Once upon a time, not too long ago and not far away, in the State of Confusion, I was living in my home, minding my own business.
As a matter of fact, I was sleeping. Suddenly, in the late darkness of night, there is a tap-tap-tapping at the front door.
Active middle-graders want action-packed reading. Here are two book/audio titles that will grab them and hold them:
As Ellen Hopkins was “finding herself as a writer,” she published hundreds of articles, wrote 20 non-fictions and picture books for children and escaped into poetry and short fiction to feed her creative soul. She had no intention of writing for teens until the idea for her first novel “Crank” (McElderry) came to her.
“When you drive up to your home or workplace, what do before you go inside?” The workshop leader looked intently at the man he’d chosen to answer this question.
A friend of mine was having a birthday, the same friend at whose home in the mountains I was staying for the summer, so I thought I’d throw her a birthday party, you know, in case I ever want to go back to the mountains and live in her house, like tomorrow, like permanently, like forever ... I’m just saying. So, in the interests of, well, my being able to do that, I won’t reveal her age -- she’s a bit sensitive about joining me in hot-flash hell -- but she was agreeable to the birthday party, as long as it was held in a meat locker because the heat has reached insanely anti-birthday levels.
No building is more beloved by the people of Hillsborough than the Colonial Inn. It was built in 1838 and originally called the Orange Hotel. Folks recognized the special nature of the hotel right off the bat. Here is part of an ad that was published by the original owner, Isaac Spencer:
Chapel Hill writer, Randi Davenport’s “The End of Always” (book from Grand Central Publishing; audio from Hachette, approximately 10 hours) plunks readers down in the immediate and intense world of 17-year-old Marie Reehs. Life is harsh enough in 1907 Waukesha, Wisconsin, but Marie recounts the sudden illness and death of her young brother, too abruptly followed by the death of her mother from “an accident” that Marie believes was a murder committed by her father.
Do you remember the friendly neighborhood drug store? We used to call them drug stores, because that’s where we went to get makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars and drugs. But, then that “someone” with nothing better to do decided people might think they could buy makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars, and DRUGS there, and changed the name to Pharmacy.
The first thing I didn’t post on Facebook was a picture of the snake we found on the front porch. The second photo I didn’t post was a shot of my riding helmet, half-chaps, and bridle hung together on a wrought-iron rack against rough-hewn barn wood. It looked like something staged for a magazine.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!! ... Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell, I’m just so freakin’ mad! Twice this week, some scummy scammer has tried to take advantage of me, and I still don’t get it -- what kind of people do these things? The fact that both dirtbags (yeah, that’s right, “dirtbags” -- like I don’t watch “CSI”?) were totally disappointed in the size of the loot they’d never get is the only thing that makes me smile.
Pilot Mountain is one of the most recognized mountains in the state. It dominates the scenery for miles around it. A twisting 2.5-mile road leads to the top.
But a bill now before North Carolina legislators would let state officials rent out the park for private use.
Our neighbors were selling their car and promptly had it tuned up and detailed to fetch the best price. As they drove the car home from the shop, they decided to keep driving it. The engine purred, the chrome glistened, and the stains on the upholstery had vanished. The curious presence of a “new car smell” solidified their decision.
You know, there are few things in life that are guaranteed to cause my friends and family to collapse with what I like to call “laugh cramps” than when I injure myself. I don’t mean to suggest that they are not generally sympathetic and concerned, but ... well, yes, I guess I do; these people are cold, I’m telling you, stone cold, heartless human beings.
I’ve recently begun the Catie-G’ma Bookclub, an attempt to keep connected with my long-distance 2-year-old granddaughter.
Every summer, my brother-in-law, Gregg’s, parents rent a house at Emerald Isle, and Gregg’s whole family – including my sister, Susan, and their three teens – comes down from Ohio for a week’s vacation.