Stroke of Glee

When I was little, my Dad’s mother (I called her Noni) was in the local newspaper. She used to bake and build the most wondrous gingerbread houses and then donate them to fire stations. The fire stations raffled them off to raise money, and year after year it was quite a thing.

When the article ran, we clipped it out and taped it to our fridge. I remember being so impressed that my grandmother was in the newspaper. It felt important. Meaningful.

I still have that article in one of my photo albums. My grandmother is proudly holding up her gingerbread house, a wide smile on her face. She’s wearing a dress and has her hair and makeup done. She looks beautiful.

As much as the world had changed since 1991 when the article came out, it’s still a pretty cool thing to be in the newspaper. I’ve always thought that would be amazing, to do something newsworthy.

Early last week, I got to realize part of my dream: I was interviewed for an article in my hometown newspaper. The reporter was friendly and thorough, and since then she’s contacted various colleagues and friends for the article.

I have no idea if, or when, the article will run, but I will say that getting interviewed for an article is every bit as fun as I’d always thought it would be. If the article runs, I’ll definitely clip it out and save it in my photo album. With any luck, my kids will see it someday and think it’s cool. Even if they don’t, I assure you I will think it’s cool.

I’ll probably jump up and down, squealing and flailing and laughing because gosh dang it, it feels really cool to do something you’ve always dreamed of doing.

One of these days my gleeful exuberance is going to give me a stroke. Until then, feel free to ignore the excited blathering coming from the Seattle area. It’s just me, waving a newspaper over my head while my kids look on in perplexed amusement.

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