Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
This morning I received a notification — “You have a new memory.” I laugh at those notifications. They seem so silly. New memories — pshaw. Memories are, by their very nature, sort of oldish. This morning, though, I paused to look at my “new”…
We are so obsessed with doing that we have no time and no imagination left for being. As a result, men are valued not for what they are but for what they do or what they have – for their usefulness. Thomas Merton, Conjectures…
Recently I found this photograph from 1982 of three of my sisters-in-law standing in front of my parents’ house. Judging by their attire, the girls must have stopped by the house after a soccer game. Bud and I were in Syracuse, so they stopped…
In March 2011, I wrote the following post. It’s a sweet story — and a reminder. I took it out of storage and dusted it off for today. A number of years ago, I was able to accompany my father on his trip to…
I always blamed my mother for the abundance of paper in our house. She saved articles from the newspaper, newsletters, and magazines that interested her. Booklets, pamphlets, stapled-together packets of paper from church meetings, Cooperative Extension, the Red Cross and various volunteer activities filled…
“Compulsive” — That’s the word my father used to describe himself when I asked him about the detailed lists he kept of his expenses and his earnings. “My parents didn’t have much money, you know, but it was important to them that I go…
Last night at dinner I asked my father to tell me the turtle story again. I had been a little surprised that my sister had never heard the story and wanted to make sure that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. “Do you remember…
I found this picture yesterday and showed it to my father. “Do you remember this man?” I asked. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “On the back it says, ‘Successful defibrillation and external massage’ — Does that help?” I…
When my father was a little boy, some bigger boys gave him a bag of turtle eggs. They looked remarkably like chestnuts that grew on some of the trees in their town. “Take these home and keep them in a warm place. Turtles will…
First there was my father — Actually, before my father, there was Janice Aline, a daughter who lived only a day. Little over a year later, my father was born. Then his brother, Stewart, came along. I showed my father the picture today and…
