The more things change, the more they stay the same. I don’t know who said that first, but with each passing year, each fleeting moment, I believe it more and more.
I felt it driving home the other afternoon, that gnawing feeling deep in my core. I wasn’t hungry, but wanted something to eat. I was craving ... craving ... What exactly was I craving?
‘What have you learned lately?” the woman asked and the room full of people sat in silence, myself included. It’s not all about books and papers, lectures and talks, she went on to explain. You’re learning every second of every day.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is a rebuttal of Mandy Flynn’s column last week submitted by her husband, Mike, under the Fair Household Response Act.
I get Linus. Completely. One hundred percent. I get Linus because he has a need to carry around a blanket, a blue one that he, on occasion, throws over his shoulder, drags on the floor and even wraps around his head. I get Linus because I, too, have a blanket. And I am not ashamed.
There are a few advantages to having a big sister who is an English teacher. I can text her things like, “Is it shone or has shined?” and “Do I say farther or further?” and she texts me back the proper usage without passing judgment.
I’m not sure if I was supposed to overhear the conversation taking place to my right. Nonetheless, it was out of my control as one woman sighed heavily, threw her arms up in the air, and declared quite dramatically that she was at her wit’s end.
The first day of fall was yesterday. When I was much younger I used to think that the official first day of any new season was supposed to be magically different — leaves would suddenly be brilliant orange and yellow on the first day of fall, snow had to cover the ground on the first day of winter, and I always thought you had to, just had to, go to the beach on the first day of summer.
The line to check out was long, at least six people deep and no cashier in sight. The lady at the front kept turning around and apologizing that she'd needed a price check on her can of furniture polish.
I would like to publically apologize to my friend Rhonda. I knew not what I was doing when I introduced you to that awful, terrible habit.
‘Can you help me?” I looked up from my self-absorbed walk through the lobby to see a little lady standing by the brown, wooden table up against the wall near the doors of the post office.
She said it with such conviction, such authority, without an ounce of question, that I couldn't help but think it was true.
My husband thinks I’m trying to kill him. Oh, this subtle paranoia has been going on for years — 21 years this Friday, in fact. Every blue moon I will hear the six familiar words, “Are you trying to kill me?” coupled with some scenario of how he thinks I am surely plotting his demise.
‘Uh, oh.” I was drifting off to sleep in the backseat, sandwiched on five inches of seat between the car door, two pillows, a bag containing a box of Oreos, an extension cord, and socks, a duffel bag, a futon and a television.
No matter how many years you prepare for it, it's an emotional event when your child goes off to college.
If it can get Snoopy, is there really any hope for the rest of us?
Two women standing in front of me in the checkout line this week obviously hadn’t seen each other in a while. Although I’ve often thought I have certain ESP-esque gifts, this instance didn’t require any intuitive brainpower.
There is a box. “A box,” I said aloud in quiet amazement as my Alabama cousin told me the story of the box, the small, metal box he and my older brother buried years and years ago in a field.
Question: If the sound of a jet taking off equals around 180 decibels and the sound of a whisper equals about 20 decibels, what does about 140 decibels equal? Answer: Tuesday night.
When you're in a teaching moment with a teenage daughter who's about to get her learner's driving permit, watch the signs closely.
The ground was damp from the previous day's rain. It was still thirsty, though, and I know this because I heard three gentlemen say it was so and I believed them. Standing there just on the edge of the grass where it met the tired path I was walking on, they rocked slowly on their heels and looked up at the sky.
Last time I looked they were still on the dining room table in a neat little pile. Three piles, actually. Written. Blank. And envelopes.
The memory took me by surprise. Was it the smell, sweet and fruity ... or maybe the bright yellow of the package on the seat next to me?
She had, undeniably, grocery store feet. “She has what?” the woman asked in surprise and the young girl lifted up one bare foot and revealed its underside, a sole ranging in shade from brown to grey to near ‘bout black in places. We were not in a grocery store, but outside on a hot afternoon.
‘Come in,” a deep, low voice mumbled from behind the closed bedroom door and I turned the knob and slowly pushed it open to reveal my first born, now a teenage man child, propped against pillows and watching television, a computer on his lap.
Who originally wrote it, I don’t know. But I know where my copy came from. It’s been folded and re-folded a couple of dozen times, read and re-read when I needed a chuckle or wanted to make someone else laugh.
We interrupt this column for an important announcement about common decency.
I saw a sign in a store once. Not a sign, really, but rather a little slip of paper taped to the side of the cash register. I was buying some gum.
Somewhere in the Bible it says that God knows every hair on our heads. Comforting, it is, but I have to wonder — does he know about the freakishly long scary ones that appear out of nowhere in the most obscure places and continue to come back time and time again no matter how often we yank them out?
A friend died last week, left this life on a beautiful Easter Sunday.
Why you need a cell phone out in the ocean and other things men don't seem to understand.
It was, in my opinion, awkward.
Call me a rebel. I wore white and it’s not even April yet.
‘Do you know him?” my sister asked and I paused, but only for a moment.
There was a chill in the air as I walked down the hallway, my head hung low in guilt and shame. I slowly turned the deadbolt. The door creaked open and a rush of cold air washed over me as I stepped barefoot onto the brick. I wasn’t ready for this. Not again. Not so soon.
Chinese food. It was a good choice for a Monday night, having just pulled back into town after a long day in Atlanta.
‘Excuse me,” she said and I turned from my perusal of the wall of cute khaki and navy pants to a woman standing near me holding up a blue and tan striped tank top and a blue skirt. “Do you think these look good together? Cute?”
It started in middle school. It was a teacher’s fault actually, a responsible adult, who first introduced me to it. Out of the blue.
He who seeks beauty will find it. Funny how the words struck me recently as I sat on our couch and watched a documentary — not something I can admit I’ve said a lot, mind you.
She was having a hard time.
It was something we just did, sometimes early in the afternoon or late in the day before the sun went down. Most likely it was Sunday, sometimes Saturday but most always Sunday after lunch was done and Shirley Temple was over on television.
‘What did you learn today?” I asked and was met with a look of surprise.
Obviously, the baby was fussy. “What do you think it is?” the man, apparently the father of the little person wiggling around in a blue, padded stroller in the middle of the electronics section of Target, asked.
I remember a lot of them. Bits and pieces, some of them. Memories of Christmas.
“Once you wrote about a comfortable peace at Christmas,” this person wrote. “Please tell us again.”
Damn you, Folgers coffee.
Dear Santa, I know it’s been a while since I’ve been in touch — a couple of decades, at least — and I’m really sorry about that.
There are many truly thought provoking questions in life that render me sleepless.
Consider my soap box officially out and I am climbing up on it. Can you hear me?