The 10-minute drive to see Grandma Rose on the farm was as exciting as the 15-minute drive to Lake Geneva for a day at the beach. She had dogs, cats, chickens, cows, horses, a swing-set, a hammock under large oak trees, and a deep freezer full of every ice cream treat available.
Have you ever lived in a house owned by a church? Many years ago I was married to a minister; we lived in five church-owned homes. One was perfect, the others, well, let’s just say they had issues and that’s where the Christmas Open House steps in. But first, let me tell you about the houses.
In the fall of 2016, I became a substitute bowler on my husband’s Monday night team. Hanging out with the guys every once in a while, yucking it up, sharing stories, eating pizza, and drinking the occasional beer was fun—until I lost my perspective.
“No, Tim! No!” Ron hollered as he, and his best friend, flew out of the boat, splashing into the hot ditch near the Sangchris Lake power plant like lobsters tossed into a pot of boiling water.
Of the 8 million Americans who received their second Covid-19 stimulus payment on a debit card, my 90-year-old mother should not have been one of them.
When it comes to Christmas, I’ve never gone all out like they do in the movies.
My family isn’t perfect.
We don’t always agree.
We have our own opinions
and that’s okay with me
The two women stood in the church foyer nose to nose, arguing over the color of foil surrounding the Easter lily pots.
It didn’t matter to them that it was Easter Sunday, that the church was packed to overflowing or that every member had turned to watch the commotion behind them.
The first year Ron and I were dating he gave me a 973-page book for Christmas, The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. Any other woman would have thrown it at his head. Lucky for him I’d rather read than be frosted with diamonds. . . . Continue reading