Plan.” For the health conscious, crunchy people, and self-improvers on your list, it’s ideal.

For those being tormented one way or another at work, school, or home, let them Snark in the New Year with “The Snark Handbook.” This will arm them with witty zingers. Hilarious. The GIFT of laffs – and verbal self-defense. Sample: “Gee what a terrific party. Later on we’ll get some fluid and embalm each other.” – Neil Simon.

Instead of gift cards to big box stores, try gift certificates at local stores. Even auto parts stores sell them! Your beloveds may want art or art supplies or a haircut or movie tickets or dining … almost any place you can think of sells gift certificates, at the amount you want. It keeps your local economy going and your gifting off the internet, which has sadly destroyed independent shops worldwide. I’ve had stores invent a gift certificate for me on the spot.

I particularly like gifting something to do. Show tickets, a season’s pass or gym membership, or a class such as ceramics, stained glass, or any of the many offerings at the White River Craft Center. Piano lessons, horseback riding, Reiki … any class at all. What about a blank book you give to a retired person, in which they can chronicle their life? Gifts of fun! And really, what’s more fun that reading your local newspaper? A subscription to the Herald … perfect.

If you’ve written a book or are thinking of it, or know someone who did and want to give them a monumental gift … might I suggest the audio book recording maven in Shelburne: Voice Over Vermont. She’s super relaxed, nice, and smart, with the coziest setup (or she can direct you from your home or local studio). Not only is she affordable compared to other, less-excellent companies, she is a fantastic director. Which I promise you need. It’s far harder to read out loud than you think.

And at the pinnacle, there’s the most precious gift, the gift you made yourself.  Pen a song or poem or cartoon for someone. You can gift food, knits, cuttings from your favorite plants, bathtub gin, art, or anything else you’ve created. I’ve concocted uneven pot holders, crooked scarves, sketchy pillow cases, sorry-looking hats, childlike tree ornaments, lopsided ceramics — and exquisite deodorant. Each was well received. For the person who has everything, a calendar with meaningful photos is fantastic. You can now order them easily online (and in some pharmacies), but for years I made mine with actual photos glued carefully into a calendar sold for this purpose at the Pink Smock Shop at Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital. When you come across these years later, they blow your bean, pleasantly. Tip: hospital gift shops can always use your money.

Broke? Gift a service you will provide with a homemade, redeemable coupon. Surely I read this in a women’s magazine in 1982. It can be a massage, errand, snow shoveling, planting in the spring, or, if you’ve completely lost your mind, oven cleaning. Maybe you could teach someone how to do something. Show them how to make a Manhattan? You can use a low-end whiskey like The Famous Grouse as long as you use top shelf cherries, like Luxardo Italian. Boom.

Honestly, I think the most enchanted part of winter in my childhood was quietly shoveling people’s driveways in the dark while they were still at work, so they’d come home to a nice surprise. Heavily influenced in youth by the “Brownie Scout Handbook,” wherein at some point elves called Brownies did tasks for people (cobbling shoes?) anonymously at night without asking for any thanks (a true mitsvah!), I felt my secret shoveling a kind of sacred mischief. I relished every pass with the shovel, every sweep of the steps. It used to snow more back then, the big white fluffy kind I call “Hollywood snow” falling gently on my eyelashes and cheeks as I did my good deed. I shoveled out a Danish widow who worked long hours at the United Nations. A woman who’d fallen and had her jaw wired shut to heal. An elderly couple. A woman who championed, way ahead of her time, the rights of – and employment opportunities for – her intellectually disabled daughter and others like her. For these kindhearted and hardworking neighbors, it was the least I could do. I hope that today kids get off screens long enough to experience the unspeakable joy that comes from doing a good deed. And knowing their neighbors.

Funny, I’d forgotten entirely about all that. Also this: a decade ago I was panicking on my way back to Vermont on Amtrak. A massive storm had struck the east coast and I had to roll my luggage from the Randolph train station to my house in snow that the plows could not keep up with, a good quarter mile. The train had arrived late. It was dark and the snow was really coming down. I dreaded the final lap of wading through two feet of accumulated driveway snow with my suitcase in my arms like a giant baby … until, sweating, I approached my dimly lit home, stopped to catch my breath, and looked up. What had happened here? What was going on? Why, someone had snow-blown my driveway! I was exclaiming out loud, crying with thankfulness at this great kindness. I don’t generally believe at all that what goes around comes around, but in this case it did.

Well, Dear Reader and your Humble Columnist better get a move on. As you approach the clubhouse turn of holiday shopping, I do hope this has been of some use, or at the least entertaining. Because sometimes in the midst of all the holiday prep and partying, it’s best to don your gay apparel and just … sit down and read the paper. Good prep, good holidays, and good new year to all.

Ann Aikens is an author, columnist, speaker, and blogger. Her darkly comical book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, was published in 2023, her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find events and bookshops at annaikens.com; her blog is uppervalleygirl.com.