It’s National Library Week! Go kiss a librarian. Or not--s/he might not appreciate being smooched at the circulation desk. Maybe we should take them cupcakes. Or hug it out. Or both.
As I stood there watching the parade of baseball and softball players march down the first base line to home plate on Saturday during the Moncks Corner Park and Recreation Opening Day ceremony, I felt a strong pull tugging at the pit of my stomach.
I’ve been alive for more than half a century. You’d think that’s long enough for menfolk to make sense, but no.
There are two things I fear: 1) Dying and 2) Being embarrassed. And there’s a difference between looking foolish and feeling stupid.
It’s that time of year; time for the annual Catfish Festival in St. Stephen.
Heard about the cat in Oregon that terrorized his humans until they barricaded themselves into a bedroom?
When it comes to technology, somewhere along the line I veered off the learning curve and wandered down the cobblestone road to Oldmansville.
I have a headache. I never get headaches; in 53 years I’ve had maybe three. I just don’t get them. (My husband says I give them—hardeeharhar!)
I threw up a photo on Facebook last week for Throw Back Thursday.
There are a couple of givens about living in the Deep South. First, since we have palm trees, a beach and big alligators, we can presume we will have hot, muggy summers and mild temperate winters.
The only thing more fun than being trapped indoors during the 2014 Ice Festival was being trapped indoors without electricity, running water, wine or chocolate.
I was asked recently what I would do for love, and my reply was something of a sad one: “Not enough.”
If you’re around me for longer than 15 minutes, you’ll notice I say “What?” a lot. Also, “Excuse me?” or “Pardon” or “Huh?” As a last resort I say, “I wear two hearing aids and it sounds like you’re asking me to feed your hamster in Fuji.”
Just in case the world ends on Wednesday, Jan. 29, with this epic and historic winter storm, I have begun this diary so that eons from now, when the Great Thaw frees my body from this icy grave, maybe future generations will know.
Sometimes when I sit down to open a vein—I mean, write a column—my mind is skittering all over the place and I can’t decide on a topic. So today you get mind skitter stuff.
Random thoughts while trying to select new bathroom wallpaper and feeling stabby:
There is one word that will strike fear and horror into the hearts of any parent.
I’m sitting here trying to decide about what to write.
Most of us have probably seen “The Peaceable Kingdom,” painted by 19th century American folk artist (and devout Quaker) Edward Hicks. …
It occurred to me this past May, after a visit with my now 19-month-old granddaughter who is being held hostage by her parents in the far off land of Oregon, that if I wanted to spend more time with her, I’d have to be unemployed to do it.
Surgery is a funny thing. They put you to sleep, cut you open, sew you up and hold you hostage.
Clement Clarke Moore wrote the poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas” in 1822. With Christmas morning in your rearview mirror, here’s my version. A “What If” take, such as What if Santa left one kid in all the world nothing but clothes under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning and this event was then memorialized in a poem?
Yo, ho, here’s Christmas! I hope your day is filled with joy. Whether you woke up surrounded by people or with a cat purring on your chest, please know that you are loved.