Saturday, April 27, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Unlike the deranged nuts who slaughter random people out of their crazed thoughts, I think whoever set the bombs off at the Boston Marathon were taught to hate and fear. Another person in the news recently who must have similar beliefs is the Philadelphia doctor who has slaughtered and dismembered healthy little infants who were of viable age and who survived his abortion attempts in the later stages of pregnancy. Though he is on trial for killing only seven, he has actually murdered thousands of babies. What horror both scenarios conjure up! In contrast, consider the exhiliration of completing a marathon or the joy in taking your newborn home. We who generally care about and respect life find it hard to think of more despicable acts than the ones we have learned of this week, but we are becoming more acutely aware of the evil around us.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Aunt Margaret is OK, just uncomfortable. Not to worry. But I did take her to the ER today. After parking my car, I noticed a helicopter above. I watched it fly in, hover loudly, then land on the ground right near me. Then a guy was rolled out and rushed into the trauma bay where staff was ready to treat him. I know because I accidentally followed him in. It was the wrong entrance for me so I was quickly ushered out. Then once again as I was leaving I saw the helicopter coming in to land. This time I snapped a pic with my cell phone. In order to post to my blog, I downloaded the blogger app. This is my first attempt at using it.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
"In the South, perhaps more than any other region, we go back to our home in dreams and memories, hoping it remains what it was on a lazy, still summer's day twenty years ago."
A few years ago I knew I wasn’t at home.If asked where I was from, I would be pleased to answer, “I'm a Carolina girl.” Having lived only in various cities and towns of the two Carolinas made me feel content to call the entire big area home. But in my sixties, with my life slowing down and my now middle aged sons and their families not living nearby, I had time to contemplate the concept of home as well as seek where it might be. Lovely Greenville, my most recent and longest stopping place, is a great place to live, but it began to feel less and less like home.
I had read about Southern writers, and that central to all of their good stories is a “sense of place.” Surely there was a message in that for me. I tossed the possible meanings of that little phrase around in my head. What did I have to learn from those three little words? After much soul searching, I realized the answer is Wilmington, my birthplace, the seat of my earliest memories, the backdrop of my family’s funny and loving stories. It is the warm and friendly coastal town I have been tethered to during all my busy years of roaming about the rest of the Carolinas, the place that has always been in the back of my mind as where I should eventually return.One of these days a potential buyer will stop by this house I have lived in for almost sixteen years and find it exactly what their family needs. When that happens, I will go home. I am thankful to “a sense of place” for helping me find my way.