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Our new Razorback basketball coach, Eric Musselman, was in Little Rock, Arkansas for a game at Verizon Arena and spoke at the Tip Off Club luncheon. As he walked to the podium, I was shocked at the sight of him. He is only 5’5”! I am taller than him!
Accustomed to the wide open, gawking mouths from people when they first see him, he quickly broke the ice by making a joke about his height.

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Yes, it all happened casually, without much thought. I’m sitting in my hairdresser’s (stylist’s) chair, talking about how much I wish I could still wear big, hoop earrings, when she says, “Well, get another ear piercing and you can.” How? Whatever did she mean?
Her assistant overhears and says, “Oh yeah, just put it higher up on the ear. And by the way, if you go, I want to go and let’s get our nipples pierced.” (God, I hope my granddaughter is not reading this).

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Last summer, Mrs. Elm got some bad news; she was diagnosed with incurable Dutch Elm disease. I was crushed at her prognosis and wrote about it in an earlier blog post. In that post, I professed that there are many unexplained miracles and cures that happen every day and, if there’s no scientific cure for Mrs. Elm, then it is time to move to plan B–a miracle. To enlist a miracle, you must have hope, faith, prayer, and ritual.

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As I pulled out on to Markham a young dog, about the size of a standard poodle, runs in front of me and towards this bicyclist on the opposite sidewalk. The Bicyclist and I thought he was running to attack him. But no. There, in the oncoming lane, lay a big black lab. He’d been hit by a car and his dog companion was seeking help. It must have just happened.

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When traveling, I like to catch up on movies in my hotel room. The Ruth Bader Ginsberg movie, On the Basis of Sex, is a walk down history lane and should possibly be required-watching for all Americans. It is easy, when reciting a gratitude list, to omit and take for granted today’s equality for both men and women. It was a mere 40 years ago that men were not recognized in a court of law as care givers and therefore disqualified from tax relief and other compensations like women. Likewise, women weren’t recognized as head of household, thus unable to apply for credit cards or a mortgage without a husband’s signature.

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Sometimes the thing that stays in your mind for the week is not about yourself but about someone else. This story is so unusual, happens to so few of us, and was handled so well, that I felt I would be remiss not to share it…just in case any of us find ourselves in the same situation.
This peripheral blog is about my sister, Kris, and her friends (I have changed the names to protect the innocent). Recently, Kris nonchalantly called me on the phone and after a few minutes, casually says, “Well, I had an unusual week.” Do tell sister.

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It’s not the expensive, black jacket that I bought but, rather, the on-sale, red leather, fringed jacket that I didn’t buy that preys on my subconscious of regret.
When I was young, I envied those girls who were content to stay home on a weekend night and read or wash and set their hair. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stand to miss out on a single party.

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As you can imagine, I had lots of comments about my decision to stop selling the Confederate battle flag. My favorite response was from a lady who was in favor of my decision. Her closing words were “Not today, Satan, not today!”
Shortly after my announcement, I got a visit from my friend, Randall, who also happens to be the President of the Sons of the Confederacy in Arkansas. He, as he put it, “Came in defense of my ancestors.” I was expecting him.

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We think nothing of videoing weddings. They are all over Youtube. But what about funeral videos? Personally, I love funerals. It is a gathering of family and friends who tell funny or endearing stories and remember only the good of the person they’re saying goodbye to. It is a celebration of a person’s whole life, not just a single moment in time. And it is just as emotional, if not more, than other rites.

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May 21st was my husband Grady’s two year sober anniversary. Two and a half years ago, during Christmas break from college, our youngest son sneakily invited his father out to lunch. Unbeknownst to Grady, much of the family, our priest and I lay in wait with a plan for intervention. The date was December 23, 2016.

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