The measuring cup was a first anniversary present from my father to my mother. The only measuring cup of my childhood, it was constantly in use. I learned to cook using its lined measurements. For 50 years, it sat on the counter in my mother’s kitchen.
In the early 80s, Friday afternoon happy hour at Simo’s was an institution. And on Friday, February 13th, 1981 I was there as usual with some friends.
I don’t believe in my family being in the hospital alone.
What that meant in the spring of 2011, was that Presbyterian Matthews Intensive Care Unit room number four became my home for seventeen…
Sounds of Love and Life
I’m hardly out of the driveway when my phone rings. It’s my father, I recognize the ringtone.
“Hey, Honey,” my dad says.
“Hey, Daddy, I’m sorry I missed your call earlier.”
I love Christmas Day. But I particularly loved it when my children were young.
Up early, they’d check to make sure Santa had eaten his cookies and the reindeer had gnawed adequately at their carrots, before ripping open gifts to discover new toys and playthings.
Next was the once-a-year breakfast of cream cheese bread. Making the bread is a two-day process. But I happily…