The Cookie Jar

On a quiet Veterans Day morning in Salmon, Idaho, Marla Jewell climbs into her attic with a heavy heart and a holiday spirit that feels out of season. Grieving the recent loss of loved ones and trying to reclaim joy, she stumbles upon an old gingerbread-themed cookie jar—filled not with cookies, but handwritten memories that lead her on a path of healing, hope, and unexpected comfort.

This emotional holiday episode of Take Care Time explores what happens when caregiving ends and identity feels lost. It's a warm, reflective tale wrapped in nostalgia, grief, and a little gingerbread magic.

Perfect for caregivers navigating a season of transition—and anyone who believes that memories are the sweetest gift of all.

Transcript

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Hello friends and welcome back to Take Care of Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. It's officially that time of year when the world tells us to be merry and bright. But for many caregivers, the holidays can stir up something deeper, grief, exhaustion, and the ache that used to be there. That's why I wanted to offer something a little different today. A story wrapped in memory, resilience, and yes, a little gingerbread. In today's episode, we meet Marla Jewel, a woman whose caregiving season has ended and who now finds herself facing a quiet house and a heart full of holiday, what ifs. But when she recovers an old cookie jar filled with something unexpected, the season begins to take a whole new meaning, so grab a cup of something warm, take a breath, and let this story be your reminder. You are not alone. You are allowed to rest. And yes, you still matter even when caregiving ends. Let's begin now, I hope I'm saying this correctly. Salmon, Idaho is nestled in the Lemhi Valley, along the banks of the Salmon River, and serves as a county seat for the limb high county. This land was originally inhabited for thousands of years by indigenous peoples, including the Shoshone and Lemhi tribes who lived off the river's abundant salmon and wild game. In August of 1805, the renowned Merriweather Lewis and his expedition, part of the Lewis and Clark journey, crossed the continental divide at nearby limb high pass and traveled down Salmon River through the area that would become salmon. Later. The town proudly claimed its legacy of Sacagawea, a member of the expedition as she was born in the region of the Lemhi Valley. The mid 19th century bought mining which dramatically reshaped the region. In 1866, a gold rush at Leesburg in the upper salmon area spurred the development of what became Salmon City. Now salmon. In the valley below these money activities, along with early ranching and farming along the river, laid the foundation for the town's growth. Salmon was formally incorporated and named in 1869 when Lemhi Valley was established and Salmon City designated as a county seat. By the early 20th century, salmon had become a gateway, to wilderness. Gold and mineral prospects and was once the western terminus of the Gilmore and Pittsburgh railroad from 1910 to 1939. Today, salmon has a population of around 3,100 people. The region still draws visitors or its outdoor adventures, whitewater rafting, fishing, and rugged landscapes, But at its heart, it remains a small town shaped by its history of service, exploration, and endurance. The town embraces its motto, the birthplace of Sacagewea. And while the mountains in the river play starring rolls in the story, it's the quiet rhythm of families, veterans, and caregivers that give it life A fitting backdrop for our story today. It's the morning of November 11th in Salmon, Idaho. A small snow dusted town that rests quietly between mountain shadows. It's Veterans Day and like many rural towns across America, salmon takes this day seriously. Flags flap from porches. Reefs are hung on fences. There's even a small ceremony scheduled at the square at noon. But for Marla, jewel the morning is quiet, too quiet. She pulls open the attic door, a heavy groaning hatch that hasn't been used since last December. She climbs the wooden steps slowly. Her joints stiff from long night sleeping on the edge of her bed. Always listening for sounds. Downstairs. Half worrying. Half dreaming Marla is in her early forties, an ex caregiver, a mother, and this year a Mourner. Her great aunt Judy, who practically raised her, passed away in February. And in late August, just before the leave started to turn, she lost her Uncle Jim, a stoic Navy vet who taught her how to drive, how to bait a hook, and how to keep going when life got heavy. This year, everything has felt heavier. So she's doing something that she's never done before. She's decorating early. Maybe the twinkle. Lights will help. She whispers to herself. Maybe I'll feel something again. She tugs at the lid of a red and green plastic bin and starts sorting through dusty ornaments, bent garlands, and mismatched stockings. That's when she sees it Tucked in the corner of her attic is an old cookie jar ceramic, chipped and shaped like a gingerbread man. She recognizes it immediately. Mom's old cookie jar. She says softly. It used to sit in the kitchen of her childhood home next to a basket of bananas and her mother's radio. The jar had long since vanished from memory and yet here it is now a time capsule from a life that feels impossibly far away. She lifts it carefully. It rattles cookies, not a chance. She opens the lid inside. Folded like love letters are dozens of small slips of paper. Some yellowed, some torn, most written and familiar cursive. She reads the first one out loud. Take care of yourself, mom. She closes her eyes and let the tears fall. Marla sits cross-legged in the attic surrounded by half open bins of holiday garlands, cracked ornaments, and dusty keepsakes. But it's the cookie jar in her lap that holds her. Something about it feels intentional like it wanted to be found. She pulls out the first note. December, 1988, aunt Judy Snickerdoodle Secrets. Less butter, more sass, and never let the kids see you lick the spoon. Marla smiles through her tears one by one. She pulls out more notes, written on napkins, scratch paper, even a Christmas card envelope. Messages from holidays pass, recipes, advice, funny one-liners, some signed, some anonymous. A few in Uncle Jim's handwritings a couple in her own. Some were clearly stuffed in during Christmas parties over the years. Notes from cousins, friends, old flames all dropped into the cookie jar. Like time capsules. Her family had turned the cookie jar into something more. A quiet tradition of remembering by the time she reaches the bottom. Marla is surrounded by decades of sugar and sentiment. She suddenly feels something she hasn't in months. Ready? That afternoon, Marla pulls out her baking tins, finds her old mixer, and texts her nieces cookie and care gathering. Tomorrow, my house. Bring your apron a story and a blank note. The notes in Martha's jar were more than just scraps. They were little respite breaks. Tiny reminders of sweet. Of joy and sweetness and self-care tucked between life's messes. And as she kneeds to dough in her kitchen, Marla realizes that maybe just maybe this year won't feel quite as heavy. The jar doesn't just hold cookies. She whispers it held us. By 11:00 AM the next day, Marla's kitchen is transformed. Her nieces arrive one by one, coats, tossed over chairs, phones silenced, sleeves rolled up high. There's Abby the youngest, fresh from her nursing shift. Kayla, the teacher who brings her signature, peppermint, fudge, and Joy, the quiet one, clutching a worn recipe card from Grandma Elaine's collection. They hug, they wipe tears. They joke about who makes the best snicker doodle. The scent of ginger, cinnamon and powdered sugar begins to swirl around the house. For the first time in a long time, Marla's kitchen feels alive again, not with noise, but with presence. At the center of the table is the old cookie jar. I found it in the attic. Marla explains gently tapping the ceramic lid. I thought we'd bring it back. Each woman has come prepared. They slide folded notes, handwritten and heart heavy into the jar. Some notes are reflections, some are recipes. One is just a single sentence. I miss how we used to be. They bake for hours. Laughter bubbles between the trays of gingerbread and mugs of hot chocolate. But there's also silence, the sacred kind that lives between people who feel safe enough to rest. At one point, Kayla opens her blank note and whispers, what if I don't know what to write? Marla. Hands dusted in flour replies softly. Then just write that. That's honest too. They write, they cry, they bake, and slowly the cookie jar feels, again, not just with memories, but with healing. As a gathering winds down, Marla hands each niece a small paper bag filled with goodies, tied with twine, and a tag that reads, take a break. You're allowed. One by one, they hug her goodbye and step out into the crisp November air warmer than when they arrived that evening. Marla finds herself alone in the kitchen once again. The cookie jar now sits quietly on the table, full of stories, full of sugar, full of something that had been missing connection. She pours herself a cup of tea and leans back in her chair, smiling at the sound of her niece's. Laughter still echoing in the walls. There was a knock at the front door. She wasn't expecting anyone. She opens the door to find Mrs. Lorraine, the widow of her, late Uncle Jim's best friend. Once close to the family, Lorraine had drifted into a quiet solitude after losing her husband last year, but tonight she stood there cheeks flushed from the cold, and holding a small basket wrapped in gingham. I saw the lights and I thought you might enjoy some of my cranberry orange bread. Lorraine says softly marla surprised, but touched steps aside. You're always welcome, Lorraine. They sit at the kitchen table, two women whose hearts had known loss now warmed by shared silence and a flicker of a single tapper candle. As they sip tea and share stories about Jim and Judy, Lorraine Hesitates then sets her cup down. Marla, there's a dinner gathering at the Veterans Hall next weekend. They're honoring local families who've given up so much. I usually go alone, but would you come with me? A blush rises in Marla's cheeks. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. She smiles. I think I'd like that. As Marla sat by the twinkling lights of the tree, the letters folded neatly in the jar beside her, she felt something that had crept in quietly all year, something deeper than grief. It was the feeling of being unmoored, of not knowing who you are when the title that once defines you disappears. When caregiving ends, a person doesn't just grieve the loved one they've lost, or the season that has changed. They grieve themselves. The version of themselves that had a purpose every morning, that had a role, a reason, a routine. That identity, once consuming, doesn't exit gently. It leaves a void, a silence a question, who am I now? For years, Marla was the caregiver. She was Judy's rock, Jim's helper, the one who remembered the pills, the appointments, who juggled it all, when she had nothing left in her hands. Now there was no calls to return, no list to make, no one checking in. And while the world seems to expect her to move on to enjoy her freedom, she's still learning how to just be, that's the thing about caregiving. It doesn't leave with the last meal or the final breath. It lingers, it shapes you. And when it's gone, it takes time to find your footing again, to rediscover joy, to rebuild an identity that isn't anchored in the needs of someone else. But Marla is starting with a jar full of cheer, with a candle in the window with the courage to decorate early because healing doesn't look like forgetting. It looks like remembering differently. To every caregiver now facing quiet, give yourself grace. You are still whole. You are still worthy. Your story is far from over. Next time on take care time, the tales and the exhales of caregivers, more the dust off, more than just decorations. She uncovers a sense of possibility as the holiday season blooms. What started as a quiet retreat into grief might just become a new chapter of Connection cookies and maybe companionship This holiday season. Give the gift that wraps a caregiver in warmth, whimsy, and well deserved rest the Take Care time, respite box, holiday Edition. Is a one-time limited edition box filled to the brim with cozy comfort and gingerbread cheer. Whether you're gifting it to yourself or to someone who gives so much. This box is a hug in a package. What's inside? All gingerbread themed? All curated with care, a gingerbread mug, and cocoa. A gingerbread mystery book. Gingerbread. Lip balm, gingerbread bath bomb gingerbread puzzle, gingerbread pen, gingerbread notebook, gingerbread lotion, gingerbread soap, gingerbread socks, and gingerbread. Cookie cutter and gingerbread. Pinch me dough for stress relief on the go. Perfect for a holiday gift for caregivers in your life or as your own. Well-earned treat Limited qualities are available, so please don't wait. Once these gingy boxes are gone, they're gone until next year, you can sign up on our wait list@takecaretime.com. That's take care time.com. You wanna add a special gift message? We've got you covered because even during the busiest season, caregivers deserve care too. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.