With a week left until Christmas, family members all over the world are making silent, solemn, last-minute promises to be nice and not naughty this season when they gather together to celebrate the holidays.
Even after 50 years of astonished viewing, the meaning of 2001: A Space Odyssey remains open to discussion.
As someone who writes for a living, I know well the rewards of having written. But you don’t have to be a professional writer to gain from writing.
1968 was a turbulent year. There were the tragic assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, anti-war demonstrators in the streets, students taking over college campuses and government buildings, cities torched and burning, and an increasingly unpopular war in Vietnam claiming lives daily.
In America, 1968 was a turbulent year. There were two assassinations, anti-war demonstrators in the street, students taking over college campuses, cities torched and burning, and an increasingly unpopular war in Southeast Asia that was claiming lives daily.
In 2011, when my wife and I decided to sell our three-story home in New Jersey and move to an apartment just three Metro stops from Washington, D.C., we had no idea we would be becoming part of a growing Baby Boomer trend.
Who gets grandma’s yellow pie plate?
At first glance, this seems like such an innocuous query. However, the possible answers to such questions are sparking small inter-and-intra-generational conflicts all over the country.
When John Travolta first came strutting down a New York Street 40 years ago in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever, the film that helped lunch the international disco craze, you can be sure his movements started a lot of female hearts pounding rapidly.
If you know the nursery rhyme story of Jack Sprat and his wife, then you have an idea of the relationship my wife of 44 years, Judy, and I have. If you’re not familiar with the child’s poem, here is the first stanza:
In retrospect, it was some of our scariest minutes as parents of a then three-year-old.
The experience began innocently enough when my wife Judy, our son Michael, and I visited my mother’s house on a warm spring day in 1976.