In a move that feels like sadly rehoming a beloved, elderly pet, it appears it’s time to send our old farm truck to that big garage in the sky...or more likely, a nearby junkyard.
I'm Just Saying
I (and perhaps many of you) don’t really consider myself a writer.
While I realize that it’s each generation’s turn to point their collective wagging finger at the generations behind them in despair and, yes, even ridicule, I do take offense when a broad brush is applied to them all.
It was rather grey and raw the early morning of Valentine’s Day, and as I pushed the wheelbarrow back from the manure pile (mountain) back into the barn, something caught my eye on the aisle floor, wedged in between two hay bales.
Frankly, I’m still agog.
Just so you know, the word agog is one I only carefully extract from its literary box to describe all things made unremarkable by the world weary ‘awesome.’
When you have an elderly dog and try to keep an immaculate home--
Sorry, evidently I was thinking of someone else. Let’s try that again.
When you have an elderly dog, it’s all you can do to keep your house presentable.
Shameless brag alert.
Watching the local weather forecast predicting perhaps an inch or so of snow for our area in the South Carolina Upstate, I texted Paul so that when he finished his evening meeting at our church he would stop to pick up dog food for our Rosie. When he appeared an hour later he was Paul Newman’s Organic Chicken can-less.
It’s not that I don’t think the world of Oprah--what’s not to like? She’s empathetic, philanthropic, completely self-made and enormously successful. In fact, particularly when considering the impoverished and abused childhood she endured, her jaw dropping career is the epitome of the American Dream.
Like many a weary folk, Paul and I were on the road after Christmas but unlike the others it had nothing to do with the holidays, and so neither of us were recovering from the wrench of leaving beloved family gatherings.