To my mother, a first grade teacher for 30 years, every day was an opportunity to make a difference in the life of some squirmy, rag tag, grubby little six-year-old. And cussing, therefore, was out of the question. Other than an occasional cathartic “Damn!” (considered quite proper in her home state of Kentucky) my mother…
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Slippery Summer
Back in June, I thought summer was an all you can eat buffet of leisure splayed out before me like a picnic at the park. My mind raced with all that could be done in three whole months. “I’ll spend afternoons lounging at the beach to get that cool surfer look with a peely nose…
Trash, Treasure & Timing
Like most hoarders, I’m in complete denial. I see myself as a “collector” of valuable, interesting, and sentimental things. It all started during childhood, when I felt compelled to stash away objects in an old antique chifferobe my mother saved from a junk pile and made into a girly bookcase for my room, complete with…
Hair of the Dog
I’ll admit it, I’ve got a problem. I wake up each morning, brain sluggish and throat dry. I’m not thinking straight, but I know one thing for certain: I’ll need a drink to get through the day. Although “the hair of the dog” is precisely my problem, booze has nothing to do with it. I…
What I believe about Hell and hand baskets