I’ve had a blind faith in The Man Upstairs for a long time. I grew up small-town Catholic but knew little about the Bible. Catholics have Catechism, not Bible study. We did not have nuns. We were lucky to share a priest with a triangle of other farm towns.
I’ve come to the conclusion, in my seventh decade, that there really is no such thing as too much fun. It seems to follow that people with more friends tend to have more fun. So, I’m branching out and meeting new people.
A couple weeks ago, I had a real down-in-the-dumps day. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it because my life is normally good, and I’m grateful for so, so much.
I grew up near a rural town that had everything we needed: a grocery, the pharmacy and a hardware store. The main drag was lined with a bank and post office, a florist and the barber, our doctor and insurance agent. We even had a bowling alley that served a mean catfish dinner on Friday nights.
Summer’s not nearly over and we’re bombarded with back-to-school ads. It’s an exciting time for school kids – time for new clothes and supplies, for moving up to the next grade and reconnecting with friends. One thing I miss about formal education is that fresh start every semester.
Chatting long distance with a dear friend, I caught myself whining about having too many obligations and not enough time to do the things I’ve set as goals for myself.
Most of the hundreds of decisions we make every day are almost automatic: what to wear, when to go to the grocery store or which route to take.
I am proud to be a farmer’s daughter and cherish my memories growing up on the farm. The first lambs and calves of the year meant spring was finally here. Winning a blue ribbon for my show pig at the county fair is an early accomplishment I’ll never forget.
I’ve never been a good sleeper. As a kid, I remember reading for hours by the hall light while my sister slept.