My daughter, 34, was online-searching to rent a B&B last month when she found “the perfect” cute and cozy one, over a garage.
Unlike me, she has a flawless track record finding perfect rentals. And yet somehow, via text and link, she felt compelled to assure me that this one deserved my happy Hurray!
Grandma Woodcock moved in with us when I was 12, and noticing I liked to write, declared that everyone has at least one good book in them.
“Yours,” she added, “should be about me.”
I get it now. She was pushing 70, had a bad heart, and wanted to be sure that after she passed on, she wouldn’t be forgotten. She needn’t have worried.
When I decided to keep the white hair my no-salon Pandemic life had handed me, I crowed about saving myself the time and trouble of coloring it.
“My new white blonde is starting to feel like a pandemic accomplishment I don’t want to undo – a sort of souvenir,” I wrote in this column then. “To color it over now to ordinary blonde seems almost like erasing a hard-earned part of my life.”
For years, I’ve told friends that a centerpiece of my own balancing act has been spending a week or two each summer at Chautauqua Institution in Western New York.
My personal advertisement touted Chautauqua as a place to get life in balance.
I know there’s no such thing as a free lunch. And I’ve heard there are no such things as free puppies or kittens. But at a time when worries about scarcity seem epidemic, I’m going to share a story about abundance, courtesy of a tomato plant named Tom.
There’s plenty to complain about with breaking news – Ukraine, climate change, and depending on your point of view, the recent raft of Supreme Court
It’s too bad inflation has reared its ugly head. I was having so much fun with the pandemic rationale for splurging: Think of all the money I saved in 2020.
It’s one of the handiest things to come out of the pandemic – especially for someone raised by Depression-era parents – and I’ve gotten better and better at it.
A pandemic benefit has been reconnecting online with old friends, and even as we’re cautiously out and about, some of those connections have happily held.
So it was that I took up the challenge a few weeks ago to “Name Your Superpower.” This came courtesy of classmates from the little women’s college I attended in Central Georgia. To focus our one hour a month, we usually agree on a topic. It was easier when we simply had to come with the title of a favorite book.
I’d like to think that if I walk 7,000 steps, climb three flights of stairs and stand up every hour, I can pat myself on the back and say, “Yahoo!” “Good job!” “You rock!”
That would make sense, but instead I keep looking at my watch.
As someone who considers herself an eternal 35, I was stunned the other day when my 8-year-old grandson let me know I am the oldest person he knows.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said, adding that he used to know some others but they had already died.