I have no idea what I'm going to wear.

There have been few times in my life when I have felt as helpless as I do when a friend, family member or co-worker encounters tragic life events.

I have a confession to make. I'm just not my perky little self lately.

I really considered going to City Editor Chet Diestel and pleading overwork to get excused from writing my column this week.

Life. It's all about moving forward, growing older, moving on, stepping back, and looking forward. We celebrate some milestones and mourn others.

On a sunny spring afternoon in 1961, I sat in the front seat of our family sedan with my mother. I was 6 years old and we were returning home from a trip to the grocery store. Suddenly, the radio program we had been listening to was interrupted.

I have a soft spot, an undeniable weakness for old furniture. And, well, how do I say this without sounding crazy? Furniture speaks to me.

They say you can't go home again.

Traditions. Rituals. Customs. Whether they're religious or cultural in nature, or cultivated by family members over time, Thanksgiving is the signal that it is time for us to renew and celebrate the traditions each of us hold so dear.