For as long as I’ve been an adult, I’ve struggled with adult fashion. It’s just not practical.
Watching someone you love get old is a bit strange. The only thing stranger is watching yourself get old.
Just when you thought there were no interesting ways to earn a little extra coin to pay off Christmas, NASA steps to the plate and knocks one out of the park.
Ah, yes, a new year. Here we go. Traditionally, this is the time to set goals that we’ll abandon within three weeks, if pop psychology is to be believed. As my father used to say, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
If you’re reading this, we’ve made it through another year. Hallelujah!
It’s a New Year.
Most folks have a collection of special holiday recipes they pull out every year. I do, too. They’re filed in my mother’s old wooden recipe box, organized from appetizers to dessert. Every Christmas Eve I pull them out, laugh hysterically and hoist another glass of wine.
This one is worth repeating because no one believed me the first time.
My birthday was last week, and it’s astonishing that I’ve survived 54 years on this planet relatively unscathed. I say “relatively” because I’ve had my heart broken (by a human) and my skull cracked (by a horse).
Clement Clarke Moore wrote the poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas” in 1822. With the poem being read around the tree this year, here’s my version.
In addition to my rampant ADD, I was an obsessive child.
Deck the halls with boughs of crazy, tra la la la la la la la!
Christmas songs have always bothered me.
If you live long enough, you’ll eventually spend more time in hospitals than you’d like to, either as a patient or waiting on a patient. Neither role is a lot of fun.
There are songs out there that I really hate.
Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I hope you have much to be grateful for. (Tip: If you have loved ones, shelter and food, you have much to be grateful for.)
By the time many of you read this, I’ll be almost there, winding the clubhouse turn and heading down the home stretch.
Every day I wake up and ask, “Lord, how can I serve You today?” Sometimes I don’t get a clear answer. (Which is on me, not Him.) Other days, I help at the church food bank, or visit a sick friend. Or, I refrain from giving the stink-eye to a screaming toddler.
I’m going to write 50,000 words in 30 days.
Forgive me that I’m playing some vintage Scorpions as I write this. Call it mood music if you will.
I’ve never been wildly popular (old high school classmates always say, “You graduated when?”) but our home, Crazy Acres, is a popular place to be. At least for wild critters.
As a kid, Halloween kicked off my favorite two months of the year. It began with a night of trick or treating and ended with Christmas Eve, the one night of the year where I gave in to gluttony and could eat whatever, and however much, I wanted.
Sweet reader, today’s column contains TMI about a medical procedure. So if you are squeamish or easily offended, turn the page. I don’t mind, really. I have a weak stomach myself.
Southerners do make headlines, don’t we? Sometimes we hear some piece of news and immediately know it happened south of the Mason-Dixon Line. We just KNOW, the same way we know it’s going to rain if we wash the car.
Forty souls attended the 11:30 a.m. service at our church last week. That doesn’t sound like much compared to some megachurches, where Sunday attendance numbers in the thousands, but for our rural congregation it was a healthy head count.
Getting dressed these days is no easy feat.
A story in the Sept. 29 issue of USA Today said that soda makers like Coke and Pepsi cared about the obese state of this country.
The “corporal punishment” debate blew up last month when Minnesota Vikings running back Adrian Peterson was indicted after allegedly beating his four-year-old “with a tree branch,” leaving welts and abrasions on the boy’s body.