Tragic news just in from my sister: “My neighbors lit a fire in their basement fireplace and the flue wasn’t open. Smoke came through my walls and vents and filled up my entire basement. Called 911 at midnight. Four firemen responded to the call and NOT ONE OF THEM WAS HOT.”
Please keep Chelsea in your thoughts and prayers.
That awkward moment when your neighbor inquires what the welcome stone that went missing from her doorstep is doing on your kitchen table.
A question we need to ask our children more often: “Where d’ja get that?
Like a precursor to just about every event in my life that would follow, I was born late.
My mom would tell you it was three back-aching, bloated, gut-kicking days, but I say I missed the mark by six hours and fifteen minutes.
Had it not been for that final in utero scramble for my car keys, credit card or left shoe, I’d have made it in time to have the awesomely cool distinction of being a math teacher born on Pi Day, an annual celebration of the mathematical constant π, a holiday so geeky even Hallmark won’t touch it.
Instead, I chose to make my debut on the anniversary of the day some ancient Roman guy was brutally stabbed by a mob of his closest and most trusted associates.
Truth be told, the story of my life could be told right there in the delivery room.
Thank you for the birthday wishes, my good friends…and beware the Ides of March!
My Hungarian grandma used to say that in the Old Country, Three Kings Day was the same thing as “Little Christmas.” In our house, it means one more thing…Timber!
“Can we keep it up all year?” Anna pleaded.
I think of how long it takes to wrap up every ornament, unstring the lights, disassemble the tree, pack it up, hoist it into the attic and lug it into a crawl space, smacking my head on every ceiling plank along the way.
Good news, Anna. We just might.