The PBS show Finding Your Roots spurred my interest in learning about my heritage and where I came from. My parents never talked much about their parents, grandparents, or any other relatives—I knew only a few things about my grandparents. Both grandfathers died when I was young—I barely remember meeting either of them. Several years ago, I set out to answer the question: Where did I come from? Looking for my connection to the past seemed not only interesting but important.
Do you send Christmas cards every year? I admit that I am not consistent at sending cards. I want to send cards, I think about it, and in my mind I plan to send them . . . unfortunately, some years (most years) it falls by the wayside. However, I love and appreciate the cards I receive from others. They are displayed on the buffet so I can enjoy them during the season. Often, along with the cards, there are Christmas newsletters folded and tucked neatly into the card. Exploits, successes, and vacations are shared—a looking backward at the past year.
Is there such a thing as too many books? I guess it depends on who you ask—ask someone thinking of moving or downsizing—ask someone building more bookshelves. For heavens sake don’t ask anyone with a simple, minimalist perspective!
There have been years when I had little to be grateful for. Yes, I know that ultimately is not true . . . but when everything you have worked and hoped for is taken away, well, honestly, it is hard to be grateful. Your life is turned upside down.
One morning on my way to work, I was driving the “scenic” route. It is a narrow, hilly, curvy, two-lane road through a neighborhood. As I rounded a turn, there was a woman and her dog in the middle of the street. The dog was on a leash and she had obviously been walking him. They were stopped and she was frantically looking toward the other side of the road.
It was a busy, heavy traffic morning (as usual) driving to work in downtown Birmingham, Alabama. A yellow school bus pulled in front of me. I was dismayed. It is hard to see around them and it is also difficult to see the traffic lights above them. Before long, we were stopped at a traffic light near the Vulcan statue.
It has been hard to enjoy spring this year. Covid is still with us. The brutal attack on Ukraine brings a sense of sadness and horror dampening thoughts for world harmony. Pictures of families torn apart are heartbreaking. Seeing towns with buildings destroyed is hideous. This is such a waste. Do I still hope for the promise of spring?
The world right now is not what I would wish it to be. I will be the first to admit that the last two years have been challenging, scary, disheartening, and maddening. Yet, I am alive. I have survived and endured. I hope for a better future and am glad to say, “Welcome!”to the new year.
I have many nostalgic Thanksgiving memories. When I was a child, I always watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. Daddy would go out and mow over all the leaves in our yard and then come back in and fall asleep in his chair. Mother stayed busy in the kitchen cooking our Thanksgiving dinner . . . which was always eaten in the middle of the day.
When I was growing up, we had a decorative brass scale sitting on an end table next to the couch in the living room. The antique scale fascinated me with its intricate details etched into the brass. There were rubber grapes in the round trays on each side. No matter how much I wanted them to, the trays rarely hung evenly. I was always looking for balance. But, of course, unless you put the exact same weight on both sides there was really no way for the trays to balance—especially since these items were not chosen specifically for their weight.
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