We’ve arrived at our uniquely American holiday, Thanksgiving, once again, and I think it’s fair to say that if you’re not feeling particularly thankful this year, that’s alright.
Sit down, put your feet up and have a cathead biscuit with some pepper jelly on it.
If you know anything about me, or have regularly read this column over the years, you’ll know that if there’s one thing that drives me batty it is holiday merchandise arriving in the shops by the first of September.
As I peck at my keyboard, the election hasn’t been officially decided.
The President’s declaration of victory and his request in the wee hours that votes no longer be counted has gone unheeded as weary poll workers continue to slog through the democratic process.
I am certainly not the first person who has left the dentist’s office with the unsettling feeling of numbness in the mouth, finding it difficult to smile evenly or not inadvertently bite the tongue.
This is how tall I am: I can do hamstring stretches by flopping one leg straight across the kitchen island while standing with ease on the other leg and leaning forward to grab my calf.
It’s not that I’m against celebrating anticipated annual days of note on the calendar—certainly Thanksgiving and Christmas—and I adore the 4th of July and even barely recognized Arbor Day. Veteran’s Day? You betcha. Same with Memorial Day. But Columbus Day? Meh. Presidents’ Day? I guess.
Look, you know that I essentially describe life on the farm: talking toads, apple trees with the occasional foray into pumpkin spice Chapstick, or cats wandering beneath the robes of the Dean of Canterbury Cathedral in his youtube series of ‘Morning Prayers.’
Paul and I have reached the age where birthday prezzies have to require a bit more thought because we essentially have everything we need and how many pairs of slippers can one give, even if the dogs seize upon them shortly afterwards, leaving them in shreds under the bed?
I’m assuming that George W. Crane, Ph.D and M.D. is no longer gracing our planet and that’s a good thing as I’d have to slap and sterilize him in one fell swoop. Of course, it was a different time in 1939, but Dr.
It was while having a good old clear out of unworn clothes and going through boxes which had remain unopened for years that I came across the crisply folded, yet faintly yellowing, neatly typed poem.
317 Trade Street Greer, SC 29651
Phone: 1-864-877-2076
