​I had a conversation with a stranger the other day, and I’m glad I did.
 
Doing so was safe.  It was a sunny afternoon and I was pumping gas into my compact silver SUV.  A vehicle pulled up behind mine, and the driver got out of his car to fill up, too. 
 
He was wearing camouflage green Army fatigues.  I waited until I caught his eye.  “Thank you for your service,” I said.
 
There was a beat.  “Oh,” he replied.  “Thank you.  I really appreciate you saying that.”
 
As I drove away, I wondered how often soldiers are approached by unknown civilians like me, saying those five words.  I hope it’s a lot—especially when I also recalled how rare it was for Vietnam vets to hear this greeting.  Instead, many came home to angry protestors spitting on them and calling them baby killers. 
 
I hope we never again engage in a war so divisive and unpopular.   Although I’m not a fan of armed conflict (I like the bumper sticker that reads I’m Already Against the Next War), our soldiers deserve to hear that we support them. 
 
That’s because while I may not agree with the cause, these fearless folks are still serving our country in situations that, at best, are intensely boring and monotonous.  At worst, they’re stationed in the sketchiest parts of the world, where they could be killed in an instant.      
 
But mostly, soldiers deserve my respect because they’re brave in other ways that most of us never have to be. 
 
Perhaps, early on, they saw no viable future in the hardscrabble communities—places including the South Side of Chicago; Native American reservations in the Dakotas, and hollers in West Virginia—where they were born and raised. The military offers these populations a way to get out.    
 
And there are other reasons, probably more common than we think.  
 
Rob Scheer is the founder of Comfort Cases, a Maryland-based non-profit that gifts new backpacks, blankets and books to foster kids.  But when he was 18 years old, a high school senior and newly kicked out of the foster system himself, Scheer found himself homeless.
 
He signed up for the Navy.  “I didn’t join the military because I loved my country,” he says.  “I was going in it because I was hungry, I was cold, I was scared, and I had nowhere to go.” 
 
Women might have other motives. 
 
Maybe they’re escaping an abusive boyfriend, father or husband.  Or perhaps not college bound, they see dead end futures as fast food workers and receptionists.  In fact, a 2017 Pew Research Center report states that 15 percent of our active personnel are women, up four points from 1990.   
 
Then, there’s this.
 
Years before same sex marriage was legal, I knew two Air Force veterans, both lesbians (although not a couple).  By the time I’d had met them, they’d already figured out that being supported by a man wasn’t ever going to be in their picture.  So they joined the service and were taught skills that turned into well-paying jobs after leaving the military.  
 
Another demographic, and it’s a growing one, is middle class young men and women who want to attend a university, but don’t want crippling student loan debt. 
 
That’s where the GI Bill comes in: created in 1944, it provides up to three years of education while a soldier is on active duty.  Veterans can also take advantage of the bill, because funding is good for 15 years following military release.  This means that with careful planning, a serviceman can obtain an undergraduate degree with zero debt.  Those who take advantage of the program are obligated to serve for four years in exchange for tuition, but it’s still a good deal. 
 
The back stories of how and why our military personnel came to wear their uniforms are as unique as each soldier. 
 
None of us can ever know every story.   As for me, I’ll just thank a soldier whenever I can. 
 
It’s the least I can do.   

Right now, in these wearying and worrying times, I’m doing what I can to create a little kindness in a corner of a corner of my world.
 
Basically, it’s about one supermarket shopper at a time. 
 
Here’s how it works.
 
Depending on what our discretionary income is in any given week, I’ve started to buy groceries for whomever is standing beside me in the cashier’s line.  Since I get to choose, I don’t pay the bill for someone whose basket boasts bottles of vodka; a gaggle of gift cards, or pretty plastic bottles of the priciest hair care products. 
 
But when I see a shopper placing a handful of necessities on the conveyer belt, who then starts fumbling for change, my wallet comes out.
 
Of course, what may seem a need to me might not be one to you.    
 
For instance, a gangly 20something was ahead of me one afternoon. 
 
His shirt and pants were definitely not new, and under his arm was what I suspect was his only mode of transportation, a well-used skateboard.  He was also buying just one item: a sketchpad.  As someone who has personally experienced the healing power of art—both as participant and spectator—I didn’t think twice about gifting those waiting-to-be-drawn-on blank pages to him.
 
Told that I was doing so from the cashier, he looked shocked.  I got the impression that no one had ever bought him what many might consider an unnecessary purchase, which, after all, only set me back $3.50.  As the cashier handed him his new sketch pad, he looked right into my eyes. 
 
“God bless you,” he said. 
 
Then, just this morning, one town over at another market, a young girl and her mother were in line behind me.  Between them, they carried two bottles of water, plus two very heavy packages of crushed ice.  As I was paying my bill, the cashier made a comment about the amount of ice they were buying. “Well, we have to keep things cold for our food, because we’re camping,” said the mom.
 
Glancing at their clothes and shoes, it was obvious to both the cashier, and me, that “camping” was another word for “this is how our family is living now.” 
 
I tore up my first check and paid my bill and theirs. 
 
Like the skateboarder, the woman was surprised. 
 
“You really don’t have to do that for us,” she said.
 
“Oh, I know, but I want to,” I replied.  “You know, just pay it forward.”
 
I swear that the two of them left with tears in their eyes.
 
I’m choosing to extend myself this way for a couple of reasons.
 
One, I’ve worn their hats.  I’ve received food stamps twice in my life, once as a college student, and again, when I was living in New York City and had been out of work for a while.  And, I still remember, early into our marriage, when our dream home was foreclosed, and we were given one hour to vacate by the sheriff.  I recall the embarrassment of needing to accept the free lunch offer from our daughter’s school principal because, “You’re homeless now, and we give migrants vouchers.”  
 
There was also the time shortly after my partner had suddenly died.
 
I was alone, in impossible grief, and a true single mother to a toddler.  A near-stranger handed me a $100 bill to pay for a plumbing emergency.   
 
“I don't really know you,” I said, weeping loudly.  "I can't accept this." 
 
“Oh, I do,” she replied.  “Please, just take it.”
 
So in my own way, I’m passing it on.
 
Two, and this is harder to explain, but particularly now, it’s the right thing to do.  Although I think current policies in Washington aggressively encourage and support a mean-spirited, “I’ve got mine, so I’m not going to take care of you” attitude, I believe that this is not the America I grew up in.
 
I also choose to believe that it’s not the country I live in now.
 
But what if you’re too uncomfortable or shy to help someone in front of you?  Or, what if you want to offer assistance, but don’t see anyone who can use a happy surprise?
 
Well, there’s another way to do the same thing.
 
That’s by giving money to the cashier who is ringing up your groceries.
 
He or she has regular customers, and is often familiar with those who can use a helping hand, especially at the end of the month.  (Plus, this gives them some skin in the game, since they’re partnering with you.) 
 
I took this route last month, when I gave a $20 bill to a favorite supermarket checker. She promised she would find
the right recipient, and she did.  Spotting me a few days later, she came up to me to say that she had helped an elderly customer who is so on the edge that this person routinely picks through the store trash cans outside to collect bottles
for recycling. 
 
Sadly, with many paychecks no longer providing a living wage, more Americans can use our help. 
 
In fact, according to federal statistics, an astounding 43 million of us are living at poverty level.  Even more upsetting—and shameful—is that four in 10 children are part of this statistic, which cuts a wide swath across every state and with every ethnicity.  In addition, there’s rampant food insecurity, which is defined as being in a place—physically, economically or both—without reliable access to affordable, nutritious food every day.  The numbers here are also unsettling: an astounding one in every eight Americans is food insecure, including 13 million children.
 
I’m certainly a very long way from perfect.  But what I do try to do is pass along kindness, and at the same time, do my best to share what I can.
 
Especially these days. Because besides these actions bolstering both spirit and soul, it all counts. 
 
Every single time.    
 
How do you manifest kindness?  I look forward to your stories and comments! 
 
P.S. To learn more about we-can’t-always-see-it hunger in America, watch the 2012 film
A Place at the Table.  Here’s the trailer, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnuawGkTRzo. 

​In spite of the fact that The Hubster and I are longtime members of the Circus of Life, it still doesn’t take a whole lot
to amuse us.
 
Such was the scenario a month or so ago, which began like this:
 
Hubster:  “Guess what I’m going to bring home!”
 
Me:  “Oh, a present?”
 
Hubster:  “Yes!  One of the teachers at school has been making her own laundry detergent.  She told me that she has been doing it for four years now, and that it works better than anything she has ever bought at a store.”
 
Me:  “Really?  She’s going to give us some to try out?  So, it’s all natural, and she’s giving some to us? Wow!”
 
Hubster:  “Yes, she has some waiting just for me!”
 
I’m now a little embarrassed to tell you that yup, this girl clown was pretty darn excited about the detergent. 
 
Once my better half brought this bounty home, I discovered that there was enough of the powdery mix for 10 loads.  Oh, it also boasted tiny bits of lemon peel that made it smell good.  And best of all, yes, this detergent worked better than any commercial product I’ve ever used.  Not only that, the teacher included the ingredient list, which she had also distributed to her entire chemistry class. 

Also, my husband make a point to assure me that this would be easy to make, since “her five-year-old does it all of
the time.”
 
I’m happy to report this is true.   
 
An added plus is that we were able to buy all of the needed concoctions at our local hardware store, although we
were briefly flummoxed by oxygen bleach (we discovered that it’s better known by its more popular commercial name,
Oxi-Clean). 
 
I’d also never heard of Fels-Naptha, but my Ohio-born spouse knew all about it: a dull mustard colored rectangle that resembles a bar of soap, it’s billed as a laundry bar and stain remover, and for this mix, is grated.  In the You Can Learn Something New Every Day Department, I also found out that Fels-Naptha has been around an awfully long time—it debuted in the mid-1890s and is an effective treatment for poison ivy as well.  
 
So right now, there’s a plastic container full of homemade laundry soap on the shelf above my washing machine.  It’s not only budget friendly, but easy to put together and perhaps most important, cleans our clothes (and sheets and blankets and socks), really, really well.
 
I guess that means that I’m now an official member of Do It Yourself—better known as DIY—club. 
 
Defined in Wikipedia as the method of building, modifying, or repairing things without the direct aid of experts or professionals, there appear to be, literally, millions of DIY web sites.  Besides the uber-popular Pinterest and Buzzfeed DIY, you can go to other virtual places for seemingly everything, including making children’s crafts projects; creating an entire wedding, or mixing up home remedies to cure whatever ails you.  Not surprisingly, there’s even a TV network called, of course, the DIY Network. 
 
But I’m also now realizing that I’ve been a DIYer for a whole lot of years and for a whole lot of things. 
 
I routinely make my own baking powder and have also whirled together dishwasher detergent recipes using baking soda and salt.  I’ve removed rust stains with lemon juice and salt, and last week, spent time getting rid of nasty mold in our shower with a spray bottle of undiluted white vinegar, hot water and towels (it didn’t work 100 percent, but the end result was still far better than store bought tile cleaners).  I’ve also just remembered: when The Teenage Daughter was small, I made play dough (easy but easier to go to the 99 Cents Only store), and how about the dozens of book covers I created from brown paper bags?  Does this count?   
 
I’ve also been known to whip up a terrific batch of jam and always make applesauce from scratch.  In fact, most of my DIY creations involve food.  I don’t know if soup from scratch fits the DIY bill, since most of the ones I chop, boil and simmer come from cookbooks.  But I’ve also blended my own mayonnaise and much more frequently, make deviled eggs, gravy and any number of salad dressings, often veering off the path of the original recipes.   
 
I haven’t gone this far yet, but a good friend creates her own dog food from cooked rice, eggs, veggies, fruits and scraps of meat. She mixes the entire concoction together, then spoons it in into loaf pans and bakes it.  Forty-five minutes later, she has about five pounds of canine yumminess, which she divides into plastic bags and freezes. 
 
My next door neighbor goes to even more work when it comes to Tiki, her 26-year-old parrot.  Every three months,
she boils up a batch of five-bean mix, frozen thawed vegetables and rice. It takes her an entire half day to cook this stuff and then put it all together, which includes storing the bird’s feast in small baggies for daily individual servings.  
This seems like a ton of work to me, but she says that there’s nothing store bought that comes close to its taste
and nutritional value.  
 
I’m not saying that everyone needs to find a DIY project.  (Just thinking about this is exhausting.) But, there are enough terrific ideas out there to give at least one or two of them a whirl.
 
After all, there’s a pretty good chance that you’ll not only save some dough, but might find an entirely new way of making the ordinary interesting, creative and maybe, just maybe, fun.  
 
What DIY projects have you tried?  I look forward to your comments and stories!
 
P.S.  Here’s the laundry detergent recipe:
 
1 bar grated Fels-Naptha soap
3 cups Borax
2 cups washing soda
¾ cup baking soda
4 ½ cups oxygen bleach (Oxi-Clean)
Optional: about 1 heaping tablespoon of dried lemon peel
 
Gently mix all of the ingredients together, and store in a covered container.  Use 1/3 cup for every full load of laundry, less for smaller loads.   

So, I happened to get behind this van the other day.
 
Even in the smallish beach town where I live, it isn’t unusual to be out and about without at least a few cars ahead on the road.   I don’t usually pay a whole lot of attention to traffic since I’m zipping along nicely and listening to the radio, or more frequently these days, reining in random thoughts about resisting and uniting. 
 
But the little mini-van caught my attention for One Big Happy Reason.
 
Its back end was completely painted with flowers. 
 
Crazy colorful blossoms, too—peonies and roses and crocuses, and one of my very favorites, fat yellow Gerber daisies.  Although I didn’t see the driver’s face this time, I’ve noticed the vehicle around our streets, and the person who’s always at its helm.  She’s a local farmer named Debbie, and her roadside stand occasionally has the eggs and sunflowers I like.  But mostly, her income comes from a floral design company.
 
I haven’t yet had the occasion to do business with her in this way.  But her truck reminded me of how much I have come to need—not merely want—flowers in my daily life.  
 
Probably because my parents worked with an insanely tight budget, there weren’t any store bought blooms hanging around in vases during my childhood.  We did have a struggling lilac bush and pussy willow plant in our big back yard, and white azaleas and pink poppies that bloomed in spring and summer.  However, those branches and blossoms rarely made it into the house. 
 
Making do on an even smaller stipend in college, there weren’t flowers here either.
 
But then, after I moved to New York City, my relationship with flora took a dramatic turn.
 
For one thing, flowers here were, literally, in your face.  There were (and are) vibrant stands
on nearly every corner. 
 
Also, these buds were cheap: for a few dollars, or often less, one or two could be all yours.
 
This meant that even when my roommate and I only had change for a carnation or two (like so many who move to New York, we were poor: Cool Whip containers were our dishes and sleeping bags were our beds), we always had at least one stem in water.  And while we didn’t know exactly why, they always made our empty space feel better.  However, we did come up with a theory: flowers sold well because they made millions of dismal apartments like ours a little more livable.    
​
By the time I returned to California four years later, I had enough dough to buy bunches and bunches of carnations every week at the Hollywood Farmer’s Market.  But I don’t remember having many flowers around when my daughter was tiny; there was just so much to do, not to mention that roaming toddlers, glass vases and cold water aren’t a good mix. 
 
Where I live now is awash in farmland of all kinds; in fact, when I first moved here, one nearby field was a blanket of marmalade colored marigolds for months at a time.  I’d sigh with pleasure when I drove by, knowing how blessed I was to call this home. There are lots of farmers’ markets around, too, and they all have flowers.  And of course, there’s our nearby supermarket, where I recently scored a handful of lemony daffodils. 
 
As it turns out, flowers make most people feel good. 
 
To clarify, I’m not thinking of the extraordinary medicinal power of flowers—that subject could easily be another essay.    
Instead, I’m thinking of the positive way a simple bouquet sways our emotions.     
 
Indeed, a blogger affiliated with a florist in Corvallis, Oregon, reports that flowers make us feel right because they connect us to nature.  Consequently, being in this happy place makes us less reactive to the stresses of the fast-paced environments most of us operate in.  The article also states that flowers’ beautiful colors help reduce anxiety and apprehension—making us feel more grounded, more cheerful, and more inclined to connect with those around us.    
 
A 2005 study at the Human Emotions Lab (now, there’s a place to visit) at Rutgers University went a few steps further. 
 
In a double-blind study, facial expressions of research participants were measured when presented with three different gifts: a decorative candle, a fruit basket and a flower bouquet.  In every case, recipients responded to the flowers with what’s called a Duchenne smile—a heartfelt, “true” smile involving the mouths, cheeks and eyes.  None of the other offerings produced this across-the-board response.  This was also not the expected conclusion; in fact, the expert who created and administered the study had never before seen a 100 percent response rate with any other test.
 
But of course, we don’t really need science to tell us how flowers make most of us feel inside.
 
So, next time you see a bunch of pretty blossoms calling your name, buy them. 
 
They’ll do way more than make you smile.  They’ll also do your heart, and your mind, a whole lot of good.
 
What’s your favorite flower, and what’s the story behind that?  As always, I welcome your comments!  

​In another life, when I was a spanking new college grad and took the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan every weekday, I had this boss.
 
Just a tad older than yours truly, David always arrived before me and always left after me.  Not only that, he wrote books—swashbuckling sci-fi yarns that actually got published.  Our assignments weren’t easy-peasy, so I knew he wasn’t penning these manuscripts during the day. 
 
After he told me he worked on them at night, I asked him when he slept.
 
“Sleep?” he said, somewhat bemused at my naiveté.     
 
“Sleep!  I never sleep!  You’re kidding, right?  Who sleeps in New York?”
 
I still remember this story when I think that even today, living in a sweet little beach town, I find it difficult to relax.
 
It’s not that I can’t make the time.
 
While there are always chores and errands to run, I no longer have a small child to attend to.  The Hubster is also perfectly capable of taking care of himself (although when it’s time to sew on buttons, iron shirts and fix dinner, I’m the more capable one).  I also have the huge blessing of no longer needing to work full time.  
 
Yet I still make to-do lists—either on a legal pad, or in the tiny pink notebook nestled in my purse, or even in my head—every day.  (And for those who believe that living in a beach town means living in a bubble, it doesn’t. That’s especially true now, when things to do always include calling and emailing and sending postcards to my elected representatives.) 
 
And why is it that when those tasks are not accomplished, I somehow feel not just not industrious, but lazy and guilty?
 
It’s not because I don’t know how important it is to take time off for my mind, body and most important, spirit.  That’s the reason I’m doing my best to enjoy my grown up coloring book; getting to the library more, and trying to take one day of rest every week, otherwise known as a stop day. 
 
Yet, perhaps I still feel restless because I’m realizing that no one’s mortality is infinite, most especially mine.  
 
(The Hubster noted my fidgety nature early on.  For our first Christmas together, he presented me with a hummingbird ornament.  “This,” he said, “is your spirit animal.”) 
 
After all, we all have such little time on this planet. 
 
Thinking about that, there’s no way I’ll ever get around to reading everything I want to read; writing everything I want to write, and seeing every movie I want to see.  There’s also little chance that I’ll be able to travel to all of the places I daydream about.
 
So instead of trying so hard to make every day a “full one,” maybe it’s time to give some wiggle room to my definition of “being productive” and “getting things done.”
 
This needed adjustment became even clearer when I recently read about New York City police detective
Steven McDonald.
 
In the summer of 1986, McDonald was a 29-year-old cop who had been a patrolman for less than two years.  Working for the NYPD was more than a job: it was family tradition, with both his grandfather and father once serving on the same city police force.  It was also a time when the Big Apple was struggling with soaring rates of homicide—nearly 6,000 murders that year.  (In 2016, there were 335.)
 
On July 12, the world that McDonald knew came to an abrupt end.   
 
Patrolling Central Park on that sunny day, McDonald was shot by a 15-year-old teenager named Shavod Jones. The kid fired twice at the officer, then, standing over McDonald’s crumpled body, shot a third time.  
 
“A doctor spoke to my wife and me,” McDonald would later report.  “He said that I would be paralyzed from the neck down.  I would be unable to move for the rest of my life.”  To make matters even worse, McDonald had been married just eight months, and his 23-year-old wife, Patti, was three months pregnant. (Six months and 10 days after the shooting, which was also the day that Jones was sentenced to a maximum of 10 years, son Conor Patrick was born.  A few decades later, he chose to follow his father into the NYPD.  One week after his release from prison, at age 25, Jones died in a motorcycle crash.)    
 
Here comes the part of the story that amazes me:  Steven McDonald forgave Shavod Jones.
 
In fact, remaining on as a first-grade detective, and traveling in a motorized wheelchair and the aid of a respirator to
help him breathe, McDonald dedicated the next three decades to a purposeful path—one that probably didn’t include making to-do lists.
 
Instead, until his death at age 59 earlier this month, McDonald made the choice to speak about love.   
 
He did so by talking to rookie and veteran cops alike, telling them to always think about safety—but to also always
treat everyone with respect and kindness.  He believed that cops could—and do—make a positive difference in people’s lives.  He took the same message to hundreds of schools, and also made pilgrimages of reconciliation to Northern Ireland and the Middle East.  McDonald even kept up a prison correspondence with Jones, who had had a troubled history of delinquency and emotional turmoil. So revered was McDonald that on the day of his funeral, thousands of fellow officers filed into St. Patrick’s Cathedral to pay their respects.
 
There are a myriad of ways to be productive.  I’m still wrapping my head around a lot of this, but maybe, the true definition has little to do with being in constant motion like a hummingbird.  
 
Instead, it might very well mean this: no matter how you choose to spend your time, don’t waste it.
 
What is your definition of productivity?  I’d love to hear your stories and comments! 

Not very long ago, The Hubster and I had finished up some business in the town next to ours. 
 
As it turned out, this had all of the makings of A Very Good Thing, since we were also near the spot where a much-anticipated natural foods market—after more than a year of starts, stops and promises—had opened the week I was
in New York. 
 
So it was odd that despite an impressive grand opening banner, there were hardly any cars out front and no
lights on inside.
 
Being the investigative reporter that I am, it was decided that I should be the one to see what was up.
 
It didn’t take long to figure out, especially when I read the hours of operation sign next to the door. 
 
You see, it turns out that this new kid on the block is open every day of the week—except Sunday.
 
It was Sunday.
 
But what I found most interesting was my reaction.
 
I wasn’t angry or annoyed.  In fact, I was barely disappointed.   
 
Nope.  More than anything, I was happy. 
 
I think my gut went this way because those locked doors instantly made me feel that a bit of sanity has re-entered our 24/7 world, at least in a few places.   Here, right where I was standing, employees are guaranteed one day of rest from work every single week, however they define that, and however they choose to use those hours.    
 
Most of us know about a couple of mega-stores that are already closed on Sunday.
 
There’s Chick-fil-A, founded by a devout Southern Baptist more than 65 years ago, and now a major American fast-food chain, with about 1,500 locations in 39 states.  According to its web site, all of its restaurants shut their doors on the last day of the week so that employees can rest and if they choose, attend worship services.  It’s the same for Hobby Lobby, an arts and crafts chain with about 500 stores in 41 states. 
 
Sadly, both of these companies are also virulently anti-gay, making it unfortunate that they also have a policy that I
like a lot. 
 
So, folks should also know that while I endorse the idea of closing on Sunday, this doesn’t mean that everyone should be pressured into going to church (or a synagogue or mosque) that day, and/or spending hours in prayer. 
 
If that’s what you want to do, it’s perfectly fine.  But for me, this time should be what some call a stop day: gifting yourself with one day a week to literally cease your labors—to slow down, relax and rewind, and do whatever is best for you.  Say you work at a desk all week.  If this is the scenario, Sundays might be the perfect time to take a long walk.  If you love to cook but can’t whip up an ingredient laden dinner because you’re too tired on a weekday night, this is also the chance to do that.    
 
For those under 30 years old, here’s a shocker: closing on Sunday used to be the norm rather than the exception. 
 
Of course, hospitals were open, and there was always a phone operator on duty if law enforcement was needed.  But pretty much every other enterprise, including small businesses, supermarkets, gas stations and department stores, took the entire day off.  When I was a little girl, you couldn’t even buy milk. 
 
Believe it or not, this wasn’t a big deal. 
 
That’s because this cease-your-labor day had been going on in Western culture, primarily on Sundays, for--hold on to your hats--nearly 2,000 years. 
 
And guess what?  Because everyone knew that this how the end of the week rolled, people planned appropriately, and no one got their panties in a twist. 
 
It shouldn’t surprise anyone that at least one medical professional has come on board with bringing back the tradition.
In fact, former ER doc Matthew Sleeth has even written a book (24/6: A Prescription for a Healthier, Happier Life) about the benefits of taking Sunday off—and the awfulness that so often happens when one doesn’t.    
 
According to Sleeth, the United States is the most depressed country in the world, with about one in 10 of us being treated at any given time for clinical depression.  On a parallel track, Americans tend to work many more hours than any other country on the planet.  Even Japan comes in at number two.
 
What does any of this have to do with a 24-hour, time out window? 
 
“When we’re constantly going, we pour out chemicals to meet those stresses,” explains Sleeth.  “(This includes) short-term stress hormones like adrenaline, and longer-term hormones like the steroids we pour out.
 
“Those chemicals constantly being ‘on’ are bad for us, and they lead to anxiety and depression, (as well as) diabetes and being obese… the idea of having one day a week that I can count on to stop is very reassuring.”
 
Indeed, Sleeth says his entire family began taking Sundays off more than a decade ago.  At the time, his children were in high school, but when his son began medical school, he, too, kept up the practice. 
 
“It helps you to order your life,” adds Sleeth.  “It actually helped us as a family.  Many people I’ve talked to now say that keeping one day of rest a week has been the single best thing they’ve done for their marriage and their family.”
 
Those are some pretty strong words, and at least for me, they all make perfect sense.
 
So, why don’t we all just go back to the way things used to be, say, in 1980?
 
I’ll tell you the reasons we don’t do it.
 
It’s not because more women are working outside the home, and can’t get to their household errands until Sunday.  In fact, it’s not that it’s more convenient to consumers overall.  And it’s not that life has become so frenetic that the only day left to buy our stuff is on a Sunday.  
 
Rather, it comes down to one word.
 
Greed. 
 
In other words, businesses know that closing one day every week means less dough in their coffers—with little thought to the physical and emotional toll this policy likely takes on employees, and even shoppers, who, like the Energizer bunny, are compelled to keep going, and going, and going.  Being able to buy things 24 hours a day via the Internet isn’t doing us any good either.     
 
The madness isn’t going to end anytime soon.
 
But I can choose to check myself out of this particular game, and simply not participate.     
 
So, here’s my pledge: from this day forward, I will make Sunday my stop day.  And, instead of feeling guilty, I’ll know that it’s the right thing to do… mentally, physically and spiritually. 
 
If so inspired, please feel free to take my hand, and come along for the sweet ride.      
 
What are your memories of everything being closed on Sundays, and how do you feel about a stop day?  I look forward to your comments!
 
PS.  A classic song about Sundays—enjoy! www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IO-KwTNKzQ.