To: Mr. Joe Rich, President of Bumpy Mountain Medical Center.
Dear Mr. Rich: I do apologize, I know your name isn’t really Mr. Rich. I know it’s Mr. Higgenbothamous, or whatever, but Rich just seems more appropriate somehow ... and a lot easier to spell.
My family and friends in Syria are calling on America to save them from a regime that massacres its own people. More than 100,000 Syrians have lost their lives at the hands of President Bashar al-Assad’s forces, with another 6 million displaced from their homes, a third of whom are finding refuge in neighboring countries.
Have you ever heard of the village of Bayou Corne?
It is in a swampy area in south-central Louisiana. Last year it had a population of about 360 people.
My children were on the edge of leaving home, my husband told me he wasn’t into traveling when they left, and my work crashed and burned. These events coincided just before I turned 50, scooting me into the depression I’d been skirting for a couple years. A thick glass wall rose from some ugly inferno and slipped between me and the rest of the world. The wall magnified laughter and amplified the conversations of those on the other side. I moped, sulked and lurked invisible behind its glare. I stopped going to parties. Being around more than one other person made me so nervous I’d vanish behind the wall’s cold shield.
I love my friends, I really do. They are sweet, funny, generous, good-looking and fun-loving women. You’ll notice I never said “smart.” Although they are without exception off-the-charts bright, some of them are, as my grandfather once said, educated beyond their intelligence. I’m talking about common sense, not SAT scores.
The headline on broadway.com last week reported, “Broadway Grosses: ‘Big Fish’ Reels In a Huge Audience.”
“Big Fish” is a new Broadway musical based on Chapel Hill’s Daniel Wallace’s novel and the movie based on that book.
As a kid I took swimming lessons, and for the rest of my life have been considering myself a swimmer. We spent long summer days at the pool and water-skied on the lake, and I never thought much about what it took to propel myself through the liquid.
Get ready for the running season.
There will be a chance for us to run a 5K or some other distance in Chapel Hill or a nearby town almost every weekend this fall.
Once upon a time, there was a horse named Charlie. People thought Charlie was unruly and contrary. He was skinny, undernourished and with spots on his coat.
There’s a poll our state leaders proposed on our willingness to pay a toll on some roads, in order to help with construction costs and maintenance of those roads. Sort of a toll poll, if you will. I understand the necessity of maintaining our highways, and the cost it entails, both in terms of money and inconvenience. But, you know the old saying: You can’t make an omelet without putting millions of drivers through hell on earth, sometimes for decades.
Most people in Chapel Hill know Wayne Pond as the “word-of-the-day-man” on WCHL radio. Every weekday, he challenges listeners with an odd or interesting new word to add to our vocabulary.
When my son and daughter-in-law were new parents, I gave them the audio of Pamela Druckerman’s “Bringing Up Bebe: One American Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting,” narrated by Abby Craden (Random House, approximately 9 hours).
"It's déjà vu all over again."
Those words, attributed to Yogi Berra, described my feelings a few years ago when I left my youngest child for the beginning of freshman year in college.
Many years ago, I went on a vacation with our two young girls and another mother-daughter duo. It was a lively excursion and a long drive during which all three girls told family stories.
Good morning, and welcome back to school, folks! No, I’m obviously not Mr. Beaverhausen. My name is Ms. Wentz, and I’m substituting for Mr. Beaverhausen for a bit, as he and his wife move here from Boston and get acclimated to our please-just-shoot-me heat and this summer’s entertaining monsoons. No, I have no idea what he looks like, darlin’, but it can’t be any worse than I look today, having worked for a week now in this room with the air-conditioning permanently set at 83 degrees, trying to put books away, organize desks, mop the floor, and pin lovely borders around the blackboard ... sorry, I mean whiteboard, I forgot I was ancient.