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A couple of weeks ago my husband and I ate at a restaurant … indoors.
I don’t like change.
I’ve been thinking about the economic impact payments many of us have been receiving from Uncle Sam, designed to help us mitigate the economic impacts the coronavirus pandemic has brought down upon our heads.
If I’m ever included in Guinness World Records it will likely be for most times singing “The Wheels on the Bus” complete with hand motions.
Once again, I’m sending my dispatch from the Great Void.
When my brother told me our mom could have a designated emotional support person, all I could picture was a fluffy service dog wearing a bright orange vest.
One of the best things that has come out of this past year’s coronavirus sequestering has been friends. Long-lost friends.
I’m not one to complain, but the pandemic put a real crimp in my dating life – even though I’ve been dating the same guy since 1985.
A (not so) funny thing happened two weeks ago as I was leaving the house to go to the grocery store. I fell down.
On a chilly November afternoon, I said goodbye to another veteran featured in my book “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.”
The fourth Thursday of February every year is National Chili Day, so last on Feb. 25, I celebrated by making my son’s chili recipe.
This year when my husband asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I was ready.“Nothing,” I said. “And I know just the place to do it.”
Heirloom: A valuable object that has belonged to a family for several generations. What do we do with our heirlooms? The closest thing I have to an heirloom is a 40-inch by 26-inch oil painting of a woodland scene by German artist M. Berner-Hardt.
Meme makers had lots of fun with 2020.
We old people have been plenty busy these days, largely hunting for COVID-19 vaccines.
Perplexed, he peers into our dining room from his perch on the deck, a red Christmas ornament dangling from his ear.
I just don’t understand, especially in light of the fact that we’re all essentially immigrants (some more recent than others), that longevity of place should be perceived as making you a better American.
Apparently, I've reached the stage of adulthood where I must wear socks around the house. I've always been a barefoot kind of gal, so this came as quite a surprise.
At the start of a new year, I’m not so much about resolutions as I am about words.
While tidying up end-of-the-year paperwork, I dislodged an overflowing folder from the top of the filing cabinet.