In his 1922 poem “The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot said — if I recall correctly — “April is the cruellest month / But May is, like, amazing.” Boy, was he right.
“No offense,” Mark said, “but you look like you’re wearing a tablecloth.”
In daily life, I hide my awkwardness well enough. But I have to be honest: I can barely swing my arms properly when I walk without whispering “left, right, left, right.”
Traveling by air is speedier than by covered wagon but, I think, no less grueling.
Last week, I decided to turn our adult daughter’s childhood bedroom into a combined craft room and guest room.
Several years ago, I started making birthday cakes for my grandson and his baby sister. Soon Mark joined in, and things escalated.
As an older adult, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, asking myself life’s big questions. For example: What is a six-letter word for “scraps”?
I recently started keeping a journal, thinking it would be a good exercise in slowing down and reflecting on my daily life. My first entry, on Feb. 4, said, “Found a dead spider in the bathroom sink.”
For the record, I am not incompetent.
I love winter in Vermont. At least, I love it for a few weeks.
Our kids were just as entertaining when they were that age. But it’s been 20 years or so since I had a preschooler, and sometimes I forget how constant and unrelenting the fun was back then.
Are you looking at the few remaining hours before Christmas thinking, “What else can I squeeze into this already frenetic week to add even more chaos to the holidays?”
Have you ever had an artistic idea that consumes your thoughts until you just have to pursue it, even at the expense of, say, getting ready for Christmas?
Despite the likelihood of meltdowns, however, riding that line between culinary success and disaster makes me feel alive.
A couple of weeks ago on my way to bed, I was walking past the bedroom closet that serves as our laundry room when the dog, two steps behind me, stopped so fast his brakes squealed.
