My neighborhood is full of grown children that are home from college and elsewhere, sheltering in place and strolling in the sunshine with their parents. Who would have thought that in January, when I was renovating the carriage house in my backyard, that it would soon be occupied by son Jack, forced to move home from college because of a world-wide pandemic?
A couple of things: I have never used the word “devoid” so much in my life. The streets are devoid of cars, the buses are devoid of passengers, and churches devoid of parishioners. And another thing: I have not cooked this much since the kids started graduating from high school in 2006.
To bring a little levity to the workplace, everyone was given a yard stick to play with and carry around as a reminder to stay 6 feet apart. It’s been really fun! The yardsticks have become swords, light sabers, microphones, walking sticks and more. But social-distancing and remembering to stay 6 feet apart after-hours is not as easy.
I’ve blogged about it before: anger is a secondary emotion. It comes after a vulnerable emotion like being tired, hurt, disappointed, or lonely. It’s a defense mechanism. And with this sequence of pain comes anger, then “the voice;” that internal negative repertoire in your head. For lack of a better description, I call this nagging voice “devils speak” because, if repeated over and over in your head, it will map a really nasty little neuron pattern in your brain. And if that ain’t some kind of devil, I don’t know what is.
The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas gets hectic for us womenfolk and, sometimes, it can be hard to stop, smell the roses, and give thanks. I feel a duty to shop, cook, and clean – as if I held all the key to everyone’s happiness – all culminating into a 48-hour marathon. Don’t you wish that were true?
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.
It is not easy to be the rule enforcer at home or at work. The answers of how, when, and what actions should be taken, will be lessened by following these simple and straightforward rules.
Turning 65 was, of course, no accident. I proudly earned every year. But to have it happen in Mexico City…
Call me a tree-hugger, and you would be right. Last week I lopped off a branch from my 50-year-old elm tree and took it to the Pulaski County Cooperative Extension office. A few years back, I noticed spots on Ms. Elm’s leaves and wanted to find out how to treat it.
You may think this is weird, or awkward, but it wasn’t. This summer my husband Grady, son Matt, and his bride, Sara, vacationed in Colorado, where we stayed with my ex-husband, Ron, the father of my only girl-child, Meghan.
