Wyoming really only has two seasons: winter and summer. Before climate change, we would step off the plane from our summer vacation in August and be greeted by a snowstorm. Shivering in our summer clothes, we’d dash from the airport to the car, grateful for the sweaters or light jackets tucked into our bags. A day later, the snow would melt, and summer would return for just another week or two.

Halloween was always a bundled-up affair, costumes layered over long underwear, bulky sweaters, or a coat disguised as a cape. Snow was often already on the ground, but it never stopped us from trick-or-treating for hours in a big pack of friends while our parents stayed home, handing out candy.

Fall also meant homecoming, with its crisp air, outdoor parties, and giant mums pinned proudly to winter coats at the University of Wyoming game.

In Southern California, fall feels entirely different. Outdoor swimming requires heated pools, and while the beach is breathtaking on a sunny day, the Pacific stays icy, too cold for a real swim. Fall there doesn’t bite at your cheeks or dust your yard with snow, but the beauty of the season still lingers in the light, the air, and the way the year quietly turns.

Restaurants have heaters or fire pits for Al Fresco dining. Apple picking is a weekend favorite and wine festivals celebrate California Wine Month. Miramar Naval Air Station, now Marine Corps Air Station hosts a spectacular air show in the Fall. As members of the San Diego Zoo, Halloween activities were a great family activity.

In late September the Santa Anna winds would swoop in, bringing strong gusts and extreme dryness to an otherwise mildly humid San Diego. I learned that the wind can make people feel agitated due to a combination of physical and psychological factors caused by an increase in positive ions in the air. The winds also exacerbates allergy and asthma symptoms potentially causing more irritation.

The Trade Winds in Hawaii are less intense in the Fall. Temperatures drop to the low 80’s during the day but the ocean temperatures are at their warmest, perfect for swimming. For most of Hawaii, there are just two seasons: “summer,” between May and October and “winter,” between October and April. We celebrated Fall with outdoor BBQ’s and potlucks for the weekly NFL games very early every Sunday morning. The shorter days were celebrated with crazy sunsets and incredible star gazing.

And then there is fall in Maryland, which tastes like oysters; steamed, fried, or raw on the half shell. It’s Navy homecoming football games in Annapolis, haunted houses that make you scream and laugh at the same time, and evenings spent wandering through straw mazes under a crisp sky. The heavy summer humidity finally lifts, leaving the air cool and comfortable. Everywhere you turn, there’s pumpkin spice: lattes, candles, and desserts signaling that autumn has fully arrived.

From Wyoming snow to California and Hawaiian sun to Maryland oysters, fall shows up differently in every place I’ve lived, but always with the same promise: a season of change, of gathering, and of memory-making. Wherever I am, fall is still the best.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

I don’t know where my parents first heard the phrase, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Maybe it was from Thumper in Bambi, but it was repeated often in our house. After saying Grace at dinner, we would take turns going around the table, sharing something kind about a sibling or something wonderful that happened to us that day. Those small rituals left a deep imprint on me, teaching me that kindness wasn’t just a nice idea, it was a practice.

At church on Sundays, we prayed for our sister church far away and for people less fortunate or in pain. Respect and compassion were steady themes in my childhood, woven into ordinary life.

I grew up in Wyoming, where my friends came from many different religious backgrounds; Catholic, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Mormon, and Jewish. One Christmas, our dinner table conversation turned to Hanukkah versus Christmas. My parents were very clear about the importance of respecting all beliefs without judgement, reminding us that faith takes many forms. At first, we felt sorry for the Jewish kids who didn’t get a visit from Santa, until we learned about the eight nights of gifts. Suddenly, their holiday sounded just as magical as ours, and I began to realize that difference didn’t have to mean less-than.

I was very young when John F. Kennedy was elected president. I remember it being a really big deal that he was Catholic. At that time, it seemed important to know a person’s religion. I had already heard my parents talk about JFK, how he was a decorated veteran, how his faith set him apart, and how not everyone agreed with his policies. My parents didn’t either, not completely. But on the whole, they respected him. That was their way. Respect didn’t require agreement; it required seeing the whole of a person. 

When Kennedy was assassinated, our dinner table conversation shifted from disbelief to anger to pure sadness. My father remarked about Walter Cronkite showing his emotions on air, something so unusual that it struck him deeply. As Americans we were stunned about this brutal murder of a good man, a husband and a father.  How could this happen here in the best country in the world? That night, grief sat at our table alongside us.

Those early lessons have stayed with me  and have shaped how I feel about the world this past week. They taught me that kindness is not weakness, that differences are not threats, and that respect is one of the strongest forms of love we can offer. And I find myself returning to those childhood lessons around the dinner table in Wyoming when hatred seems to cause so much misery and division. 

What my parents gave me was more than a set of family rules, it was a compass. And it still points me toward compassion, no matter which way the world seems to be turning.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

I am not the same person I was two months ago, when I first began walking the Main Loop at Johns Hopkins as a Care Partner for my husband. What was meant to be a routine morning of outpatient evaluations quickly shifted. Instead of heading home, we found ourselves escorted by the head of Hepatology, first to the hepatology unit, and then through the doors of the first of three Intensive Care units. 

Since Covid, I hadn’t ventured beyond Annapolis, so even the drive itself felt daunting. By the time we arrived, the maze of city traffic and the stress of finding parking at the hospital added another layer to an already overwhelming day.

I quickly learned the trick of taking a photo of the parking level displayed on the garage walls to find my way back to my car. Luckily, the security guards were helpful when I was trying to find my way to whichever building my husband was in.

I have had days of feeling sorry for myself. This journey has been both a mental and physical challenge. Most nights I’ve slept in a chair, awakened again and again by nurses checking vitals or by medical teams making split-second decisions about my husband’s care, decisions that sometimes included another middle-of-the-night move to yet another ICU.

I am weary of the food court, endlessly searching for something healthy to eat. One day was unexpectedly brightened when I discovered a sandwich that, to my delight, included arugula.

In many ways, I’ve become invisible here, an unnoticed part of the hospital’s landscape. The only people who consistently acknowledge me are the security guard at the outpatient visitors’ entrance and the woman who makes my coffee every morning.

In the early days of our stay, I lived in a constant state of fear. Each time I opened my husband’s chart, I turned to Google to decipher the unfamiliar medical terms. Almost every definition pointed to something critical or life-threatening. My poor daughter, Jenny, became my sounding board and confidante, shouldering my fears while also managing everything at home.

In my search for peace, I discovered a hidden sanctuary: a koi pond tucked away in a tiny garden. It has become my refuge, a place I visit each day to regain my calm and steady my mind.

I’ve read three books, knit ten mittens, and filled quiet hours with my small watercolor set. Matt and I pass the time together with games; gin rummy, double solitaire, Mancala, and Scrabble, finding small moments of normalcy amid the upheaval.

I found an app that tracks my steps along the Main Loop, and it’s gratifying to see how my morning and afternoon walking meditations are strengthening me, mentally as well as physically.

Sometimes, as I walk, I make eye contact with someone wandering the halls just as I did in those first weeks. My heart aches for them. One afternoon, I overheard a woman say to her partner, “Today was a horrible day, but ice cream will make it all better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there isn’t any ice cream at Johns Hopkins; ice cream is for those few hours spent at home doing laundry and watching “Housewives.”

This journey has tested me in ways I never could have imagined, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have felt invisible, exhausted, and afraid, yet I have also discovered resilience I didn’t know I possessed. In the midst of sterile hallways and sleepless nights, I’ve found solace in a koi pond, comfort in simple games, and kindness in unexpected places. Though this chapter is not one I would have chosen and is far from over, it has changed me profoundly, reminding me that even in the hardest seasons, there can still be moments of grace, connection, and quiet strength.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

This morning, when The Last Train to Clarksville by The Monkees came on Pandora, a flood of memories came rushing back from the days of my Monkees obsession.

In July of 1967, my younger brother and I spent a month with my aunt, splitting our time between Boston, Biddeford Pool in Maine, and New York City. While in Boston, my aunt and uncle surprised us with tickets to see The Monkees in concert at the Boston Garden, a dream come true for my eleven-year-old self.

My grandmother, ever elegant, insisted that I be properly dressed for such an important occasion. She took me to Jordan Marsh, where I chose a babydoll-style dress with tiny puffed sleeves, designed by Betsey Johnson long before she became the iconic name she is today. With shiny new shoes to match, I felt like the most glamorous fan in the world, ready for the biggest night of my young life.

That same summer, The Jimi Hendrix Experience had briefly been added to The Monkees’ U.S. tour. Fresh from his electrifying debut at the Monterey Pop Festival just weeks before, Hendrix seemed an odd match for a band adored by preteens. Night after night, Hendrix endured waves of boos and shouts for Davy Jones. The mismatch became clear, and by July 17, 1967, Hendrix left the tour. Newspapers spun the story, claiming groups like the Daughters of the American Revolution had banned him for being “too erotic” for the Monkees’ young audience. The truth was simpler, two very different worlds had collided, and neither one belonged on the other’s stage.

When I took my seat at the Boston Garden on July 22, Hendrix was already gone. At eleven, I wouldn’t have understood his music anyway, but how I wish now that I could say I’d seen him perform that night. Instead, I squealed with delight as my idols, The Monkees, took the stage. For me, it was pure magic, music, youth, and the thrill of being part of something bigger than myself.

Looking back, it was one of those moments that defined an era: a girl in her Betsey Johnson dress, clutching childhood dreams in a world where pop idols and rock revolutionaries were, for a brief and strange time, part of the same story.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Board games were always a much desired birthday or Christmas gift in my childhood home. Saturday morning cartoons were filled with commercials for the latest toys and games. Most of the kids in my friend group had Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, and Scrabble, but it was a big status thing to have a game closet. As the third child in a family of four kids, my game closet was filled to the brim. Games were there on rainy summer days, weekends, and times when boredom took hold.

I can still sing the jingle, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,” from the game Camp Granada. It was one of my very first favorites. The object of the game was to move the camp bus, collect three “icky” animals, and then make your way out of Camp Granada. Of course, if the bus “broke down,” the unlucky player had to lose a turn.

Another favorite was The Game of Life. Unlike the quick turns of Camp Granada, this one was an event, it could take up to forty-five minutes to play with as many as six players gathered around the board. I loved how it simulated the journey from childhood to retirement, with all the big milestones along the way, choosing a career, getting married, having children, and eventually reaching retirement. Spinning the colorful wheel and watching where the little plastic cars would land always made the game feel like a miniature version of real life.

Another television commercial driven gift was Mouse Trap. The real thrill of this game wasn’t as much the competition as building the mousetrap. Piece by piece we cooperated in assembling the Rube Goldberg style machine. Watching the ball roll, gears turn, and the trap finally drop was pure childhood excitement, it felt like magic every time we played.

Clue was a game that made frequent appearances in our house. It had so many moving parts that it always felt a little more sophisticated than the others. The rooms, the character cards, and the tiny weapons added a layer of mystery and excitement. We loved slipping into the roles of Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, (especially Miss Scarlet) or Professor Plum and trying to be the first to solve the whodunit. Every roll of the dice brought us closer to uncovering the culprit in the grand old mansion.

As the years went on, Clue became a favorite with my own children. Unlike some games parents secretly dread, this was one I was always happy to play. In lieu of television, one night a week we set aside time for a family board game, and Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, and Clue were always at the top of the list.

For my youngest, Cece, Clue was more than just a pastime, it was a passion. She loved it so much that when she packed her trunks for college in London, she made sure to tuck the game inside. Now, years later, Cece has come full circle. She’s not just playing the game, she’s embodying it, appearing as Miss Scarlet in the local stage production of Clue at the Oxford Community Center in a sold out crowd to rave reviews. From rolling dice around the family table to stepping into the spotlight, it feels like the story of the game has woven itself right into her own life.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Self checkout was introduced in 1986 in limited locations, becoming more popular during the COVID-19 pandemic. Customers preferred not having to interact with a cashier. Self checkout can sometimes be faster than using a cashier lane, but in some instances, self checkout can be a frustrating experience.

For the most part, when available, I prefer to use the self-checkout option when shopping. However, sometimes there is a glitch, a malfunction that is extremely challenging. Calling the one employee in charge of the self-checkout section involves a wait time (usually while they assist another shopper) and sometimes a lecture on the correct use of the machines. My response to the employee who is reprimanding me about my mistake: “ I wasn’t trained on this particular computer.” The employees sometimes laugh but mostly they ignore me.

The past month has tested every ounce of my mental and physical strength. My husband has been an inpatient at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and life has revolved around hospital corridors, parking garages, and the daily uncertainty that comes with medical care. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about navigating those winding concrete ramps and even discovered the modern-day lifeline that is Grubhub, because the food is depressing when the cafeteria tray rolls in at mealtime.

Hospitals are different now. Staffing shortages mean nurses and aides are stretched thin, and much of the burden of basic care falls on patients and their loved ones. It’s not unusual for my husband and me to tidy his room, restock supplies, or keep an eye on his medication schedule. My husband has even become a quick study in medical equipment, confidently silencing the beeping IV pump and disconnecting himself when necessary. These are skills no one anticipates learning, yet here we are.

Through all of this, one truth stands out with absolute clarity: every patient needs an advocate. Someone to speak up, to ask the right questions, to notice when something is off, and to make sure nothing important slips through the cracks. In a place where the pace is frantic and the system is strained, advocacy isn’t just important, it’s vital.

And yet, in the middle of the stress, there have been unexpected blessings, moments of laughter between us, small kindnesses from strangers, and the quiet gratitude that comes with realizing how strong we can be when we have no other choice. This chapter is not an easy one, but we are moving through it together, step by step, with hope as our compass and love as our anchor.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

The Carrot, the Egg, and the Coffee Bean is a metaphor that illustrates how people respond differently to adversity. When placed in boiling water, a symbol of life’s difficulties, the carrot becomes soft and weak, the egg becomes hard and unyielding, but the coffee bean does something remarkable: it transforms the water itself. The lesson is that while some are broken down by hardship and others become hardened, the most resilient individuals rise above the situation, using it to grow and create something better. Like the coffee bean, they change their environment rather than letting it change them.

Nothing about last week was easy. I won’t go into details but suffice it to say that our family had our share of challenges, three really big ones. After the third bit of bad news, I walked outside to take some healing breaths when suddenly a dragonfly swooped in and flew in circles around me. I knew from my studies that dragonflies undergo a significant transformation from aquatic nymphs to winged adults, making them a powerful symbol of change and new beginnings. Dragonflies are a sign of good luck, a reminder to embrace change and new beginnings. Once again, the universe is sending me messages.

We are private people. We carry our burdens quietly, wrapped in layers of strength and self-reliance. But something shifted this time. A quiet tug, an urge I couldn’t explain, told me to reach out.

So I did. Three names came to mind, clear, immediate, like a whisper I couldn’t ignore. I texted, unsure of what to say, just that we were walking through something heavy, and for once I didn’t want to walk it alone.

Each friend replied almost instantly, one was actually in the process of boarding a plane. Their responses weren’t shallow or polite, they were full of spirit, light, and grace. Support poured in, not just with words, but presence. They offered prayers, wisdom, and stillness. No fixing. Just being there.

To one of them, I said plainly, “I think we’re being tested.” He responded with a verse that fully addressed my question: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3: 5-6)

That was the moment that I realized: the reaching out might be the path. The support was already waiting. The strength wasn’t only in what we could hold ourselves, but what we were finally willing to open up and receive.

This week felt like a tidal wave, but it’s now clear that the universe is clearing space, testing our alignment, nudging us toward a re-set. The signs may look and feel like chaos, but resilience is often born in the middle of that storm. We’ll continue with our positive outlook and be like the coffee bean, we’ll grow and create something better.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Both of my grandfathers were geologists who worked for oil companies, which meant they got “transferred” every few years. Travel was a major part of my parents’ lives, so vacations weren’t exactly a novelty. But they both loved history, and that meant most of our family vacations doubled as educational experiences.

The first vacation I really remember was a week at Yellowstone National Park. My parents thought it would be fun to rent a travel trailer and do some camping. That first night in the campground was wonderful. We cooked dinner over an open fire, everything tasted better outdoors. After dinner, we went for a walk and found arrowheads, which was beyond exciting for a group of kids.

The trailer didn’t have a bathroom, so getting four small children to the campground restroom before bed was quite the production. But the real adventure came in the middle of the night when a family of bears completely trashed our campsite kitchen. They dumped over the big Coleman cooler and ate everything, even my mom’s homemade brownies.

Unfazed, my parents restocked the dented cooler the next day, and our second dinner was just as delicious, including rainbow trout that we had caught on a fishing trip to Jenny Lake. For dessert, Sara Lee brownies replaced my mom’s homemade batch. The cooler spent the night locked in the car.

But that night brought a new challenge, a summer snowstorm. The trailer didn’t have a heater, so we all froze. The windows in the trailer were caked with ice. The next morning we layered our jeans and T-shirt’s with our new sweatshirts and headed to the warmth of a diner for breakfast. My parents wisely decided to move us into a small motel down the road, one with heat and, most importantly, a bathroom. My grandparents had flown in from Denver and were staying at the Jackson Lake Lodge, a beautiful lodge with huge windows overlooking the mountains.

Our last night in Yellowstone, after visiting Old Faithful, we met them for dinner at the Lodge. Dressed in our Levi’s and boots, our camping clothes, we felt just a little out of place in the elegant dining room. But after bear raids, snowstorms, and campfire dinners, we didn’t mind being the underdressed ones at the table. It felt like we’d earned it.

The next year we swapped the mountains for the Atlantic Ocean when my family flew to Georgia. The helicopter ride from Atlanta to Sea Island, Georgia, when I was five, was almost as exciting as learning to ride my brand-new bike on the beach. The only downside to the beach were the massive piles of seaweed that washed up along the shore, they absolutely terrified me. Because of that, I much preferred my grandmother’s beach club for swimming. Honestly, the beach club had its own perks: the luxury of ordering hot dogs, sandwiches, ice cream, and lemonade from a waiter made it hard to resist.

On Saturday nights, we would get dressed up and head to the Cloisters for dinner. The grown ups lingered over their meals while we were sent to the kids’ lounge where we would play games. I won a Peter Pan game after being the last one standing during a musical chairs game. We drank numerous Shirley Temples and ate hot fudge sundaes.

One morning, my older siblings (we were nine, seven, and five years old) and I were sent on a guided tram tour (no parents, it was the 1960’s) to St. Simon’s Island. We climbed the lighthouse, and saw the Bloody Marsh, Fort Federica, and Christ Church Churchyard. It was one of the most boring trips, ever. I now wonder what my parents were off doing that day, probably enjoying the adults only pool at the beach club.

Not long after, we traded planes for a road trip. The summer of my cousin’s wedding in New Mexico, my parents bought a Buick Vista Cruiser. It had three rows of seats, roof-mounted skylights, and best of all: air conditioning. For a family of six, it felt like pure luxury.

That was also the summer we discovered the joys of Holiday Inn motels. We loved everything about them, the pools, the ice machines, the food, it was every kid’s dream. To us, the bright green Holiday Inn sign practically meant vacation magic.

We spent the next summer on a bus touring New England. We visited the Ocean Spray Cranberry bog, Plymouth Rock, Bunker Hill, Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s house. We ate lobster rolls almost every day while visiting my aunt’s summer home in Biddeford Pool, Maine. Our days were spent swimming in the freezing North Atlantic and drinking six ounce Cokes in glass bottles. I learned to play solitaire (the card game) and Scrabble with my family in front of a roaring fire at night.

My parents, while on vacation taught us how to roll with the unexpected, how to find wonder in new places, and how to always keep a sense of humor no matter what the road had in store. Travel didn’t always go smoothly but each trip became a story we would repeat at family dinners and laugh about years later.

With everything in the news these past two weeks, I’ve found myself thinking about my family, and how, really, everything is connected. Einstein once said, “look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” But I think that he really meant: “ look deep into your family, and you will understand everything better, or realize that chaos is inevitable.”

Physics tells us that everything is related, actions create reactions and forces push and pull. I see that playing out on every scale especially in current events.

My dad held very conservative political views. After serving in the Pacific Theater as a Naval Officer in World War II, he was acutely aware of the devastating effects of war. Our nightly dinner conversations often revolved around our day, current events, and world news. In winter, when we discussed the weather, it was mainly about how much snow we might get for skiing. In summer, it was all about how important rain was for my mom’s rose garden.

I grew up believing communism was not a workable concept, despite its appealing promise of equality. As a seventh-grade student, I was taught that America needed to help South Vietnam hold onto its freedom from communist rule. Sending in our military seemed like the answer and the right thing to do. Watching the draft lottery on live tv in December of 1969 was deeply upsetting, just knowing that boys as young as eighteen could be sent to fight a war so far from home.

As the spring of 1970 approached, my Dad received news that he had been admitted to the Supreme Court Bar. He was to fly to Washington, D.C. for a swearing in ceremony and then was invited to the White House for a reception in the Rose Garden with President Nixon. Of course, my Mom would be joining him for both the ceremony and the reception.

My grandparents were in charge of us while my parents were in Washington. My brother, Harris, had suffered a terrible ski accident in January and was now in a full thigh-to-foot cast, relying on crutches to get around. He had broken so many bones that the surgery required metal rods and screws to hold everything together.

To help pass the time, and ease the boredom and frustration of not skiing, my brothers and I invented a competition to see how long we could balance ourselves on the crutches with our feet pressed against the wall. Harris quickly became the reigning champion despite having to lift and hold his heavy cast, that is until he lost his balance, fell, and broke his cast. My grandfather was perturbed. It was good for Harris, though, because his cast was reduced to just below his knee and included a rubber heel for walking. This newfound mobility, was thrilling, which he took too far when he broke the new cast while out riding his bike. My grandfather had gone from exasperated to completely beside himself.

Meanwhile, my parents missed their flight from Denver to Casper (my grandfather was paged over one of the dreaded white, (bad news) phones at the airport). Needless to say, my grandfather was truly vexed.

Finally, when my parents arrived, my mom was bursting with excitement about meeting President Nixon. But in truth, what delighted her most was simply spending time among the countless beautiful roses. She later remarked that the experience rivaled the famous cherry tree blossoms, truly a gardener’s dream.

My dad passed away before the disgrace and shame of Nixon’s Watergate scandal came to light, but I can still clearly hear him saying, “feet of clay,” a phrase that refers to a hidden flaw or weakness in an otherwise admirable person.

I also remember an offhand comment my dad made one evening at dinner. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it, but his words have stayed with me for years: “The third World War and potential downfall of this country will come from within, we’ll collapse like a third-world country.”

Looking back, I realize my dad’s grim dinner-table predictions weren’t just warnings, they were reminders. Reminders that what holds a family or a country together is resilience and humor, even if the leader of the free world turns out to have clay feet.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt, are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End, where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.