The last of the snow is gone. The often-cursed snowblower, which is hard to start, is put away for the last time. There were a couple of flakes of snow in the waning days of April, but the death grip of winter weather has eased, and the eternal hope of
As I sat down to write this week’s column my daughter strolled in and sleepily sat by my side for a morning cuddle. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Writing,” I replied.
I didn’t have one word to show for my efforts, and she commented on the blank screen before
I had a birthday in April and turned 75. It did not make me feel particularly old. A lot of my contemporaries didn’t make it this far. It is hard to believe it, but it appears my birth date was April 8th, 1946. The first of the baby boomers.
All
Mothers are magical, mythical creatures curing gaping, wildly bleeding wounds with butterfly kisses and bear hugs. When order cannot be restored with lightly laid on lips, a bandaid with winged ponies may steadily slow a tumbling trail of salty tears and bubbling blood.
Those fairytale-like mommy moments don’t always come