There’s an old African proverb that claims, “It takes a village to raise a child.” The proverb is often attributed to Hillary Clinton’s 1996 book titled It Takes a Village, but Clinton actually borrowed the phrase and the concept from the African continent. The wise claim is expressed in several different languages there, and while the premise seems perfectly clear on the surface, some have put forth the idea that Clinton meant that the state can raise your child better than you can. That’s a conversation for another day.
(Not So) Common Sense – Carole Townsend
Mother’s Day is this Sunday; I trust most all of you know that and if you forgot, you can thank me later. I have been a mom for the past 28 Mother’s Days; for that and other reasons, it’s a very sentimental day for me. You see, I lost my mother when I was 16 years old. She died of acute myelogenous leukemia, after courageously battling the wicked disease for a little more than three years.
I do believe spring is here, and I, for one, am thrilled. Seems like winter just didn’t want to let go this year, didn’t it? Here in the South, the arrival of spring inspires us to open up the house, spruce up the yard, and enjoy the beauty of nature that surrounds us all.
Has spring finally settled in? I ask myself that in late April, as the winds howl and rain gushes through our gutters. I can’t remember a time when winter held on as tight as it has this year, reluctant to loosen its grip and wait its turn to come back around. I get the feeling we’re going to go from cool and breezy to hot and humid overnight, don’t you? We’re just about due for some hot, sunny days strung together for a while, probably until late October.
My father passed away five years ago, on March 2, 2013. Seems like it was just yesterday because there are times when the sadness washes over me in waves that can be difficult to navigate. Most of the time though, I just miss him. Something funny will happen, or something important or interesting will occur to me, and I’ll think, “I’ll call Dad and tell him.” But of course, I can’t call Dad. I’ll never be able to call him again.
Well, maybe the word “hate” is a little strong. They’re too sweet to hate anyone. But they’re mad at me, of that I am sure. You see, this past weekend in Atlanta was beautiful and sunny, perfect for those with spring fever to work outside getting the yard ready for outdoor living as only we in the South know how to do it.
Anybody else out there binge-watch television, now that Netflix, Amazon, Hulu and a host of other (whatever they’re called) is available to us? We do. I’m ashamed to say it, but we do. I place the blame square in the laps of our children, where it belongs.
When I was a kid, we learned a rhyme in school that, I suspect, was aimed at encouraging us to eat fruits and vegetables instead of candy and gum. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” For some reason, I was terrified of doctors when I was a little girl, so I never forgot this little gem. I think in my young mind, I pictured myself throwing the apple at the guy in the white coat, so great was my fear. Ah, the minds of children.
No, no. I don’t mean that literally. Not now, anyway. I mean “Let’s go streaking,” as in that 1970s craze that, in hindsight, was one of the very few memorable things about that decade – well that, polyester and platform shoes. Come to think of it, I’m not sure streaking wasn’t the crowning glory of the 70s. The fad blazed through college campuses back then, with students brazenly and unabashedly ditching their clothes and running from Point A to Point B, just because they could.