By Cami Beiter ~~~~ What was that scrambled mess-of-a-quote George W. made some 12 years ago? “Fool me once, shame on...shame on you. Fool me...you can’t get fooled again.” After the fourth time, you think I’d learn...or put my foot down. With each experience of selling my daughter’s gently used clothing to Plato’s Closet, (her wallet) and expectations were always short changed. But like a love sick teenage girl, I kept thinking, maybe the next time will be better.
According to their website, Plato’s Closet buys and sells the latest looks in brand name gently used clothing accessories for teen and twenty-something guys and girls. Re-selling clothing has become a hot trend. You need to be choosy in what you present to a consignment or resale shop.
For us, this is a familiar routine. Peyton would clean out her closet of shorts, jeans, shirts, sweatshirts, shoes, boots and scarves...All items that either no longer fit or didn’t tickle her fancy. She’d separate, wash, dry and fold the items, placing them in bags or large plastic bins. When our schedules were free, and the planets were aligned just right, we’d venture off to Plato’s Closet.
I could Read more... Closing the Door On The Closet
By Cami Beiter ~~~~ What was that scrambled mess-of-a-quote George W. made some 12 years ago? “Fool me once, shame on...shame on you. Fool me...you can’t get fooled again.” After the fourth time, you think I’d learn...or put my foot down. With each experience of selling my daughter’s gently used clothing to Plato’s Closet, (her wallet) and expectations were always short changed. But like a love sick teenage girl, I kept thinking, maybe the next time will be better.
According to their website, Plato’s Closet buys and sells the latest looks in brand name gently used clothing accessories for teen and twenty-something guys and girls. Re-selling clothing has become a hot trend. You need to be choosy in what you present to a consignment or resale shop.
For us, this is a familiar routine. Peyton would clean out her closet of shorts, jeans, shirts, sweatshirts, shoes, boots and scarves...All items that either no longer fit or didn’t tickle her fancy. She’d separate, wash, dry and fold the items, placing them in bags or large plastic bins. When our schedules were free, and the planets were aligned just right, we’d venture off to Plato’s Closet.
I could Read more... 
By Tim Jensen ~~~~~~ In the summer of 2008, I was on top of the world. I had two wonderful children, was editor-in-chief of my hometown newspaper, was coaching high school ice hockey and had just recorded the third hole-in-one of my life (on three different golf courses, in three different decades). Suddenly, in September of that year, almost everything changed. I had been experiencing increasing pain in my left leg throughout the summer, and in typical guy fashion, waited about six weeks before deciding to see a doctor. While awaiting the test results, I was laid off from my job. A week later came the diagnosis: a form of cancer called diffuse large B-cell lymphoma in my left femur. In layman’s terms, cancer had eroded away some of my left thighbone. The first step was surgery to attach more than a foot of stabilizing stainless steel to the bone. I am, to say the least, an extremely difficult patient, and Dr. Kevin Raskin and the staff at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston did a phenomenal job during my eight-day stay there. A few days after returning home, I began suffering excruciating pain in the leg and called East Windsor Ambulance. Within an hour of arrival at Baystate 
By Cami Beiter ~
James Lincoln Wood was known by many names.
“Jimmy” by close acquaintances. “Jim” by fellow ranchers, large equipment retailers and feed store owners. “Mr. Wood” by the many hispanic migrant workers he housed and employed. “Jimmy Lincoln”...only to the ladies or childhood friends did he hesitantly permit such reference.
As a young girl, I heard people refer to him by all his various monikers. I thought I detected a hint of hatred, a loathing...even jealousy when his name was said but also a level of respect and admiration, mixed with a healthy serving of fear. Jim Wood was a successful rancher, owning thousands of acres in the fertile Salinas Valley.
For many years, my mother dated Jim. He almost became my stepfather. I’m glad he didn’t, for my life would have been very different. It would have taken me away from the ocean, my friends, my school.
Still, for years many of my adolescent weekends were spent on his ranch...riding horses, working, complaining. In order to make the transition (and reality) of the weekly sacrifice more bearable, my mother would often treat me to McDonald’s before the long and winding drive 
By Cami Beiter - As a teenager, I coveted the occasional cigarette with a select few, a very small circle. Most of my friends played sports. If our dirty little secret (and occasional habit) were discovered, coaches and parents, would have something say about it. We snuck a drag here and there...whether it was at a forbidden kegger, the late night concert or sitting on a friend’s deck after school.
My high school had a designated smoking section. I’m not sure how it worked, or was monitored. I can’t imagine sending a note into school: “My child has permission to smoke in the designated area, stink like an ashtray and blow smoke rings with fellow classmates.” Those who frequented the smoking section were forever deemed a, “bleacher creature.” My friends considered it social suicide to be seen on that area of campus. Dudes sported Ozzy Osbourne T’s with ripped sleeves, big hair, acid washed jeans...while other creatures of the bleachers, the fashion requirement was black, black and more black. If my friends and I wanted to sneak a drag, we did what most girls did...smoked in the girls bathroom. We walked in, dead-bolted the lock to the main door, and lit up. God, 
We’re all busy. We often remind and reassure ourselves that our children are fine, their homework is done, they’ve eaten all their vegetables. And while their beds aren’t made and rooms are war zones, you’re fairly pleased with the day.
Being a parent involves many unpredictable, shocking and surprising turn of events. The groceries may be put away, laundry done and dinner on the table, but just when you think you’re ahead of the game, you quickly realize you’re last in line .
Until recently, our three children, ages 16, 14 and 12, all had smartphones. With my family’s schedule, we found it necessary to regularly communicate with their whereabouts, pick up times and afternoon activities. The risk, and extra headache, is the hovering question of whether your children are using their phones responsibly. We understand the phones are not babysitters, but providing adolescents with current technology also leaves a doubtful cloud of trust. Kids today have the world in their hands, literally. At anytime, they can search the internet for information, text a classmate, call a parent, FaceTime with family. While all these abilities are convenient, 
by Wendy Pierman Mitzel
I am a girl with many projects.
Love to start them. Not so good at finishing them.
The beginnings of many novels, short stories and essays germinate on my computer or in the many notebooks scattered about my house.
Baskets with price tags still attached wait to be filled and organized.
The new ceiling fans sit boxed at the ready next to the shelves waiting for hammer and nail.
And inside my head? In there is even worse! I am well aware the state of my physical affairs is a manifestation of my congested cerebrum.
Popping around in there are kernels of ideas. Such as starting a creative center for autism, a place where high functioning kids can go hang out. Then there are the characters from all my novels and short stories. They pace around in that waiting room, muttering and begging for me to pay attention to them. Laying dead center is the long list of boring matters like making doctor appointments and searching for summer camps.
I’ve recently begun to wonder what keeps me from moving forward. A lot of it is just daily life and distractions getting in the way. I spend a lot of time running out for milk and eggs and running