Sugar Mountains


Yesterday, I got a text at 8 AM.

It said:

Do you remember making me a sugar mountain in college for my twentieth birthday? Doesn’t seem that long ago.

To which I responded:

Oh my gosh! I forgot about that!

I didn’t. I loved it. It’s a very clear memory.

I can’t believe your baby will be twenty today.

I know. I’m going to make him a sugar mountain.

This is making me cry.

Weird what things in life end up special memories. A paper cone with sugar packets stuck on it is forever in my memory and now (maybe) his. See what you did? You started a tradition. I’ll never forget that. Thank you.

I did, indeed, tape a piece of paper together to make a cone and staple sugar packets on it. Why? Because you can’t be twenty on sugar mountain. (Also, we loved Neil Young.) My best friend was leaving sugar mountain and I wasn’t. I wanted her to have a place she could return to if she wanted. That sculpture stayed up in our dorm room like a trophy for months.

I also unintentionally started a tradition. Yesterday, twenty-three years later, she made a sugar mountain for her son.

It isn’t always the big things (weddings, funerals, et al.) that make memories. You never know what will stay with someone, what will become a cherished memory. Sometimes it’s the smallest acts, the simple stapling of sugar packets to a paper cone.

Her last text message said:

Your boys are still there. I’ll remember to send them sugar mountains.


My random thoughts in 200 words or less.
(Excluding the texts—which I’m not counting. Yes, I’m cheating.)


Turning 41


That title doesn’t have a ring to it, does it? You know what I mean. Something like “Reflections On Turning 40”. ThoughtBubble

There is a difference between being 40 and being 41. Do you know what it is?

“Ooh! Pick me!”

“Okay, you in the corner.”

“One year.”


Last year, I wrote a post about turning forty (Over the Hill or 40 is the new 20). Although I complained a lot a bit in that post, I got used to being 40 pretty quickly. Much faster than I thought I would. It was fun to tell people I was forty.

And an ego boost to boot.

“You’re forty?! You don’t look forty.” They’d say “forty” like it was something they’d stepped in and wanted to wipe off their shoe. Apparently, 40 is not the new 20. But I took those as compliments anyway.

Now, though, I have to say that I’m forty-one. People have lost that I-smell-something-bad look but it’s been replaced with pity. Pity. Holy crap, really? Once you have to add a number (any number) after “forty”, it’s officially a pitiful thing.

You can’t say “I’m forty” you are now saying “I’m in my forties.” BIG difference.


My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.