Don’t you hate it when you misplace your car keys? Reading glasses? Wallet? Or, have lost the joy in your life? Joy, not easily found in your right coat pocket, on top of your head, or on a store sales counter, can be found where you least expect it. It’s in the tiniest grin from a baby; it’s the spark of your loved one’s eyes in their sideways glance; it’s in your work; it’s down in your heart.
We have been in a nightmare. We have all had the flu, but Snell was harder than James or me. The doctor told us that the flu shot helped about 10-20% of the people who took it, but this strain that is so powerful wasn’t fazed by the inoculation. I know some people who have had this mess, and it has been devastating.
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.
I have always heard that bad things happen in threes. I think the expression began with World War I and the prohibition for a third person to light a cigarette on one match. Never three on a match. In the amount of time it takes for three people to light their cigarettes, the enemy can find and focus on you and, “Boom,” you’re dead.
I’m a parent. In fact, my husband and I are the parents of four children, ranging in age from 26 – 32. I think that means that all of our children are millennials, though opinions and definitions of what, exactly, a “millennial” is differ greatly. I don’t suppose it matters all that much, anyway. While several generations have been given names (starting with the Greatest Generation), those designations aren’t what I hope to address today.
Seventy-three degrees and sunny. Sunroof open, short sleeves on. Grills fired up, tulips and daffodils making a welcome appearance. Welcome to February in Georgia. Ah, you say such unseasonably warm weather doesn’t quite agree with you? Stick around for a few minutes.
How many of you out there have ever received those skimpy clothing catalogs in your mailboxes during this, the coldest month of the year? You know the ones I mean; emaciated but somehow lovely models grace the pages, lounging and posing in swimsuits that look like Band-aids, filmy, flowy, see-through dresses, and skin-tight shorty-shorts.
We have four cats, all were rescues, and none are touchy-feely. I really wanted a cat that was like my little Ramona. She loved to be held and combed or to just sit with you. She wrapped herself around my neck and rode on my shoulders wherever I was walking.These four in residence now were never truly socialized as babies, so they have made up their own rules.
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