An Old Ring, a Loose Garnet, and a Whole Lot of Magic  By Julianna Rowe 

For years, I had an old ring tucked away in my jewelry box. It wasn't particularly pretty anymore. In fact, it was rather beat up, dirty, and missing a stone. But for some reason, I had never thrown it away, and oddly enough, floating around in that same jewelry box was a loose garnet. Where it came from, I couldn't tell you or why I kept it all those years is another mystery.

 "Then one day, while rummaging through my jewelry box, I picked up that old ring and happened to notice the loose garnet nearby.  Perhaps these two lonely little treasures belonged together! I picked up the garnet and attempted to fit it into the empty setting of the ring, but it didn't fit. I suspected the ring might be real gold, although its battered appearance certainly wasn't doing it any favors. That's when I remembered my old friend, Lee Dorn, of Lee Dorn Jewelers.  I tucked the ring and the wandering garnet into a drawstring velvet bag then into my purse, where they rode around with me for several weeks. You see, restoring an old ring wasn't exactly at the top of my list of things that need to get done. 

Then one afternoon, I finished work early and found myself near the strip mall where Lee has his jewelry store. Now, Lee Dorn Jewelers isn't just a place to buy beautiful jewelry. It's also one of those increasingly rare places where you can walk through the door, receive a genuinely friendly greeting, and enjoy a little conversation without feeling as though someone is waiting for you to pull out your credit card. Lee and I visited for a while and then out came my dirty little ring and its homeless garnet. Lee examined the ring, then looked up at me with one eye while the other eye firmly held the watchmaker's loupe. I patiently awaited the verdict.

"Yes, it's real gold, and those are real pearls. But that stone doesn't fit." "Well, I know it doesn't fit," I replied. "But I thought maybe you could MAKE it fit!" Lee laughed and we continued visiting about this and that.  I think he was silently thinking whether he wanted to deal with this ring. Eventually, Lee looked at the ring again and said, "Why don't you leave it here and let me see what I can do with it?"  Suddenly, I was positively elated. Excited, even. Why? Heaven knows I didn't need another ring. But there was something about that battered little piece of jewelry that tugged at me. I could tell it had once been beautiful. It had lived a life, perhaps been treasured by someone, and somewhere along the way had lost a little of its sparkle. 

A couple of weeks later, I returned to the shop. As always, Lee greeted me graciously. We exchanged a few words before he excused himself and disappeared into the back of the store. When he returned, he was smiling. "I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised," he said, handing me a little ring box. 

I opened it. Oh. My. Goodness. I hardly recognized what was inside. Gone was the battered, dirty little ring that had spent years forgotten in a dark dusty drawer. In its place was a magnificent little treasure, beautifully restored, sparkling, and looking as though it had been given an entirely new life.

And that wandering garnet?  Lee cut the stone to fit the original setting! A garnet that had spent years rolling around loose in my jewelry box was finally given a home. And an old, battered ring was once again something beautiful. Two forgotten treasures, brought together by the hands of a master craftsman. What I had brought him was a collection of forgotten pieces. What he returned to me was something beautiful. And I treasure it.

There is something special about a craftsman who can look beyond what something has become and recognize what it still has the potential to be. Lee Dorn possesses that gift, along with the patience, experience, and skill to bring that beauty back to life.

So, thank you, Lee Dorn, for your remarkable craftsmanship, your kindness, and your wonderful jewelry store. Thank you for creating a place where people can stop in, browse, admire the beauty displayed on every counter and in every corner, and enjoy a friendly conversation. 

I suppose there's a lesson in that somewhere. Sometimes the things we tuck away and forget about still have a little magic left in them. And sometimes, all they need is someone who knows how to bring it out.

Lee Dorn Jewelers 

6106 Mineral Point Road Madison, WI 53705 

608-231-2838

The Happy News Lady 💛

"EGGS - by Willa, Wanda, Chestnut, and Becky".... by Julianna Rowe

"EGGS" ....

by Julianna Rowe

I went to buy eggs and that was my first mistake. There was a time when buying eggs involved walking into a grocery store, picking up a carton of eggs and going home. Apparently, while I wasn't paying attention, eggs became complicated. Now I stand in front of the egg case and have choices. White eggs. Brown eggs. Cage-free eggs. Free-range eggs. Pasture-raised eggs. Organic eggs. Vegetarian-fed eggs. Omega-3 eggs. Grade A eggs. Grade AA eggs. Large eggs. Extra-large eggs. Jumbo eggs. I don't want to interview the chicken. I just want breakfast. 

First, let's settle the brown egg business. I always thought brown eggs looked healthier. They look earthy and wholesome, like they were laid by a chicken named Henrietta who lives in a red barn and listens to classical music. Nope. The color of the shell has nothing to do with the quality of the egg. Different breeds of chickens lay different colored eggs. Brown eggs can cost more because the chickens that lay them tend to be larger and can cost more to feed. So much for Henrietta and her classical music.

Then we have cage-free. Doesn't that sound lovely? Cage-free actually means the hens can move around inside their housing instead of living in cages. Free-range hens also have access to the outdoors. Then there's pasture-raised, which sounds like the chicken owns property.

And have you looked at the prices? I took a picture at the grocery store because I thought perhaps I was hallucinating. $13.99. They were organic. They were pasture-raised. They were apparently tended by hand by farmers who care. For $13.99, Henrietta isn't laying breakfast. She's producing an investment portfolio.

Then there are the grades. Grade AA is the highest quality, with firm whites and nice round yolks. Grade A is also high quality and is what we commonly find in grocery stores. Grade B usually heads off to become liquid, frozen or dried egg products. So after researching all of this, I now know considerably more about eggs than I ever intended.

But somewhere along the way I also heard about fake eggs. Eggs supposedly manufactured to look like real eggs, shell and all. Well, THAT got my attention, so I went looking. There are plant-based egg substitutes. There are companies working on alternative egg proteins. There are all sorts of things being developed to replace eggs. But I could not find reliable evidence that somebody is secretly manufacturing fake chicken eggs, putting them inside convincing fake shells and slipping them into American grocery-store cartons. Which is probably fortunate, because if I ever crack an egg into my frying pan and discover that somebody manufactured the SHELL, I am finished. I will have Diet Coke for breakfast. 

After all this talk about grocery-store eggs, I should probably confess that I don't usually buy mine there anyway. I get them from a friend who has the sweetest chickens in her backyard. Their names are Willa, Wanda, Chestnut and Becky, and I get the prettiest green eggs from Willa. I know exactly where those eggs came from, and I appreciate every "blessed" one of them. They even have their own security department, two dogs, Clover and Greta. Greta is an older Golden Retriever who guards those chickens like they are her children. She has reason to because they've lost a couple of chickens to hawks, so apparently backyard chicken life isn't all green eggs and sunshine. Not funny I know.

After researching cage-free, free-range, pasture-raised, organic and $13.99 cartons of eggs, I think I'll stick with Willa, Wanda, Chestnut and Becky. Especially Willa and her beautiful green eggs. I know where they came from, I know the chickens are loved, and I appreciate every "blessed" egg I get.

The Happy News Lady 💛  

"A Dream Inside a Dream" A short story by Julianna Rowe

 "A Dream Inside a Dream" by Julianna Rowe

“No wonder there was a man disguised as all my troubles lying in my bed. Even in my dreams, life's worries found their way beneath the covers. But for one glorious moment, in a beautiful white room overlooking the lights of New York City, I had danced. And nobody could take that moment away from me.”

I had the strangest dream. Not simply a dream, but a dream in which I watched myself dreaming. I was both the woman living the story and the woman watching it unfold. Stranger still, I was writing the story as it happened, and somehow the words became a world I could step inside. It began in an ordinary room, with an ordinary frustration. Someone was concerned that people could see through the bedroom blinds. I assured him they couldn't because the slats were turned upward, allowing just enough daylight to slip between them without revealing anything inside. But he wouldn't listen. I remember feeling terribly frustrated by such a silly disagreement and deciding I would rather write a story than continue the conversation. I left the room, sat down at my computer and began to type. I would write about a woman who could go anywhere she pleased, with all the money she could possibly need. But where would I send her? New York City, of course! I have always dreamed of going toward the big-city lights, those magnificent skylines illuminated against the darkness, thousands of windows glowing like stars brought down to earth. And then something extraordinary happened. As I wrote, I began to live the words appearing on my screen. Yet somehow, I was also watching myself live them. I could see the woman in the story making decisions, moving through rooms, and enjoying experiences I was creating for her. I was the author, the character, and the audience, all at once. I found myself in one of New York City's grandest hotels, an enormous, elegant establishment that truly belonged to the city.  My suite was breathtaking. Everything was white, but not the cold, sterile white of a hospital. It was the soft, luxurious white of clouds floating across a summer sky. The carpeting was thick as freshly fallen snow and the furniture was upholstered in creamy fabrics that seemed almost weightless. The enormous bed was covered with a billowing comforter that looked as though someone had gathered a cloud from heaven and laid it across the mattress. Even the curtains fell in graceful folds, like wisps of morning mist.

But the windows! Oh, those glorious windows! Beyond them stretched the Hudson River and the magnificent New York City skyline. Thousands upon thousands of lights glittered against the night, reflecting upon the dark water like diamonds scattered across black velvet. Far below, streams of traffic wound through the streets, their headlights and taillights weaving ribbons of white and red between the towering buildings. I could have sat there forever, watching a city that seemed to hold a million secrets behind its illuminated windows. And I was rich! Wonderfully, ridiculously rich. I had no worries, no responsibilities tugging at my sleeve, and no reason to deny myself anything. Naturally, I went shopping. I wandered through elegant stores, buying beautiful things simply because I could. Lovely clothes, expensive treasures, packages wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbons. And then, for reasons known only to the peculiar workings of my sleeping brain, I purchased a pair of hiking boots. Hiking boots! And, P.S. I don' hike!  I remember asking myself why on earth I needed them. Perhaps I would take a walk in the country, I decided, although I knew perfectly well that I wouldn't. I hadn't come to New York to climb hills. I had come for the city lights! Nevertheless, I bought the boots and happily returned to my magnificent hotel room. There I was, surrounded by beautiful purchases, with the Hudson River shimmering beyond my windows and the soft white furnishings making me feel as though I were living inside a cloud. I was happy. Not excited or overwhelmed, but peacefully, wonderfully happy. For once, there was nothing I needed to do and nowhere I needed to be.

Then came a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood the man from the room where my dream had begun. I hadn't invited him. In fact, I had written this entire story to get away from him! Yet there he was, standing in the doorway of my beautiful imaginary world, apparently expecting to be welcomed. He came inside and began talking. I busied myself with my purchases, hoping he would understand that I wished to be alone. I tried ignoring him, tried wishing him away, but neither seemed to work. How peculiar that I could dream myself into a magnificent New York City hotel with unlimited money, yet couldn't make one unwanted visitor disappear! And then, without knowing quite why, I began to dance. There was no music playing, but I could hear a gentle melody somewhere inside me. I wrapped my arms around myself. I moved slowly, swaying and turning through my beautiful white room.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  

I didn't answer. I continued dancing, my arms holding myself, my feet moving to music only I could hear.

"What are you doing?" he asked again.

"I'm dancing," I replied, turning my face away.

He stood watching, apparently unable to understand why a woman would dance alone.

"What are you doing?" he asked once more.

This time I looked directly into his eyes.

"I'm dancing with myself."

Something in my answer seemed to reach him. Perhaps he finally understood that I wanted nothing more than to be left alone with my peace. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he slowly backed toward the doorway, uncertain what to make of a woman who had no need of his company, and then he was gone.

It took a little while for my peace to return. I sat beside the window, watching the city lights dance across the Hudson River. My shopping bags sitting nearby, including those ridiculous hiking boots. I had my beautiful room, my magnificent city, and the wonderful freedom of doing absolutely nothing. I decided to prepare for bed. Even the powder room was extraordinary, enormous and softly illuminated, with pale surfaces that seemed almost as delicate as rabbit fur. I washed my face, brushed my hair, and imagined how wonderful it would feel to slip beneath that enormous white comforter. I would turn off the lights and lie awake watching the city sparkle beyond my windows. No curtains drawn, no worries, no interruptions. Just me and New York City, sharing the night. 

I walked into the bedroom and stopped. There, beneath my beautiful white comforter, lay the man, sound asleep. I stared at him in disbelief. He had left! I had watched him go yet somehow, while I was away preparing for bed, he had returned and made himself perfectly comfortable. He was sleeping beneath my dreams. And suddenly, as I stood watching myself standing in that beautiful room, I understood. The man wasn't real. He wasn't someone I knew or someone I had loved. He was every worry, every obligation, every disappointment, and every unfinished problem that followed me through life. I had given my troubles a face, and somehow "they" had followed me into the very story I had written to escape them. I had wished myself rich. I had traveled to the city I had always dreamed of visiting. I had surrounded myself with beauty, luxury, and peace. I had even danced alone to show that I needed nothing more. But while I wasn't looking, my troubles had slipped back into my imagination and made themselves comfortable. I stood there for a long moment, looking at the sleeping figure beneath the comforter. 

Then I glanced toward the windows. The blinds were nearly closed now, their slats turned upward just enough to allow a little light to enter. Just as they had been when my dream began. Somewhere beyond them, the glorious lights of New York City were still shining. I eased myself into bed beside the troubles I couldn't seem to escape, closed my eyes, and hoped for another dream.

Perhaps tonight I will go to Italy, where I can wander along ancient cobblestone streets beneath the warm glow of streetlamps. I believe I will hear a violin playing somewhere in the distance and find myself dancing beneath the stars, alone, of course. 

And this time, I will remember to lock the door... of my mind.  

The End  The Happy News Lady 💛

My Dash Cam Instructions! ......by Julianna Rowe

My Dash Cam Instructions ........by Julianna Rowe 

I bought a dash cam. I don't remember exactly what possessed me to decide that my life needed one more piece of technology, but apparently, I looked around at the computers, phones, televisions, printers and assorted electronic devices already requiring supervision and thought, you know what this household needs? A camera stuck to the windshield. It came with instructions, of course. I use the word “instructions” generously. They appeared to have been translated from Chinese to German to Swahili and finally into English by a squirrel person with a head injury. I looked at the dash cam, the instructions, then back at the dash cam with its buttons, cords, settings, and warning labels. It needed Wi-Fi. Why does everything need Wi-Fi? I am waiting for the day my refrigerator sends me a text saying the mayonnaise has expired and my toaster requests the password so it can update its operating system. 

The problem with technology is that I actually like it. That's how I keep getting into these situations. I am curious but not that patient. I will complain the entire time I'm learning it, threaten to throw it out the window and accuse Bill Gates of personally rearranging my computer while I sleep, but I keep learning. I've figured out websites, blogs, social media, music programs, video programs, phones and enough other electronic nonsense to qualify for some sort of honorary degree. Back to the Dash Cam with it's black-on-black instructions.  Who does the design like that? Have you ever noticed how many remotes are also black on black. I'ts like trying to read braille when you can see.The internet instructions say: To read hard-to-see black-on-black embossed or printed instructions on a small dash cam, shine a bright flashlight or your smartphone's light at an angle against the surface to create shadows that reveal the text.

Yes, I searched the internet for the rest of the instructions, opened seventeen websites, watched three videos made by men who assumed I already understood what they were talking about, accidentally clicked an advertisement for auto insurance and eventually shoved the dash cam back into the box, only to take it out and try again later. 

I don't think it's just me. Somewhere right now a perfectly intelligent human being is staring at a new television remote wondering why it needs forty-three buttons when all they want to do is watch Netflix. I have discovered that learning something new usually involves patience. The important thing is not to give up and I have found that once I understand it, I'm fine. I simply can't go too fast or click quickly or everything disappears. I usually blame Bill Gates for anything that goes wrong technically.

Eventually the dash cam ceased being an object of international concern and became another gadget I managed to figure out. Civilization survived. The squirrel human who wrote the instruction manual was presumably reassigned. But the toaster still worries me. The minute that thing asks for the Wi-Fi password, I'm unplugging it.

The Happy News Lady 💛

"Bob and Me" by Julianna Rowe

           "Bob and Me" by Julianna Rowe

Bob and I went for a walk today. Well, calling it a walk might be stretching things a bit. I carried him outside, and I carried him back in. Bob did the walking in between, and only as much as he wanted to. I guess I should mention here that Bob is slowly passing from my life and the world with liver disease.  He weights less than 7 lbs. but is hanging in there. I used to take him outside a lot and today I decided we should do it again.

Outside my apartment are bushes filled with finches. Not one or two finches. A LOT of finches. Apparently they have an entire neighborhood watch program, because the minute Bob appeared, they were on guard. Every one of them seemed to know there was a CAT in their territory. But I will add how much I love finches.  They are the sweetest little creatures.  In fact my clients save me their dogs hair after brushing and I put it out for their nests and they take it.  I can watch them carry it away from my porch. 

Back to the finches who live in the bushes outside my apartment. By the way, Bob couldn't have cared less.  He had more important things to do like eating grass then throwing up the grass. Some things apparently don't change with age. He walked around a little more and eventually found himself a nice spot in the grass. Then he lay down, nestled into it and relaxed. And I watched him. 

Bob is old now. His body doesn't work the way it once did, and lately I have been painfully aware of that. Things that used to be nothing can take a lot out of him. When we came back inside, he walked only about five feet before lying down under the chair. Our little adventure had worn him out, even though he had enjoyed it and that's what mattered.

There was something about watching my old friend lying there in the grass that made the rest of the world disappear for a little while. No work, no family problems, no politics, no surgeries, and no wondering about tomorrow. Just Bob and me.

Maybe that's one of the things animals teach us that humans have such a hard time learning. Bob wasn't worrying about how old he was. He wasn't thinking about what he could do last year that he couldn't do today and he wasn't worrying about tomorrow. He was lying in the grass enjoying life for a bit. So I sat there and let him. 

The finches remained on high alert and Bob remained completely unimpressed.

And for a little while on an ordinary afternoon outside an ordinary apartment, an old cat and his person had ourselves a pretty good day.

The Happy News Lady 💛😻

🎃 Autumn: Nature’s Most Beautiful Mess......by Julianna Rowe

 "Autumn, Nature's Most Beautiful Mess"  by Julianna Rowe

Think about it. In spring, if your yard were covered in dead plant material, you'd clean it up. In October, we drive around saying, “Ohhhh, look at the colors!” Then tiy all go home and rake the dead stuff into enormous piles. And just when you're finished, the neighbor's tree sends over reinforcements.

Then there's the whole pumpkin situation. Somewhere along the way, in our good old USA, from September through November, everything must taste or smell like a pumpkin. Coffee, bread, cookies, cereal, cream cheese, candles, and air freshener. Probably motor oil by now. I like autumn too, but I don't necessarily need my house, my breakfast and my armpits smelling like pumpkin spice. Yes I do!     

And the decorating! We go to a store and pay money for fake leaves while approximately eleven billion real ones are lying outside for free. We buy decorative sticks. Think about that. We purchase sticks. Then you put them in a vase and call them “fall branches.” The dog could drag the same thing through the door and you'd yell at him.

Then there are decorative pumpkins. Not the useful kind, the

tiny ones, the lumpy ones, the white ones, the velvet ones, and the wooden ones. Pumpkins that have apparently been to charm school and no longer wish to associate with pie. Don't forget the pink ones.

And autumn clothing deserves its own paragraph. Every advertisement shows some woman wandering happily through leaves wearing a beautiful sweater, scarf and boots all in oranges, browns, deep greens, and burgandys. Her hair is blowing gently in the cool crisp breeze, holding a steaming mug. Where is her coat? Because in Wisconsin, autumn lasts approximately eleven minutes. You leave the house at 8:00 wearing a sweater because it's 52 degrees, by noon it's 76, and at 5:00 somebody says there's a chance of frost.

But hey, I love Autumn.  The crisp clean smell of the air. The trees giving themselves another go round at life.  Shedding the old and birthing the new come Spring.  And I love carving pumpkins.  Getting my fingers inside that gooey mess, washing the seeds then baking them to a crisp crunch.  (Actually I hate putting my fingers inside that goo.) So I paint mine. These were painted about twenty five years ago, hopefully I have improved. One is Liza Minelli, and another is some famous football player.  Autumn is also football weather.... I can still remember those Friday Night Football years. Bright lights and everyone screaming for those young man-boys running down the field. Most every one of them dreaming of becoming a famous athlete.  And the Homecoming games! 

I love the Mums.  Mums everywhere. Golds, burgundys, oranges, purples, and so big and heavy you needed a cart to get them home to set as a welcome on either side of the entrance to your home.  Why, they only lasted a month or two but it was worth it. 

So I love it all.  The rotten leaves, the smell of pumpkin pies, coffee, lotion, and heck I bet there is a toilet paper infused with pumpkin essential oils.  Guess it couldn't hurt. Or could it?  There are some things even I do not wish to investigate. Okay back to the dead leaves in the yard.  Every season has its mess, but my favorite mess is Autumn. I suppose it's all in how you look at it.  Is my yard half empty or half full?   

 Be safe and be kind to one another. 

The Happy News Lady🎃

My Executive Order $$$$$$$$$$.......... by Julianna Rowe

 My Executive Order J$$$$$$$$$$.......by Julianna Rowe

Somewhere along the way, politics changed my signature. I realize that sounds like a sentence requiring further explanation, but because I have noticed Donald Trump’s signature, which to me appeared to consist mostly of tall, dramatic spikes marching across the page. Whatever anyone thinks of the man politically, and apparently everyone thinks something, I found the signature hilarious. There seemed to be an actual letter at the beginning and then the pen simply took off for the mountains. So I started doing it too.    

My name begins with a J, so now I make the J reasonably recognizable before abandoning the alphabet altogether. After that it is basically Jllllllllllllll Up, down, up, down, a row of aggressive little spikes that could represent my name, an executive order, or the results of an EKG performed during an argument. And it will bring in the flow of the gold and cash.  Its energy is all!

I openly tell people I sign like Trump now. My reasoning, entirely tongue-in-cheek, is that the man has spent a lifetime surrounded by controversy, made an enormous amount of money, and repeatedly emerged from situations that would have flattened an ordinary person. I am not making a political endorsement with my pen. I am trying to get some of that apparent Teflon quality into my checking account.

Someone told me I sign as though I were about to slap a gold-plated executive order on somebody’s kitchen counter. That did not discourage me. If anything, it made the signature permanent.

Politics is one of those subjects where half the room can hear a joke and laugh while the other half begins preparing a rebuttal. I have no desire to tell anyone how to vote, what to believe, or which politician deserves their admiration. There are plenty of people willing to do that already. I merely reserve the right to observe the circus, steal a signature style when it amuses me, and continue on with my day. Besides, after years of signing my name the ordinary way, the spikes are considerably more entertaining.

The only real danger is that someday I will get overly enthusiastic at the bottom of a legal document and accidentally purchase Wisconsin.    PLEASE.....all in good humor.

   Jllllllllllll

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