Now that I’m a “real writer” (as opposed to my former slacker’s life as a married mother moonlighting as a writer), I’m amazed at all the similarities – besides sleeping late – between tortured artists and me.
The finances of Dairy Farmers of America are souring faster than cream in a July sun, according to a May 9 Moody’s Investors Service report.
Although I’ve noticed the graduation cap and gown hanging in my daughter’s closet on those few occasions when I invade her private space, nothing brought her imminent graduation home so vividly as an awards night ceremony where her classmates were honored for their high school achievements.
There has never been a time in my life without dogs. I can’t imagine it any other way.
I remember a black and white photograph in an old family album.
I am an unfit mother. Oh sure, other mothers might see the merit in hiding it better. But me, I work hard at it.
Combing through yellowed pages of Farm and Dairy from 1925 yields a unique look at history. As I look for items to include in the “80 years ago” portion of our weekly Read It Again feature, I’m struck by how different life was then, and yet, how little has changed.
Standing atop the sweeping farm ridge 70 miles north of Berlin, the stiff wind off the Baltic Sea painted my cheeks apple red in minutes.
It strikes me as peculiar how one little thing can change the course of our existence so quickly. Some of life’s greatest tragedies occur in a mere second, altering everything that follows.
Friends seem puzzled by the fact that I know very little about television hit shows from my childhood era.
Authorities and searchers might have been at a loss when they launched a nationwide hunt for “runaway bride” Jennifer Wilbanks recently, but the real experts – wedding planners – knew this was no kidnapping.