Monday, November 30, 2015

The sunrise lit up the bare winter branches along Route 11 for a beautiful view I would have missed had I gone home the night before and had I not been ill on New Year's Day.

When I'm asked how I do it all, I wonder if all is probably assumed to include keeping a nice, neat house where I can find everything, and everything's in its place.

The doll carriage I played with as a child was made of real, woven wicker painted white, with a bonnet that swiveled to either head or foot.

I'm not sure now whether I got her for Christmas. She may have been a birthday gift. The sentiment is the same.

I know plenty of people in their eighties, my Dad being one of them. Octogenarians are young, compared to the dozens Willard Scott recognizes every day who have lived a century or more.

Surprised by a large animal trotting rapidly in front of my van when I turned in our driveway, I slowed to get a good look.

It seems a shame to begin thinking of Christmas before Thanksgiving has come and gone, but that is just what I've done for more years now than I care to keep track of.

We often feel nostalgic and take time for reflection at holiday time. I hope you'll take some time for this poem.

It's tough to eat right in the average American home these days. Although most of us know we should balance meals consuming more from the fruit and vegetable groups than all the rest combined, it's a tough task to accomplish.

I visited my daughter Josie at an off-campus apartment she shares in Kent. I packed several things they could use and while I gathered her mail and a book she requested from home, I threw in a couple of plastic shopping bags full of slightly used Halloween decorations that Kathie brought home from her school's blood drive for the Red Cross.