Nancy Range Anderson – Author

  People make friends at different times in their lives. If you’re lucky—and if you take the time to nurture those friendships—some of them can last a lifetime. I have friends from elementary school, middle school and high school. I have college friends, career friends, neighborhood friends, the mothers of my children’s friends, yoga friends—and the list goes on. Each friendship belongs to a different part of my story. Some friends knew me when I was young and still trying to figure out who I was. Others came into my life through work, marriage, motherhood or shared interests. Jeanne, my sister Barbara and me  in our early 20s Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with one of my high school friends, Jeanne. We maintained our friendship after graduation, through our twenties and after our children were born. Now that I am living close to where I grew up, we have picked up where we left off. That is one of the gifts of a longtime friendship. You may not see each other regularly, but ...

  My husband has been cleaning out our basement, where several tubs have been holding some of my parents’ old belongings. There isn’t much of monetary value in them, but there is a great deal of sentimental value. One of the boxes holding memories One of the tubs contained jewelry that had belonged to my mother, my grandmother, and my mother’s best friend, Jackie. It wasn’t the fine jewelry—that had already been dealt with. This was costume jewelry, tucked away in old cardboard boxes bearing the names of department stores from years ago. Some of those stores are still around. Others have disappeared along with so many other things from that time. Some of those little store boxes still hold the pieces my sister and I bought as Christmas gifts when we were young. We saved our money so we could choose something for everyone. I don’t remember picking out each piece, but I remember the feeling of pride and knowing that they would love something because it came from us. If you’re wonderi...

  Just coming out of surgery Today, I went to physical therapy as I usually do twice a week, working to strengthen my knee and improve my flexion—my bend. As I was completing my 30 stair climbs, my therapist looked at me and asked, “How would you feel if today were your last day?” “I’d love that!” I immediately replied. Suddenly, all the therapists and patients called out, “Happy graduation!” As one woman was leaving, she looked at me and said, “I can’t wait until I can move like you.” Her words stopped me for a moment. After months of concentrating on what I still couldn’t do, someone else saw me as an example of what she hoped to achieve. It made me realize just how far I have come. As I continued with the rest of my exercises, I felt all sorts of emotions. For seven straight months, I have gone to physical therapy twice a week. It interrupted my spring and summer. It made me tired and, at times, cranky. There were days when the pain brought me to tears—and other days when we cel...

A friend visited me for the past two days, and during one of our conversations, we talked about what seems to be a decline in kindness, respect, personal responsibility, and simply trying to be a good person. Sometimes it appears in the smallest ways. A driver lets someone merge into traffic, but there is no wave of thanks. A person holds open a door, and the other person walks through without acknowledging the gesture. These things may seem insignificant, but they reflect how we choose to treat one another. We also talked about the crude remarks Jelly Roll recently made about the President while guest-hosting a late-night talk show. When some people criticized his comments as rude and disrespectful, others defended them by saying he had a First Amendment right to say whatever he wanted. Yes, he had the right to say it. But having the freedom to say something does not automatically make it kind, respectful, responsible, or morally right. Some people will respond that the President has ...

  The day after my mother died, my sister and I went to the funeral home to confirm all the details. When we returned to the house, it was still early in the day. We looked at each other and said, “If Mom were here, she’d tell us to go to the beach. It’s a beautiful day.” So that’s what we did. We packed a lunch, some drinks and our beach chairs. Instead of sitting near the water, as we usually did, we chose a quiet spot toward the back of the beach, where there were fewer people. I’m the kind of beachgoer who digs in the sand with her feet while sitting in her chair. I did it then, and I still do it today. As my sister and I sat talking about our mother, my feet did their usual digging until they struck something hard. It was a rock. I lifted it from the sand and brushed it off. On its surface were the letters JC , written in white. They looked as though they had been carefully painted by a grade-school teacher. We stayed at the beach for a few more hours. When it was time to leav...

  Don’t allow someone else’s behavior—or the way they choose to treat you—to define your worth. Their actions may hurt, disappoint, or confuse you, but they do not determine your value. And try to live in the moment. In this rushed, automated, AI-driven world, it often feels as though we have too many tabs open in our brains. Try closing a few and giving your full attention to one thing at a time. It isn’t easy. We become hurried, distracted, and caught up in scattered thoughts. That is often when mistakes happen, patience disappears, and unkind words slip out. Perhaps living in the moment is not about slowing down the entire world. Perhaps it is simply about pausing long enough to decide how we want to move through it.

  Yesterday at the beach, I watched a young man body surfing in the ocean. He’d swim out to the breakers and time it just right, catching a wave at the perfect moment and riding it all the way into the shoreline. Oh, how I envied him! My orthopedic surgeon told me to stay out of the ocean for a year. He doesn’t want me getting knocked around, and the ocean has all kinds of nasty things that could find their way into a wound. I understand. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. So I sat on the beach and watched—the body surfer, the boogie boarders, and the people wading into the warm water, jumping the waves or diving underneath them. I was lucky enough to grow up at the beach, so summer days like this weren’t a special vacation. They were part of my childhood. We could spend the entire day in the ocean. I can still feel it all—the muffled sound when you dove beneath a wave, the tumble of riding one into shore, the sand in your bathing suit, the salt water burning your eyes...

  This morning in yoga, our instructor reminded us to stay in the moment. Those words stayed with me long after class ended. As I drove home, I realized I wasn't thinking about yoga poses. I was thinking about people. Years ago, much of my career was spent teaching communication skills. We talked about active listening, maintaining eye contact, asking thoughtful questions, and avoiding interruptions. They were all important skills. Somewhere along the way, though, I realized I'd gotten out of the habit. I'm slowly working on bringing those skills back because communication is so much more than words passed back and forth. When someone walks away from a conversation with me, how do I want them to feel? I hope they feel heard. I hope they feel respected. I hope they feel that what they had to say mattered. And if possible, I hope they leave feeling just a little better about themselves than they did before we started talking. Sometimes that's as simple...

  My father was a clock collector.   We had every kind of clock you could imagine—grandfather clocks, grandmother clocks, mantel clocks, cuckoo clocks, French Provincial clocks, and even the occasional alarm clock. Friends counted them once, though I can't remember the number. It was somewhere in the 40s.   On my sixth birthday, when everyone else got a toy or a doll, I got a grandm other clock. It's hanging in my kitchen now and if I turn it around, I see the date and an inscription from my father.   Even today, friends reminisce about coming to our house. We laugh because no two clocks ever told exactly the same time. Then, on the hour, the house would come alive. Bongs, chimes, cuckoos, and melodies echoed through every room for several minutes. Our family slept right through it - our overnight guests, on the other hand, usually had a very different experience.   The bongs always seemed to happen just as a television show was ending. Back then there was no pa...

  Today I watched my neighbor squat down to pull weeds in her garden. I found myself envious of her. A year ago, I could have done exactly the same thing without giving it a second thought. Later, as I picked tomatoes and cucumbers from my own garden, I couldn't squat. Instead, I bent from my waist and carefully balanced myself as I reached for each one. It struck me how much we take our bodies for granted. We assume we'll always be able to kneel beside a child, sit comfortably on the floor, sink into a deep squat, stretch into a child's pose, or simply get back up again. Until one day... we can't. That's the part no one prepares us for. It's not just the pain or the surgery. It's the surprise. The rude awakening that something so ordinary has become difficult. It reminded me of those posts on social media—the ones that remind us we never know when it will be the last time we read our child a bedtime story, sing them a lullaby, or pick them u...

 Most of my writing begins with a family story or something I noticed while walking the beach. This time, the inspiration came from something else—a realization that we've become very good at sharing opinions but not always as good at separating facts from analysis. It reminded me of lessons I learned years ago in learning and development.   For years I've noticed the bickering that seems to go on between political parties. It often feels as though we've moved away from simply reporting the who, what, when, where, and how of a story and toward telling people what to think about it. What's often missing is analysis—and our own ability to use critical thinking to draw our own conclusions. Let's take a quick look at the difference. Fact: What happened? Analysis: What might it mean? Opinion: What do I think about it? Here's a simple example. Fact: Work starts at 9:00 a.m. Analysis: A traffic accident delayed the employee on the way to work. Opinion: The employ...