Making Everyday Moments Special

Because You Don’t Need a Special Occasion to Make an Occasion

In the summer of 2004, I asked a friend a rather unusual question.

I wanted to know where I could drag out my good china, silver, crystal glasses and candelabras, set an elaborate table outside, bring a wonderful dinner, and spend an evening with friends.

Yes, I realize most people probably ask where they can go to hear some music on a summer evening.

I wanted to know where I could bring the china.

My friend had an answer: Nissley Vineyards.

And just like that, a tradition began.

For more than twenty years now, with only a couple of summers missed along the way, my husband and I have packed up our things and headed to the lawn concert series at Nissley Vineyards in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

We’ve gone with large groups. We’ve introduced different friends to it over the years. Some came once or twice and moved on. Some friendships themselves have moved on.

But most often, we’ve shared these evenings with another couple we’ve known since 1995.

They know me well enough to understand that when I suggest an evening listening to music on a vineyard lawn, I’m probably not showing up with a folding chair and a plastic cup.

I’m going to put on the dog.

And they happily participate.

Really, who wouldn’t want to?

Putting On the Dog

I have baskets that stay packed with many of the things we regularly take to Nissley. On concert day, I go through them and decide what we’ll need depending on the menu and how many people are coming.

There is china to consider.

Silver.

Crystal glasses.

Linens.

Serving pieces.

Candles.

Flowers.

And, of course, dinner.

Over the years we’ve brought bread with spreads and cheeses, charcuterie, fruit and desserts. Some years we’ve made elaborate shrimp dinners. Other years, steak salads. Occasionally, like this year, we’ve bought dinner from the food trucks.

I still prefer bringing our own.

There is something about planning the meal and packing all those pieces that is part of the pleasure for me.

The preparation is part of the memory.

And then there’s the wagon.

I inherited a large red lawn wagon from my father. It has become our Nissley workhorse, carrying everything across the lawn to our spot.

My husband, Russ, even made a tabletop that fits over it.

Once we’ve unloaded everything, Dad’s old red wagon becomes our buffet table, holding charcuterie, shrimp, serving dishes and whatever else we’ve managed to bring that year.

I love that.

A piece of my father is quietly there with us, doing something useful, summer after summer.

The Part I Love Most

You might think my favorite part of the evening is the concert.

It isn’t.

It’s arriving.

I love unloading everything and creating the table.

I love watching an ordinary patch of grass slowly turn into something beautiful.

The tablecloth goes down.

The china comes out.

The silver is placed.

The glasses catch the light.

Flowers are arranged.

Food fills the serving dishes.

The candelabras find their places.

And inevitably, people walking past notice.

They stop.

They comment.

Sometimes they admire the table.

There are other people at Nissley who create beautiful tablescapes, too. And there are plenty who arrive with nothing more than a lawn chair and a wine glass.

That’s part of what makes it wonderful.

There isn’t one right way to do it.

The elaborate table is simply my way.

It’s the reason I wanted to go in the first place.

Eventually everything is unpacked. Everyone settles in. We sample wine, eat dinner, talk with friends and listen to the music.

Nothing terribly important happens.

And perhaps that’s the point.

Then Comes Blue Hour

Eventually, daylight begins to disappear.

The bright summer afternoon softens into evening. The sky turns that beautiful deep blue that comes just before darkness.

The candles begin to glow.

The lights around the concert lawn become brighter.

Music drifts across the grass.

Thousands of other people are gathered around us doing their own versions of exactly what we’re doing.

Enjoying a summer night.

And for a little while, our tiny piece of the vineyard feels next level.

That’s the best way I can describe it.

Not because it is expensive.

Not because it is exclusive.

Not because anyone had to invite us to some extraordinary occasion.

We simply decided to make an ordinary evening feel extraordinary.

And somewhere along the way, I began to understand that this is how many of the best memories of our lives are made.

Traditions Don’t Have to Be Inherited

We often think of traditions as things that existed before us.

Grandma’s Christmas cookies.

The Thanksgiving recipe passed down through generations.

The ornament that has hung on the family Christmas tree for fifty years.

Those traditions are wonderful.

But somebody had to do them the first time.

Our Nissley tradition began because, in 2004, I had an idea.

I wanted to do something I thought would be beautiful and fun.

So we tried it.

After that first evening, I knew immediately that I wanted to do it again the following summer.

And we did.

Then we did it again.

And again.

At some point, without ceremony or declaration, something we enjoyed doing became something we do.

That’s all a tradition really needs.

You don’t always inherit traditions.

Sometimes you create them.

In fact, I think a tradition begins the second time you decide to do something again.

Twenty-Two Summers Change a Lot

When we first started going to Nissley, some of our children were teenagers.

Eventually they grew up, and during another season of life, some of them began joining our adventures.

Now they have little children of their own, and gathering everyone for evenings like these isn’t particularly practical.

That’s life.

Friends have joined us and disappeared from the tradition. Some moved. Some simply didn’t express an interest in coming again. Some relationships faded as relationships sometimes do.

Our children grew up.

Grandchildren arrived.

We got older.

Life changed.

But I’ve lived long enough now to understand that life is cyclical.

Seasons come around again.

Perhaps there will be another season when children and grandchildren join us on that lawn.

Perhaps not.

The important thing is to enjoy the season we’re actually living in.

Because while we’re waiting for the “big moments” of life, ordinary life keeps happening.

And ordinary life turns out to be where most of our memories live.

Making Everyday Moments Special

You don’t need china and candelabras to make an everyday moment special.

That’s simply what makes me happy.

For you, it might be Friday night football.

Maybe your family always sits in the same section of the bleachers. Someone brings a thermos of hot chocolate. You buy French fries at halftime. You stay until the band finishes playing, even when your team loses.

Maybe it’s the first snowfall of winter and you’ve decided that the first snow always means pancakes for dinner.

Maybe it’s Sunday supper.

Maybe it’s an annual trip to the county fair.

Maybe it’s the first porch breakfast of spring, a summer afternoon at the lake, the same apple orchard every October, or piling everyone into the car in December to look at Christmas lights.

Maybe it’s pizza after your grandchild’s soccer game.

Maybe it’s coffee on the porch with your husband on Saturday morning.

Maybe it’s something you’ve been saying for years that you want to do.

The activity isn’t what makes the memory.

It’s the meaning you attach to it.

You give it a name.

You anticipate it.

You add your own touches.

You invite people into it.

You repeat it.

And eventually someone says:

“Remember how we always used to…?”

That’s when you realize you were making memories all along.

And when I look back at all those Nissley evenings, I realize we unintentionally created something else along the way.

A formula.

Not a formula for throwing an elaborate picnic.

A formula for turning ordinary pieces of life into moments worth remembering.

10 Ways to Make Everyday Moments Special

1. Start With Something You’re Already Doing — or Something You’ve Always Wanted to Do

You don’t have to invent an entirely new life to make memories.

Start with the life you already have.

The football games you already attend.

Sunday dinner.

The lake weekend.

The first snowfall.

The summer concert.

Or start with something you keep saying you’d love to do someday.

That’s how Nissley began for me.

I had a picture in my mind of something I wanted to experience: a beautiful table outside, good food, music and friends.

Then I went looking for a place where I could do it.

Sometimes making everyday moments special begins with a very simple question:

What have I always wanted to do?

2. Create a Vision

Before worrying about the details, imagine the experience.

What would make it feel special to you?

For me, that meant good china on a lawn.

For someone else, it might mean hot chocolate in a thermos at the football game or matching pajamas on Christmas Eve.

Your vision doesn’t have to impress anyone else.

It simply needs to make you think:

Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

3. Gather What You Need

Sometimes the things that make traditions easy take time to collect.

I didn’t wake up one morning with perfectly packed Nissley baskets.

Over the years, I’ve gathered the pieces we use and learned what makes the evening work.

Your supplies might be picnic baskets and serving pieces.

They might be stadium blankets.

A thermos.

A firepit.

A favorite board game.

Christmas mugs.

A beach bag that stays packed all summer.

You don’t have to acquire everything at once.

Build your tradition as you live it.

4. Invite People Into the Memory

Part of what has made Nissley special is sharing it.

Friends began participating.

Everyone brought food.

People helped create the evening.

Over the years, the people around our table have changed, because life changes.

But the sharing has always mattered.

When possible, invite someone into the experience.

And don’t feel as though you have to do everything yourself.

Let people contribute.

Let them bring the dessert.

Let someone else make the playlist.

Let the grandchildren decorate the cookies.

The best traditions don’t always belong to one person.

Eventually, they become ours.

5. Determine the Menu — If There Is One

Food has an extraordinary ability to anchor a memory.

We’ve had elaborate dinners at Nissley and very simple ones.

We’ve brought shrimp, steak salads, breads, cheeses, fruit, charcuterie and desserts.

Some years the menu was part of the production.

Other years, we bought dinner there.

Both count.

If food belongs to your tradition, decide what it will be.

It doesn’t need to be impressive.

Sometimes the thing everyone remembers twenty years later is the same thermos of cocoa or the same ridiculous snack you brought every single time.

6. Create a Day-of Checklist — and Enjoy the Ritual of Getting Ready

This may be one of the least glamorous parts of making memories.

It’s also one of the most useful.

Make a checklist.

What needs to go?

What needs to come home?

What will make cleanup easier?

For Nissley, that means remembering things like zip-top bags for leftovers and separate bags for trash and dirty linens.

It means packing the baskets.

Preparing the food.

Gathering the serving pieces.

Loading the wagon.

Making sure we haven’t forgotten something obvious.

But here’s what I’ve realized:

The preparation itself becomes part of the tradition.

Packing the baskets.

Planning the menu.

Setting aside the china.

Loading Dad’s red wagon.

Russ putting the tabletop on it.

These little rituals begin to signal:

We’re doing our thing again.

Anticipation is part of the memory.

7. Add a Little Beauty

Use the china.

Bring the flowers.

Light the candles.

Pack the pretty napkins.

Put the wildflowers in an old Mason jar.

Use the Christmas mugs.

Throw the plaid blanket over the back of the chair.

Beauty doesn’t have to mean expensive.

It doesn’t have to mean formal.

And it certainly doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s idea of beautiful.

Beauty simply means somebody cared.

Somebody took an ordinary moment and added one little detail that said:

This matters.

8. Be Present in the Moment

This might be the most important step.

After you’ve planned everything, packed everything, hauled everything, arranged everything and made everything beautiful…

Stop.

Sit down.

Pour the wine.

Eat the shrimp.

Listen to the music.

Watch the children play.

Talk to your friends.

Look at the sunset.

Notice blue hour arriving.

The goal isn’t to create a beautiful setting and then spend the entire evening managing it.

The goal is to live inside the moment you created.

9. Take the Photographs

Take the picture.

Please.

You don’t need 200 of them.

And you don’t need to experience the entire evening through your phone.

But take a few.

Take the table before everyone sits down.

Take the friends.

Take the children.

Take the ridiculous thing that happened.

Take the same picture in the same place every year if you can.

Some of the photographs I treasure now weren’t extraordinary when I took them.

They were simply pictures of what life looked like then.

Years later, that makes them extraordinary.

10. Write It Down — and Plan to Do It Again

Afterward, make a few notes.

What did you bring?

What worked?

What did everyone love?

What did you forget?

What would you do differently?

What do you want to remember?

I’ve learned that keeping a record makes the next time easier.

And perhaps more importantly, it preserves the little details that disappear from memory surprisingly quickly.

Then comes the final step.

Do it again.

Put it on next year’s calendar.

Pack the baskets again.

Make the pancakes when it snows again.

Go back to the orchard.

Buy the football tickets.

Invite everyone for Sunday supper.

Because the first time you do something, you’ve had an experience.

The second time you decide to do it again, you may just have the beginning of a tradition.

Make It Yours

I think that’s the real lesson I’ve learned from all those evenings at Nissley.

Making everyday moments special doesn’t mean making them elaborate.

It means making them yours.

If you’re the woman who loves beautiful tables, use the good china.

Don’t save it for company.

Don’t worry that taking crystal glasses to a lawn concert is ridiculous.

Take the crystal.

If you’re the person who loves music, make the playlist.

If you love food, make the meal everyone will remember.

If you love photographs, take the same picture in the same place every year.

If you love simplicity, bring two chairs and a bottle of wine and sit beside someone you love.

The point isn’t how much you do.

The point is deciding that this ordinary piece of your life is worth noticing.

Worth anticipating.

Worth enjoying.

Worth remembering.

We Are Living Tomorrow’s Memories Today

There is something else I’ve realized after more than twenty years of Nissley summers.

The memory isn’t only being made once we’re sitting around the table.

It’s happening while I’m pulling things out of those baskets at home.

It’s happening while we’re deciding what food to bring.

It’s happening while we’re loading Dad’s red wagon.

It’s happening while Russ puts the tabletop on it.

It’s happening while I’m arranging the table and some stranger walking past stops to tell me how beautiful it looks.

It’s happening when old friends sit down beside us.

It’s happening when we raise our glasses.

It’s happening when the daylight fades into blue hour and we light the candles.

It’s happening in the photograph we almost didn’t take.

All of it counts.

Because twenty-two summers have taught me something I don’t think I fully understood when I first asked my friend where I could take my china.

We don’t know which ordinary moments will someday become the ones we would give almost anything to experience one more time.

So maybe we shouldn’t wait until later to recognize their value.

Someday, at the end of our days, I imagine Russ and I will look back and say:

What beautiful memories we have of those nights we went to Nissley and put on the dog.

And isn’t that really what we’re hoping for?

Not simply a life filled with important occasions.

A life filled with ordinary days that, somewhere along the way, we decided to make special.

From the Porch

Don’t wait for someone to give you an occasion.

Make one.

Use the china.

Pack the picnic.

Light the candles.

Go to the football game.

Make pancakes when it snows.

Stay for the last song.

Invite the friends.

Take the photograph.

Write down the story.

And start the tradition even if you have no idea whether anyone will still be doing it twenty years from now.

You don’t need to know where it will lead.

In 2004, I certainly didn’t.

I was simply looking for someplace that would let me bring my china.

Twenty-two summers later, I understand that I was really looking for something else.

A way to make an ordinary summer evening worth remembering.

And we did.

Again and again.

We are living tomorrow’s memories today.

Let’s make them beautiful.