By the time many of you read this, Iíll be almost there, winding the clubhouse turn and heading down the home stretch.
Every day I wake up and ask, ďLord, how can I serve You today?Ē Sometimes I donít 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.
Iím going to write 50,000 words in 30 days.
Forgive me that Iím playing some vintage Scorpions as I write this. Call it mood music if you will.
Iíve never been wildly popular (old high school classmates always say, ďYou graduated when?Ē) 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, todayís column contains TMI about a medical procedure. So if you are squeamish or easily offended, turn the page. I donít mind, really. I have a weak stomach myself.
Southerners do make headlines, donít 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 itís going to rain if we wash the car.
Forty souls attended the 11:30 a.m. service at our church last week. That doesnít 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 ďcorporal punishmentĒ debate blew up last month when Minnesota Vikings running back Adrian Peterson was indicted after allegedly beating his four-year-old ďwith a tree branch,Ē leaving welts and abrasions on the boyís body.
I wrote something a few weeks back about a new watch called simply SLOW. The manufacturers took off the longer minute hand and left you with the shorter, and more slowly moving hour hand.
I have become one with the assimilated.
Random thoughts while folding laundry and wondering if we will all mildew before the rain stops. (This being South Carolina, and this being written a week in advance, we could well be in drought mode when you read this.)
There was an article making the rounds last week suggesting radical changes in the way the Olive Garden does it business.
Iíve never had a sock-eating Great Dane, but Iíve owned some goofy dogs.
I found two cool shirts on the clearance rack at Wal-Mart.
Remember when it was fun to fly the friendly skies? Back when flight attendants were called stewardesses, traveling by airplane was special. Meals were served and the cabin crew was glad to see you. Passengers dressed up, there was plenty of seat room and screaming babies were strapped to the wing. (Just checking to see if you were paying …
Thereís a Facebook post going around that features a 91-year-old woman who is A) Lovely, slender and blonde and B) Dancing up a storm. Sheís gliding across a slick dance floor, shagging like thereís no tomorrow. Sheís dancing with guys in their 20s and wearing them out. Itís a beautiful thing.
Once youíre in the news business, youíre never really out of the news business. Which is why Iím still obsessed with the news business.
Iíve been paying a lot of attention to advertising signs and billboards while on the road lately. I donít text and drive during my frequent travels, but I do take the occasional peek at the signs along the way.
Isnít it funny how we obsess over the little things?
I was lamenting timeís passage the other day in a Facebook post, about how a person seems to have all the time in the world when he has nothing to look forward to, but the moment you find someone you really like and would love to spend all your time with, somebody upstairs hits the fast forward button and before you know it, your timeís up, sheís …
Iím clumsy. Awkward. A klutz. Always have been.
It is well documented that I am not a handyman.