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The Day Time Stopped

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February 17, 2020 was the Day Time Stopped. I've struggled for words ever since.  The morning was foggy.   So foggy I couldn't see across the cove. So foggy that Facebook friends were commenting that it was the thickest fog they'd ever seen. Instead of "walking on little cat feet," this fog landed like thick concrete. The phone rang. My sister said there had been a car accident. Our parents were injured. We raced to the hospital in Charlotte. Our daddy died that evening. Our mama died two days later, on the 19th. Time Stopped. Nothing will ever be the same again. ***** The first time we walked back into their house, everything was waiting. The chicken waited to welcome them back home. Daddy's lift chair waited for him to come sit back down. Mama's books and crossword puzzles waited for her to pick them back up. Breakfast dishes waited to be washed. Mama's earrings and "Charlie" perfume waited to be worn. Daddy's Tyson cap waited to be put

FREE THE TATAS, SAVE THE TURTLES!

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There are few things in life that I detest more than a bra.   Yes, I said it, and I know this makes my mother cringe.   (Sorry, Mom!) As a pre-teen, when one girl in the class came to school sporting a training bra,  we ALL decided we should have one.  What no one tells you is that a training bra does not train the boobs, it trains the GIRL to wear a bra. I think that was the LAST time I ever truly WANTED a bra. I determined that a bra was developed as a torture device to keep women "tied to their place."  At times I'd just as soon have a strand of barbed wire wrapped around my rib cage. I grew up in the late 60's and early 70's, when "bra-burning" was a sign of feminism, a sign of protest against establishment.  I didn't actually DO it --- but now, the idea is really kind of intriguing! I will admit bras DO have some usefulness.  They make our clothes fit better.  They "lift and separate" (to borrow a phrase from a

Message from the Pines

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I've always loved pine trees.  There's just such a feeling of peacefulness, communion with God, or being "at home" when I am walking through the pines on the farm, surrounded by tall trees that soar straight up to the blue skies, a soft carpet of rust-colored needles muffling my steps.  When the breeze blows, the needles on the trees seem to whisper into the air, a soft rustling sound that is pleasant to my ears.    When we moved to our current home, I was delighted to see a few stately pine trees in the yard.  While picking up pine cones is one of David's least favorite activities, I don't mind them at all!  (Guess which one of us mows the yard!)  I remember as a child, picking up pine cones to use in decorating for the fall and holiday season.  Craft time often involved gluing glitter on the tips of the cone, or creating pine cone "turkeys" by poking multi-colored construction paper "tail feathers" into the larger end.

The Portrait

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There is a portrait of me on the wall.  My husband David took it with his cell phone when we were at a local restaurant a few years ago.  I’ve got a bit of a tan, my eyes are bright and shining, I’m smiling with a hint of laughter on my face.  I’m wearing a pink tunic that has sparkling trim around the neckline. It portrays a confident me, a happy me, a healthy me.   It is a good picture, one I like because it reflects a happy time in my life.   We were (and still are) very happily married, living in a beautiful lakeside home.   Our three children enjoyed successful careers and relationships; four grandsons rounded out the family.   I walked five miles every day, I was active in my church and community, had a circle of friends and lots of activities and hobbies that I enjoyed.   These days, I find myself standing in front of that portrait, staring at the smiling woman.   I speak to her, asking “Where did you go?   I can’t seem to find you now.”   This past June, I was d