I carry this little florist card with me lately, tucked into my pocket like a talisman against the stupid tears.
You know I rarely do book reviews. For good reason — my recreational reading time is limited to that very brief span between when I crawl into bed and when I can no longer keep my eyes open.
November is “National Diabetes Month.”
I accidentally killed Bambi’s little sister a few weeks ago, joining a herd of Oregon drivers who have mowed down wildlife this season.
It’s so good that I did not write this column earlier.
We have a food problem at our house. Not that one where the teens leave one spoonful of peanut butter in the jar or two slugs of milk in the jug.
Can I just say something? Thank you. Thank you so very much.
Our family caught a glimpse of the black hell of losing a child this past weekend and we are still breathing hard from running in the opposite direction.
Can we all just stop pimping our children? Stop selling them out for “Like” and “Share”? Quit scurrying to gather “views”?
The possibility of being jailed recently caught my daughter’s attention.
Let me be very clear — I love history.
The twinsters are approaching the four-month mark of being Earthlings, if you can believe that.
If you have eaten at our house in the past three years, partaken in a potluck dish I contributed or nibbled on snacks I ferried to work, let me say I am heartily sorry.
Gabriel Scheel is spunky. The youngest of five boys, the Assumption School preschooler is tough enough to lay some hurt on his brothers when the Scheel boys roughhouse.
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