Another Thanksgiving has come and gone with the familiar face absent from the holiday table. This seems as good a time as any to finish a column I have been writing in my heart for months now.
I recently wrote -- whined -- about no longer being able to find the kind of sheets I want. Those crisp sheets woven so tightly your sleeping body barely leaves a dent. No soft stuff, ridiculous thread counts or "special" finish. Just sheets that feel baked in the sun on flat rocks somewhere very hot.
Our Valley has definitely become a destination for wine and fruit enthusiasts. Bicyclists, photographers and musicians also seek out what this community offers.
There is a silent crisis in America begging to be addressed.
It’s morning. So early that the night remains steadfast in the sky, not ready to relinquish its reign.
I was recently in the lobby of the Martin Archery factory west of Walla Walla, surrounded by wild animals.
The world my children inhabit underwent an earthquake one recent evening in my friend Kaysun’s kitchen. Everyone was working to produce dinner before my youngest kiddo, Miss Tall-and-Blond, and Kaysun’s youngest, The Lovely Nat, had to scurry off to a performance of children’s theater. In which they were both fabulous novice actresses, not gonna lie.
The world my children inhabit underwent an earthquake one recent evening in my friend Kaysun's kitchen.Everyone was working to produce dinner before my youngest kiddo, Miss Tall-and-Blond, and Kaysun's youngest, The Lovely Nat, had to scurry off to a perf
I distinctly remember the first time I believed I was beautiful.It didn't happen at home, where my mother hesitated a heartbeat too long when asked if I was pretty. It didn't happen in Sunday school when our teacher said all God's children are beautiful.I
I thought I would be writing about the final hour of wedding planning with this column edition.There is more than enough to talk about, what with a zillion details to cover between now and then.Stuff I've never considered in my life — should I try a spray
It was a year ago this coming Father's Day when I handed my six children the fabric of their father, so to speak.This tale began months earlier, after David died in January of 2009. I had reached the second Christmas and there were his clothes, still hang
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