God, Elvis, and No Answers

I’m not sure whether I believe in God, but I think that Elvis Presley did. Listening to Elvis sing gospel, it sure sounds like he believed in what he was singing about. That’s what came to mind for me on a summer Sunday morning, as I listened to an Elvis gospel CD while I washed dishes. “Peace in the Valley,” “Swing Down Sweet Chariot,” “Who Am I,” and other old favorites filled the kitchen and my mind.

I wasn’t in church that Sunday morning, just as I hadn’t been on previous Sunday mornings for the past two and a half years.

Before that time, I had attended the same little church for more than 32 years. And I had done all the church lady things: I read Christian scripture at Sunday services, taught Sunday School to little children, served on the congregation council, and volunteered, volunteered, volunteered. Church gave structure and ritual to Sunday mornings and installed within me a deep sense of obligation, not necessarily to God but definitely to the particular folks in that particular church.

Then two and a half years ago the little church closed, another already small and struggling congregation that never recovered from the COVID-19 lockdown. The other congregants dispersed to other churches. But I did not.

Suddenly I was without church. No, that’s not exactly correct. To be honest, I had been drifting away from church for quite some time. The little church closing simply sealed the deal.

On a scale of atheist to Bible thumper, I find myself, more and more, somewhere in the middle. Let’s just say when it comes to God, you can take it on faith that I have doubts.

A few years ago I read an article on agnosticism by science journalist John Horgan, in which he stated that people think they need to believe, but they actually don’t. He said, “We can, and should, decide that no answers are good enough.”

I like Horgan’s assessment, but I like it better when I move the quotation marks. When it comes to whether God is or is not, I like to think that “no answers” are “good enough.”

At this point in my life I am without church. But I am not without wonder for this amazing universe. I am not without hope for my country and this world. I am not without awe for this life I get to live and gratitude for my family, friends, and fellow travelers. I simply am without church and that’s OK.

Whether we believe in one God, multiple gods, no god, or we just don’t know, it behooves us all to do our best to get along together. So whether you are sure that there is God or certain that there is not, show a little grace for those with the opposing view or somewhere in between. After all, those of us with more doubt balance those of you with more faith — for equilibrium in the universe.

Listening to the gospel of Elvis on a Sunday morning did not bring me clarity, but I hadn’t expected that it would. I still have no answers to the question of God. But for me, “no answers” are “good enough.”

Laura Sternweis

Note: I read John Horgan’s article from Scientific American as reprinted in Pocket.

Now That I’m 64

The little girl on her tricycle displayed a glint in her eye, a determined expression, and some serious attitude. As I look at her in that old photograph, I wonder what she was thinking. Since she was me then, I’ll give it a shot: “I’m two-and-a-half. I have a fashionable pixie haircut, pedal-pusher pants, saddle shoes, and a tricycle. Life is good.”

At age 64, I am her now. For a direct comparison, my hair is chin-length to grazing my shoulders, depending how far removed I am from a haircut. These days my peddle-pushers are called skimmers and my shoes do not have saddles. I have a bicycle; no trike. (Though who knows? A trike may be in my future.) And I still, at least on occasion, display a glint in my eye, a determined expression, and some serious attitude. So, it might be time to take stock of my life a bit further and dive a bit deeper than fashion and wheels. Here goes.

Now that I’m 64:

• Retirement still seems to be something to put off until much later. I continue to work because I still enjoy it and I still get paid.
• I pay closer attention to my relationship with sugar, salt, caffeine, and alcohol — the four horsemen of the health apocalypse. I consider what I can still eat or drink that’s not too much, but an amount that’s just right. That said, I still like grape Koolaid.
• I would rather read books, newspapers, and magazines than social media. If you haven’t read a book lately, check one of my book lists for suggestions.
• I still ponder philosophical questions, and in the cookie of life, I hope my bigger half lies ahead.
• And I continue to embrace my inner old lady, just like my Grandma.

Because I’d rather keep getting older than to die anytime soon — and those are the available choices. Now that I’m 64, I’m happy I’ve reached this age and I will gladly celebrate every additional birthday I get. Here’s to 65 and then some!

Laura Sternweis

P.S. To any readers my age, in case you were wondering, yes, my husband says he still needs me. And he still feeds me, too. FYI to any young readers: That’s a Beatles reference. Look it up.

20 Years of Books and 1 I Didn’t Read

I deserted “Deserted Wife” and I feel kinda bad about it. I wanted to read “Deserted Wife” because the book had belonged to my maternal grandmother. She read it a hundred years ago, maybe more. Literally. She had a 1910s-1920s-ish edition of the novel by Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, which, according to the Digital Commons at University of Nebraska-Lincoln, was written circa 1850.

Mrs. Southworth, it seems, was a popular author of her era, writing in the (in my estimation, long-winded) style of her era. However, since my grandmother kept the book, I’m assuming she read it and liked it. So I tried to read “Deserted Wife.” I really did. But I just couldn’t get into the story.

So I closed the book and put it back on my shelf. I’ll keep it, though unread, because it was my grandmother’s, I like the cover art, and seeing it on the shelf with her other old books makes me smile.

Books, in general, make me smile. And for the past 20 years, I’ve been keeping a list of the books I have read, year by year, title and author by title and author. That’s 618 books: a commendable total by some people’s standards; a paltry number by other’s. I like to read about religion and politics and humor. I read about language and grammar, science and history, feminism and aging, television and music, home decorating and design, and any other topic that interests me. I also read memoirs and a little bit of fiction.

I like to read and I have difficulty abandoning a book once I start it. But life is short and there’s a lot to read, so I do allow myself to desert a book once in a while.

Laura Sternweis

P.S. Try to read a book this year. If you don’t like it, then try another one — maybe even one from my list of books I read in 2025.

• Triumph of the Yuppies: America, the Eighties, and the Creation of an Unequal Nation, by Tom McGrath
• Forty Acres Deep, by Michael Perry (fiction)
• We Found Love, Song by Song: The Stories Behind 100 Romantic Hits, by Annie Zaleski
• Dylan Redeemed: From Highway 61 to Saved, by Stephen H. Webb
• Gun Curious: A Liberal Professor’s Surprising Journey Inside America’s Gun Culture, by David Yamane
• Dylan Goes Electric! Newport, Seeger, Dylan, and the Night That Split the Sixties, by Elijah Wald
• Heartbreak Is the National Anthem: How Taylor Swift Reinvented Pop Music, by Rob Sheffield
• Kids Are Still Weird and More Observations from Parenthood, by Jeffrey Brown
• Propaganda Girls: The Secret War of the Women in the OSS, by Lisa Rogak
• Heidegger and a Hippo Walk through the Pearly Gates: Using Philosophy (and Jokes!) to Explore Life, Death, the Afterlife, and Everything in Between, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein
• The Stuff of Family Life: How Our Homes Reflect Our Lives, by Michelle Janning (professor of sociology, Whitman College, Walla Walla Washington)
• Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, by Benjamin Dryer (copy chief of Random House)
• Cleavage: Men, Women, and the Space Between Us, by Jennifer Finney Boylan
• Says Who? A Kinder, Funner Usage Guide for Everyone Who Cares about Words, by Anne Curzan
• Do You Remember Technology? Geeks, Gadgets + Gizmos, by Michael Gitter, Sylvie Anapol, and Erika Glazer
• A Certain Idea of America: Selected Writings, by Peggy Noonan
• Deliver Me from Nowhere: The Making of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, by Warren Zanes
• The Jane Austen Insult Guide for Well-Bred Women: Serving Tea with a Side of Scorn, by Emily Reed
• Go to Sleep (I Miss You): Cartoons from the Fog of New Parenthood, by Lucy Knisley
• Messy Minimalism: Realistic Strategies for the Rest of Us, by Rachelle Crawford
• I’ll Drink to That: A Life in Style, with a Twist, by Betty Halbreich with Rebecca Paley
• Like: A History of, like, the World’s Most Hated (and, like, Misunderstood) Word, by Megan C. Reynolds
• This Way Up: Old Friends, New Love, and a Map for the Road Ahead, by Cathrin Bradbury
• The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, by Carl Sagan
• This I Believe: The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women, edited by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory and Viki Merrick
• Improbable Mentors and Happy Tangents (Edition One), by Michael Perry
• Skipping Church: Notes from an Accidental Minister’s Wife, by Suzanne Kelsey
• Why the Beach Boys Matter, by Tom Smucker
• Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism, by Amanda Montell
• Softly As I Leave You: Life After Elvis, by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley with Mary Jane Ross
• Book Nooks: Inspired Ideas for Cozy Reading Corners and Stylish Book Displays, by Vanessa Dina and Claire Gilhuly

Holding On to the Shed

I saw the photo of the concrete slab, all that remained of the farm’s old shed. At my next visit even the slab was broken, a pile of rubble. Now all I have left of the shed are a few photos and memories — and the outhouse door.

The old red shed on my family’s farm was the place I explored as a child in the 1970s. It was where I found old bottles and mason jars and a sense of family history — and where I sometimes played in the no-longer-used outhouse.

The shed was built in the early 1900s, in my farmer grandfather’s day. It was of sturdy construction: the timber-frame, two-story main section with a lean-to all along the west side, and a two-seater outhouse with its own little door strategically tucked into the shed’s southwest corner, nearest the house. At some point in my youth, the outhouse was removed; but the little door stayed.

The shed’s overall purpose changed over time, first sheltering machinery on the main floor and likely grain in the loft. Later it served as a garage for automobiles, bicycles, and pickup trucks, with an assortment of farm and family stuff stored above. But after a-hundred-plus years, the shed was showing its age, with holes in the roof, rot in the siding, and long cracks in the timbers. Like so many old sheds on so many farms, it was no longer safe to use for anything.

In May 2025 I made my last visit to the shed, to pay my respects and help the next generation clean it out. From its loft we rescued numerous artifacts, exemplars of its farm and family working life, including: an egg incubator, various pulleys, an old logging sled, a Model T-era automobile wheel and rotted rubber tire, 25 sap buckets, 52 windows with or without glass, more than 138 miscellaneous glass bottles and jars (and then I stopped counting), and five 1930s-era beer bottles from the local brewery.

I’d never seen the shed empty before; empty except for some broken glass, miscellaneous nails, a lot of dirt, and one newly dead mouse. However, in the emptiness there was beauty to be witnessed — in the timbers, in the ravages of time, and in the outhouse door: four vertical planks, side by side, tongue in groove; red paint on the outside, and on the inside braced by three 1-by-6 boards forming a Z. I’m still not sure why I wanted it, but I claimed that door.

Am I melancholy? No, I am not sad or depressed about the shed’s demolition. Am I wistful, perhaps? No, I do not yearn for what has passed. I simply want to remember, to bring to mind, to be careful not to forget.

The shed no longer exists and will be forgotten. Fair enough; it was just a structure. I do not feel the need to memorialize the shed, but instead to remember what it meant, it’s place and purpose on my family’s farm for well over a hundred years. It was real then, and now it’s gone.

All that said, it’s easier to hold on to the shed when you still have the door.

Laura Sternweis

Elvis, Found

I didn’t even know he was missing! But there he was, on Elvis Facts Trading Card Number 8, retrieved from the rubble of the farmhouse remodel.

I think I know how he got there.

My fascination with Elvis Presley dates back to the 1970s and seventh or eighth grade. Back then I watched his old movies on late-night TV, and I listened to his music on the radio and on the half-dozen or so record albums I’d collected.

However, when Elvis died, on Aug. 16, 1977, my Elvis fascination became an obsession. I clipped all the newspaper articles I could find about his death and funeral. I bought the magazines that told his life story. And in 1978 I collected the trading cards featuring photos and facts from throughout his career — including Card Number 8.

But somehow way back then this card became separated from the rest. Likely I had stacked my card collection on top of the box-shaped radiator in my upstairs bedroom of my family’s old farmhouse. This particular card must have slipped away and lodged between the radiator and the paneled wall behind it. There Elvis remained for roughly 47 years.

This summer my nephew and his wife, who now live in the old farmhouse, commenced upon a down-to-the-studs remodeling of the upstairs bedrooms. And as the radiators and paneling and wallpaper and plaster and lath went flying, so too did Elvis. My nephew knew that I had long liked Elvis, so when he and his wife found the card in the rubble, they rightly surmised that this particular Elvis once was mine, and they returned him to me.

These days my Elvis obsession has faded to a fond inclination. Although I don’t have as much Elvis stuff as I used to, I still listen to his music and I still have the trading cards, including, once again, Card Number 8. So it seems, for me, Elvis is never really missing. And sometimes he’s found.

Laura Sternweis

Letters of Intent

I am the keeper of my father’s letters. Specifically, I have his two orange Ms from his high school days nearly 80 years ago. These letters are not of paper but are of felt and chenille, not written but awarded. Emblazoned in black with FFA, these letters acknowledge my father’s achievements in the Future Farmers of America, circa 1946 and 1947.

I do not remember when I first saw his letters or even knew they existed. No high school letter jacket was stored with the mothballs in the upstairs closet. Rather, the Ms were preserved privately, kept in an old trunk with my mother’s wedding dress and other items of special significance to my parents. At some time in my youth I became privy to the letters, but in the trunk they remained.

My mother died in 2004 and my father in 2005. The trunk ended up with my niece, my parents’ oldest granddaughter. A few years ago she asked me if I wanted the letters. I said I did and she gave them to me.

Earning these letters in the late 1940s demonstrated my father’s intent to farm. After graduating from high school, he began his farming career, which continued for more than 50 years. Keeping my father’s letters today demonstrates my intent to honor the good work of a former farmer of America.

Laura Sternweis

Now That Was a Journey

When did every aspect of life become a journey? Who decided that an individual must embark upon a learning journey or a wellness journey or a spiritual journey or a fill-in-the-blank-with-whatever-you-want-and-call-it-a-journey? I guess I missed the memo.

I prefer a journey with actual miles. For example, traveling in a station wagon from Iowa to western South Dakota and back to Iowa with two young children is a journey. And to be fair, so is a particular musical group that has been rocking since the 1970s and has spent a lot of time on the road. But a series of professional development seminars? Maybe not so much.

Look up the word journey in the dictionary of your choice and the first few definitions all relate to physical distance and travel over time. Journey as a process doesn’t show up until well down the definition list. Because if everything becomes a journey, then nothing really is. Journey loses its meaning, reduced to just another cliché.

So be a little more specific when naming your process. Maybe learn from an experience or focus on a wellness plan or discover what spirituality means for you. You might even reach your goal.

About that South Dakota road trip: We traveled more than 1,400 miles in seven days. We visited the Great Plains Zoo in Sioux Falls, Buffalo Ridge Ghost Town, the Corn Palace in Mitchell, Badlands Petrified Gardens, Prairie Homestead and Badlands National Park, Wall Drug, the Museum of Geology at South Dakota School of Mines and Technology, the Mammoth Site of Hot Springs, Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, and Custer State Park. We stayed overnight at four campgrounds and one hotel. And we made memories for a lifetime. Now that was a journey!

Laura Sternweis

Of Back Roads and Boxcars

Although it is unlikely that Boxcar Willie ever was anywhere near this particular boxcar, someone had spray-painted the singer’s name on it anyway. Dear Husband and I were quite pleased to see it, as we had discovered the boxcar merely by chance.

On the advice of an acquaintance, we had taken a shortcut through southern Iowa and found ourselves crossing into Missouri on a back road. We saw no fellow travelers, but there in a field alongside the road was the boxcar. We thought it odd enough to warrant a stop for a closer inspection. Though we are not graffiti connoisseurs, we do appreciate a well-placed tribute to a niche country music artist of 1980s “as seen on TV” fame. So for a moment we gazed at the graffiti, took a photo, and then were back on our way.

These days our travels take us to visit family mainly in Iowa and Missouri and occasionally in Wisconsin and Minnesota. Yes we travel the Interstates and major four-lane highways. But when we’re not on a tight schedule, which is much of the time, we like to take the roads less traveled.

When we travel the back roads, we don’t see many tourists. However, we do see the sights that make us smile, like boxcars and cafes and homemade museums, as well as junk shops that are open only if the shopkeeper is so inclined.

An abandoned, graffiti-covered boxcar may not meet most folks’ definition of a tourist attraction, but it worked for us on a summer day in 2024 and still serves us now. Because sometimes a boxcar is more than a boxcar. Sometimes it is a talisman, a harbinger, a rusty marker of memory, time, and place. If we had not taken that back road, we would not have found that boxcar, and we would not have this story.

If I were to give advice, it would be this: As you wander through life, take a back road once in a while. Because you never know when or where you may find more than a boxcar.

Laura Sternweis

A Book to Keep

Evidently Lola didn’t want the book her grandparents gave her for Christmas in 2010. Perhaps she didn’t care for author Laura Marchesani’s tales of “Dick and Jane and Vampires.” Perhaps she didn’t appreciate the classic illustrations repurposed from old-school “Dick and Jane” readers. Perhaps she simply read the book and moved on. In any case, at some point she decided she didn’t want to keep the book and it ended up in an antique store in Missouri, where I purchased it nearly 14 years after that Christmas.

For Christmas in 1902, Grace received “New Rhymes for Nursery Times” from her friend Fred. She must have liked it because she kept it. And nearly 122 years after that Christmas, her grandson, my husband, claimed the book from a box of family heirlooms.

For Lola, “Dick and Jane and Vampires” was a book to be given away. But for Grace, “New Rhymes for Nursery Times” was a book to keep.

That’s how it goes with books. Some we give away and some we keep. Our reasons, in either case, may or may not be clear. A book may or may not be meaningful because of how or why or when or from whom it was acquired. Maybe it’s a keeper or a give-away because of the topic. Maybe there is or isn’t room for it on the bookshelf. Also, my reason for keeping a book might be your reason for giving it away.

In any case, whether you keep your books or give them away, make a point to read a few this year.

Laura Sternweis

P.S. Need a suggestion for a book to read? Check my list from 2024

• There Are Moms Way Worse Than You: Irrefutable Proof That You Are Indeed a Fantastic Parent, by Glenn Boozan
• The Librarianist, by Patrick DeWitt (fiction)
• Keep What You Love: A Visual Decluttering Guide, by Irene Smit and Astrid van der Hulst
• House Beautiful 750 Decorating and Design Ideas, by the editors of House Beautiful
• The Bill of Obligations: The Ten Habits of Good Citizens, by Richard Haas
• Radiant Rebellion: Reclaim Aging, Practice Joy, and Raise a Little Hell, by Karen Walrond
• Love, Sex, and 4-H: A Memoir, by Anne-Marie Oomen
• Zen as F*ck: A Journal for Practicing the Mindful Art of Not Giving a Sh*t, by Monica Sweeney
• Heirloom Rooms: Soulful Stories of Home, by Erin Napier
• Other Ever Afters: New Queer Fairy Tales, by Melanie Gilman (fiction; graphic novel)
• The Woman They Wanted: Shattering the Illusion of the Good Christian Wife, by Shannon Harris
• How to Break Up with Fast Fashion: A Guilt-free Guide to Changing the Way You Shop – for Good, by Lauren Bravo
• House Beautiful Living by Water, by Lisa Cregan
• The World According to Coco: The Wit and Wisdom of Coco Chanel, edited by Patrick Mauries and Jean-Christophe Napias
• Forever Barbie: The Unauthorized Biography of a Real Doll (30th Anniversary Edition), by M.G. Lord
• On the Pony Express Trail: One Man’s Bikepacking Journey to Discover History from a Different Kind of Saddle, by Scott Alumbaugh
• Renegades Born in the USA: Dreams, Myths, Music, by Barack Obama and Bruce Springsteen
• Devout: A Memoir of Doubt, by Anna Gazmarian
• How to Be Old: Lessons in Living Boldly from the Accidental Icon, by Lyn Slater
• The Romantic Home: Celebrating Past and Present Design, by Fifi O’Neill
• More than a Farmer’s Wife: Voices of American Farm Women 1910-1960, by Amy Mattson Lauters
• Fourteen Days: A Collaborative Novel, edited by Margaret Atwood and Douglas Preston (fiction; a literary project of the Authors Guild of America, about the first weeks of the COVID-19 pandemic)
• Easy Style: 300 Decorating Shortcuts, by Better Homes and Gardens
• Throwbacks Home Interiors: One of a Kind Home Design from Reclaimed and Salvaged Goods, by Bo Shepherd and Kyle Dubay
• How to They/Them: A Visual Guide to Nonbinary Pronouns and the World of Gender Fluidity, by Stuart Getty
• This American Ex-wife: How I Ended My Marriage and Started My Life, by Lyz Lenz
• Junk Gypsy: Designing a Life at the Crossroads of Wonder and Wander, by Amie Sikes and Jolie Sikes
• Ludwig Von Wolfgang Vulture, by Dolph Sharp (fiction, 1973 satire of Jonathon Livingston Seagull)
• It’s Okay Not to Look for the Meaning of Life: A Zen Monk’s Guide to Living Stress-Free One Day at a Time, by Jikisai Minami
• House Rules: How to Decorate for Every Home, Style, and Budget, by Myquillyn Smith
• Tennessee Ernie Ford’s Book of Favorite Hymns, by Tennessee Ernie Ford (arrangements prepared for this edition by E. Charles Eggett, copyright 1962)
• What This Comedian Said Will Shock You, by Bill Maher
• A Guide to Midwestern Conversation, by Taylor Kay Phillips
• Many Hands Make Light Work: A Memoir, by Cheryl Stritzel McCarthy
• Your Caption Has Been Selected: More Than Anyone Could Possibly Want to Know about the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest, by Lawrence Wood
• New Rhymes for Nursery Times, by Edith A. Steinthal (fiction, copyright 1902 or earlier)
• There Was Nothing You Could Do: Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” and the End of the Heartland, by Steven Hyden
• Dick and Jane and Vampires, by Laura Marchesani (fiction)
• I’m No Philosopher, But I Got Thoughts: Mini-Meditations for Saints, Sinners, and the Rest of Us, by Kristin Chenowith
• From Here to the Great Unknown: A Memoir, by Lisa Marie Presley and Riley Keough

Object Lesson: Old Blue Bottles

At a flea market in Missouri late in the spring, I saw two old blue bottles on a shelf. Cobalt blue, to be exact, and a bit dusty, still they glistened in the sunlight streaming through the market window. I certainly didn’t need them, so I admired them, left them on the shelf, and continued walking about the market.

That’s when my internal dialog began hemming and hawing about whether or not I should spend the money and buy them. I am frugal by default, but gosh, those blue glass bottles sure were pretty. So I bought them. And I paid full price — $3 for the tall bottle and $2 for the short one — because I thought both prices were fair and I don’t like to haggle.

Now, months later, as I enjoy those two bottles and my other old blue bottles on display on a shelf in my home, I contemplate how I came to acquire them all. And I wonder: might there be a lesson in these objects?

An object lesson is meant to teach. As I am using the term, it is an attempt to explain my affinity for the item. In other words, what do old blue bottles tell me about me?

In the 1970s I found my first old blue bottle in the attic of the old shed on my family’s farm. It likely had been placed there some 30 or 40 years prior, perhaps by my father when he was a boy, or by one of his siblings, at the behest of my grandmother.

When I found that blue bottle, cobalt blue and a bit dusty on a shelf, I felt like I had discovered a treasure. Where some would see only a former container of Phillips Milk of Magnesia, I saw a thing of beauty. So I brought it down from the attic, washed it, dried it, and placed it on display on a shelf in my childhood bedroom.

In their former lives my old blue bottles held not only Phillips Milk of Magnesia, but also Bromoseltzer, Vicks Va-tro-nol, and other medicines and unknown concoctions that were part and parcel of everyday life. It was a time before plastic, a time when people saved ordinary, useful things because they might be needed again someday. So after using the bottles for their original purpose, someone washed them, dried them, and put them away. They may or may not have been used again. But eventually they ended up in attics or basements or junk piles or estate sales or flea markets or somewhere else, waiting to be found.

When I find an old blue bottle, I am that farm kid discovering a treasure once again. So at an antique store in Missouri early in the fall, I saw another old blue bottle on a shelf. Cobalt blue and a bit dusty, it sure was pretty. I didn’t need it, but I bought it anyway. Lesson learned.

Laura Sternweis