We lived in our former home longer than we had lived in any home: 12 years.

When I was in the newspaper business, we lived in four different communities and moved five times. The longest we had been in a house previously was six years. While moving is certainly disruptive to the family, it sure promotes shedding stuff. In 12 years we had collected a lot of stuff.

The primary reason for the move was to downsize and simplify. And finally to have a view of the mountains we love so much.

But this move was bittersweet. Living in a home for 12 years, doing the work to make it our own, celebrating holidays and gatherings with friends, cements a place in the heart. We will miss it and all the personal touches that made it ours. But we were ready to move on.

We went from 4,000 square feet to 2,600 square feet. Clearly, we had to get rid of a lot of stuff. And we had to organize this move ourselves. There were no moving angels from the corporate relocation company. We are thankful for sons and the sons of friends and young friends with strong backs and pickup trucks. And for the professionals who moved the piano and the really heavy furniture.

For the six weeks leading up to the move it seemed daunting; impossible, even. As I walked form room to room I discovered still more stuff hidden in drawers and cupboards, under beds, on windowsills. I thought I had been absolutely ruthless in sorting and donating duplicate and extraneous stuff, and yet we still had boxes and boxes to pack and move.

Still, when moving day came it all went into the trucks, got unloaded into the garage at the new house and is slowly starting to fill the corners and occupy the walls at the new place that is beginning to take shape as a real home.

And this view is worth all the hassle. On clear mornings we awake to a panorama of the Continental Divide in all its snowcapped grandeur.

We have nearly an acre for our big dog. My husband has a wonderful workshop, and come spring I can do some serious gardening.

In a few days we’ll trim the tree in anticipation of our first Christmas in this new home. What a gift!

— By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

I thought of that sentiment a while back during a particularly warm and festive dinner party at our house. It was one of those last-minute, thrown-together events, where everyone just happened to be free for an evening of good food and laughter.

As we sat around the fire pit listening to music and sharing stories, I was filled with a sense of profound thanksgiving for the people who enrich our lives.
My family has been blessed with the gift of good friends, new and old. They have shown up for family milestones and celebrations, pitched in for house repairs and dog-sitting, cooked Thanksgiving dinner when I couldn’t and were my strong source of comfort during times of sadness and loss.

For our part, I hope these dear ones can say the same about us: that we have been there when we were needed, and demonstrated our friendship with enthusiasm and love.

One of my oldest friends truly lives the sentiment expressed in Nancy’s sampler. I think of him as a “collector” of friends, old and new. In his professional life he has traveled widely and at every stop along the way he formed lasting relationships with the people he met. Today, he can hardly pass through an airport without running into one of his friends.

His experiences got me thinking about the nature of friendship and how it first sparks and then grows. One of my dearest friends tells me she was determined not to like me before she met me. She had been told by mutual acquaintances that we were sure to hit it off, which gave her an immediate negative vibe. But, sure enough, we connected right away. We shared a passion for running and writing and our families. While our friendship was built on those three pillars, it has grown far more complex and expansive.

That’s how new friends become old friends.

What better time than this season of Thanksgiving to celebrate the special gift of friendship. Why not pick up the phone, or drop a line, or email or text the friends who enrich your lives.

To all our friends new and old — you know who you are — bless you and thank you.

– By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

The piece was a “both sides of the issues” essay on whether having a single drink of alcohol every day is a good thing or a bad thing for women, medically speaking.

The researchers made a compelling case for both sides of the argument, leaving the reader with a sort of “pick your poison” decision.

According to the research, even a single drink of alcohol on a daily basis significantly increases a woman’s risk for breast cancer, especially if she is genetically predisposed to the disease.

Conversely, having a single drink every day significantly decreases a woman’s risk of contracting heart disease or having heart attack. Heart disease is the No. 1 killer of women in this country.

For purposes of the research, a single drink was described as a 5-ounce glass of wine, a bottle of beer or a 1.5-ounce shot of spirits. The researchers were very clear that one drink means one drink. No fudging.

I have been a long-time martini drinker. I like mine made with Grey Goose vodka, not stirred, but shaken so hard that ice crystals float in the glass. I like olives.

I rarely have more than one drink, which is good based on the research, but totally contrary to the age old wisdom of Hollywood legend Mae West, who once said “Martinis are like breasts; one is not enough and three is too many.”

I find that on the rare occasion when I have two martinis, I lose my sense of humor.

My mother was a martini drinker. She always said that two drinks made her mean. I don’t remember her ever being mean, but she sure got mellow and fairly philosophical if she had more than one drink.

One of my girlfriends shares my fondness for martinis, another steals my olives after they’ve been thoroughly soaked in the vodka; still another friend simply rolls her eyes at my beverage of choice and mixes herself a margarita.

Based on the medical history of the women in my family, I’m far more likely to succumb to a heart attack than breast cancer. So I figure my one-martini-a-day habit is good for my health. I hope my doctor agrees.

— By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

Spring and summer evoke so many of my memories of her.

She was terrified of thunder, lightning and tornadoes. My family spent many a spring evening in the neighbors’ cellar. There were five of us and four of them in that small space. It was hot and humid and full of mosquitoes. But the storytelling was superb.

On cool summer mornings we tended the backyard vegetable garden. My dad grew the best tomatoes in town, or so he said. We had beans and okra, too. Mom picked the lettuce every day and made wilted lettuce salad for supper; we thought it was very exotic. The sweet peas rarely made it to the cook pot; we ate most of them right from the shell as we picked.

When the really hot days of summer settled in we took a nap every afternoon. She let me climb up on the big bed with her. A box fan kept the air moving while I fell asleep listening to stories about when she was a girl.
In late summer, the peaches that grew miraculously in the sandy southwest Oklahoma soil ripened. If summer has a smell for me it’s the aroma of peaches — fresh from the tree, juice dripping from my arms; warm and spicy in old-fashioned cobbler; cold and rich in home-churned ice cream.

Our church had an ice-cream social every summer. The moms of the congregation pulled out all the stops to create their best frozen delights. They made chocolate, of course, strawberry, butter pecan and banana nut. But my mom was the only one who made fresh peach ice cream. The dads did the churning with the kids taking turns. When the custard was frozen we’d pack it in plastic tubs and haul them over to the community ice house until the day of the big event. It was truly the social highlight of the summer.

I don’t remember that an actual prize was awarded, but I do recall that mom’s peach ice cream disappeared first and was the stuff of fond culinary memories all winter long.

Our sons bought us a fancy frozen dessert maker for Christmas. My husband has devised his own version of peach ice cream. It’s not hand churned, but it’s not bad; not bad at all.

Mom would be proud.

– By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

Josie Heath, of Boulder is my boss and my friend. She is a force of nature and has unbridled energy. She’s the president of the Community Foundation, where I work. She’s been involved in government, politics, community organizing and nonprofit work. She embodies leadership on every level: mentoring, motherhood and family.

She would probably tell you that she derives a portion of her strength from all these sources. And I’d agree with her. Yet I think her deepest source of strength comes from her sense of community. She truly understands what it means to create and participate in a community.

Maria Cote, of Erie, is a writer, editor, runner, pie-baker, mother of three sons and devoted friend. She’s a gifted listener and a fine storyteller. She has an enormous thirst for knowledge, an insatiable curiosity and an empathetic soul. She’s a critical thinker and has a kind, old soul. All of these traits make her a wise confidante and compelling adviser.

While her family is her source of comfort, I think her source of strength is her intellect. It’s where she turns to sort out what she doesn’t know or understand. It fuels her independence.

Heather Curtis, of LaVeta, is an artist with a zest for living. She’s a builder who reclaims and recycles, a deeply compassionate friend, daughter and sister, a terrific party organizer and a spiritual being completely in touch with her surroundings. She’s an independent woman who lives in a house she designed and partially built herself. She lives with two equally independent cats.

Her friends comprise her army of influence, but the natural world is where she derives her strength. It’s evident in her art, her home and her relationships. It rubs off on those she loves and we are made stronger for it.

Jill Stravolemos, of Erie, is a media executive, juggling the myriad fragile orbs in that fast-changing, partially disappearing industry. She’s direct, organized, outrageously creative, funny and a fabulous entertainer. She has a pure heart and open arms. She’s extremely adaptable to change and that easily might be mistaken as her greatest source of strength.
In my view, though, she finds refuge and renewal in her family, her husband and her daughters. In her professional life very little stays the same; her family is her anchor.

Thanks ladies, for all you are and all you do.

— By Colleen Conant
Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

Thanksgiving is high on my list of favorite holidays. What’s not to love? It’s a celebration of family, friends and food.

This year will be particularly poignant in our home. It’s the first time in my 60 years that my mom won’t be around the table. She died in January at the age of 91.

Her last years were difficult and in her own words she “wasn’t much fun.” She was wheelchair-bound and addled by dementia.

Still, she never lost her sense of humor and she loved being the center of attention. She spent Thanksgiving Day last year surrounded by most of her family. She sat by the fire, sipping a glass of Champagne and feeding shrimp to the dog. Her three children, a daughter-in-law and son-in-law, three of her four grandchildren and both of her great-grandchildren posed for pictures with this tiny, frail lady all dolled up in a pale pink sweater.

It was a moment of serenity for her and for me, and I was flooded with memories of Thanksgivings past.

She taught me how to make the traditional cornbread dressing. I learned not by reading a recipe, but by years of standing at her side, crumbling the breads into a huge crockery bowl, breaking the eggs, adding just the right amount of sage and poultry seasoning and salt, then tasting until it was just right.

She taught me how to make pecan pie. I learned the basics by harvesting the pecans from a huge tree in our yard back in Oklahoma, cracking them and shelling them, one by one, finally filling another big crockery bowl. It was tedious work, but never dull. The secret to great pecan pie is this: Don’t scrimp on the nuts.

Those kitchen memories are vivid and dear to me. Mom shared rich life lessons along with the cooking tips she imparted while we were elbow deep in dressing and pecans.

In the past few years we hadn’t cooked together. She didn’t have the strength and the recipes were no longer in her memory bank. But she loved to watch me stir and chop and crimp the pie crust. And, Mom being Mom, she always had a word or two of advice: “The nuts aren’t chopped enough,” or “Your oven’s too hot.”

It used to annoy me. After all, I’m a grown woman now, and the Thanksgiving feast is on my watch.

How I miss her.

I retired in 2003 after a long career in the newspaper business. I left a little sooner than I had originally intended mostly because the thrill was gone.

I was really good at retirement. I gardened, cooked, did all sorts of home improvement projects, and got a dog.

My husband and I took several trips we had long dreamed of, including a month-long getaway that included a week of sailing in the San Juan Islands, and a drive down Highway 1 on the California Coast.

After three years of perfecting my retirement skills, I got a call from my friend Josie Heath, president of the Community Foundation. She had a part-time position open and wondered if I might be interested.

I had volunteered for the foundation for six years as a member of the board of trustees, so I knew a little about the organization. I am a strong supporter of its mission: to improve the quality of life in Boulder County now and forever and to build a culture of giving.

When I was still at the newspaper, we partnered with the foundation to create the Millennium Trust. In 1999, more than 6,000 local residents donated the equivalent of their last hour of income to create a fund to address the needs in the new millennium. We raised nearly $2 million. It was a great project and its success had a lot to do with my saying “yes” to Josie’s offer to come to work at the foundation.

I’ve been here a little over two years. Today we have a new focus. In August of last year, we embarked on a “Million Dollar Mission.” Our goal is to raise $1 million a year for four years for the Community Trust, the permanent endowment at the foundation. With this new infusion of money, we intend to double the amount of money we are able to award to local nonprofits, double the corpus of the endowment and create a $1 million impact fund to help close the educational achievement gap in Boulder County.

At the end of 2008, thanks to nearly 500 donors, we had raised almost $800,000 of our $1 million goal — not bad in a failing economy.

To learn more about the mission, go to www.commfound.org and click on “Give an Inspired Gift.” Or click on “What’s new” to read our blog, which, like a newspaper, reports the important activities of this community.

So I guess I’ve come full circle.

– cconant

Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

COLLEEN CONANT

Last fall when “Twilight” the movie came out, I cast a critical eye at the media storm and the oh so breathless whimpering of adoring teenage girls.

Truthfully, I had somehow missed all the attention the “Twilight” saga had garnered in the literary press.

I am an avid reader and even a bit of a “Harry Potter” fanatic. I bought and read each installment of the Hogwarts wiz kids the day the books came out. But when it came to the “Twilight” series, I was out of the loop. Then, once informed, something about the swooning just irritated me. I wasn’t prepared to fall for what I supposed was an entertainment-created hype.

But I was wrong.

My brother bought me the first book in the series for my birthday last December. I put it aside wishing he’d selected “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” or the latest from Philippa Gregory.

Finally, Stephenie Meyer’s “Twilight” rose to the top of my pile and so I picked it up by default. It’s a page turner. I know a good story when I read it. So do all those teenage girls and their moms. The hype is genuine and deserved, the result of a great yarn, told well. I fear I’m obsessed.

I sped through the first book and quickly downloaded the other three books to my Kindle2. I confess I’ve read them all twice. I bought the movie and have watched it more than once. Enough said.

In case you, too, have somehow missed the whole “Twilight” rage, let me bring you up to speed. Bella Swan is a high school junior who moves to Forks, Wash., the small town where her dad is the police chief. It is overcast or raining pretty much all the time in Forks, which makes it an attractive locale for a family of “vegetarian” vampires, including perpetually 17-year-old Edward Cullen. Bella and Edward fall madly in love.

And you thought your teenager was difficult.

In case you haven’t read these books I don’t want to give too much away. But you should know that in addition to the Cullen family, a pack of werewolves also inhabits Forks, which seems to be a sort of melting pot for weirdness. Bella, being the newbie in town, strikes up a relationship with them as well. Did you know vampires and werewolves are arch enemies? Talk about teen angst!

What can I say? Read the books. They’re a great escape.

Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

On Jan. 20 we’ll be celebrating with the nation as we witness the historic swearing in of our first African American president.

At home, we’ll be marking 36 years together.

Our wedding day, a Saturday in 1973, was the same day Richard Nixon was inaugurated to his second term. I was working as a reporter at a small, semi-weekly newspaper in Florida. The paper got published in the morning and we got married in the afternoon.

My husband, Terry, and I have always been grateful that the marriage has lasted ever so much longer than Nixon’s presidency, and that neither of us has ever been indicted.

Marriages, like presidencies, have peaks and valleys, seasons and rhythms. I suspect in the years after he left the White House, Nixon pondered the answer to the question “if I knew then what I know now” with a deep sense of regret.

After 36 years, I have no regrets.

Take courtship. It’s a time to get to know each other and discover all things weird and wonderful about your intended. In our case, this lasted only a matter of weeks. I actually fell in love with Terry’s family before I ever met him. He’s one of nine siblings. At a Christmas Eve party at his family’s home, I asked my future mother-in-law whether she had a son my age.

“Actually, I do, but he’s out fishing,” she answered.

By fall the next year we had met; we announced our engagement on Thanksgiving.

Our wedding was the best one I’ve ever been to even though it turned out far differently from our original vision. We wanted to gather a few friends on the beach at sunrise, exchange vows, then head off to a yummy brunch somewhere.

The actual ceremony took place in the small, lovely sanctuary of our parish church. The priest who married us was a good friend and mentor.

“You don’t want to get married on the beach,” he advised. “You want to look back on this day and remember all the pageantry and liturgical grandeur of a church wedding.”

He was right.

The years since that day have passed in a blink, punctuated by moments of heady exhilaration and profound sorrow. That’s life.

Here’s the best part: If I knew then what I know now I’d do it all over again.

– cconant

Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.

This time of year the catalogs are filled with beautiful pictures of holiday homes. Thanksgiving tables are laden with the most fabulous feasts, dining rooms are perfectly decorated and lit; table linens and dinnerware are color coordinated and imported from Italy.

The Christmas trees in the catalog homes are all themed and every ornament is equally spaced. You’ll never see a Popsicle-stick ornament made by a 4-year-old in his pre-school class on a catalog tree. Garlands are fresh and beribboned with velvet and gilt; tiny white lights twinkle; no garish reds or blues or greens or bubble lights on these trees.

When children are pictured, which is rare in catalog-land, toddlers are dressed in velvet and they never ever spill anything or whine. Even the family dog is sweater clad and sleeping on a plush pillow bearing his name.

These glitzy catalogs can make you feel totally inadequate if your food and home and kids and dogs don’t measure up.

Say it with me: IT’S NOT REAL. IT’S ONLY A CATALOG.

When you feel tempted to try to buy a perfect holiday or a perfect family remember this: REAL IS MUCH BETTER.

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is to enjoy the wonderful zaniness of our home and family during the holidays. Some of our most memorable stories are from the times things weren’t perfect.

The year we forgot to take the giblets out of the bird before we roasted it; yuck!

The Christmas Eve one of the kids hit the other one in the head with the cow from the Nativity scene; no permanent damage but a big bump on the noggin.

The year the cat knocked over the Christmas tree; we attached it to the ceiling with fishing line after that.

The year the dog ate all the ornaments he could reach; we don’t decorate the bottom of the tree anymore.

The year we splurged and bought the boys a fancy radio-controlled car, and they played with the box all day.

None of these antics would make the cover of a “Home for the Holidays” catalog, but they are the stuff of fabulous family memories. I wouldn’t trade them for all the slick images in the world. Besides, my dog doesn’t like sweaters.

Conant, the former editor of the Camera in Boulder, retired after a 35-year career in newspaper journalism. She’s currently on the staff of the Community Foundation Serving Boulder County.