Sock-timism

I consider it a good day when I remove an even number of socks from the dryer. I always put in an even number, that I know. With military-like precision, I unroll each and every sock from the hamper and verify its mate before throwing it in the wash. But somehow, by the end of the drying cycle, something’s gone awry. There’s usually one, lonely sock.

I keep the single socks. What else can an optimist do? Admittedly, I have looked up articles like, “37+ Unusual Uses for Lonely Socks,” but I just wasn’t really in need of a sock puppet or golf club covers or windshield wiper cozies.

A memory of cherry bombs and apple guns

When we were young, the search began even before school let out in early June: Which kids would be taking a vacation outside of Illinois, and could they find a way to smuggle some fireworks home without Mom or Dad finding out?

The grand prize, of course, was the cherry bomb. Its waterproof wick meant that it could be used to sink the ships of yuletides past.

Every Christmas we asked Santa for plastic model kits of the great ships of America’s proud naval history.

This is Only Temporary

Every so often, I’ll have a week where it seems as if my coworkers hate me. Later that same week, my husband will start eyeing me in that way that convinces me he’s desperate to divorce me. My friends won’t call — a sure sign that they absolutely cannot stand me. And it isn’t just people turning against me — it’s dinner, scorched in the oven; the latch on the window that snaps off in my hand as I hurry to let the smoke from the oven escape.

Smile — there’s a stop sign ahead

I’m in a good mood today, and I have heavy traffic to thank for it.

I know that’s a crazy thing to say, unless you’re an ambulance-chasing lawyer or a psychiatrist who sees dollar signs in other people’s misery. But I’m neither of those things, so go ahead — call me crazy.

Still, it was the rush-hour slow-down at a four-way stop sign that brought a smile of contentment to my face.

Like everybody else on the road, I had someplace else I would rather have been.

Maybe our Founding Fathers were born just a bit too soon

The never-ending battle over gun control always seems to hit a brick wall at the Second Amendment, which states: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

The statement raises important questions on all sides, regarding what, exactly, our Founding Fathers meant by it. By “Arms” did they necessarily mean “guns,” or would swords, knives, and spears suffice as arms? If they were talking specifically about guns, did they give any thought to what type of gun might be a bridge too far, given the horrors future technology might bring?

When I was little, my philosophy was “Let someone else break it.” It worked like this: If I was tossing a ball around in the house and broke a lamp, I would painstakingly reassemble the pieces and then tiptoe out of the room.

Facing Another Summer as an Adult

Summer hasn’t even started, officially. But school is out, and as I’m writing this, my teen daughter is waking up on her first day of summer break. Her alarm clock went off at 6 a.m., a leftover relic of our automated life that cruises along during the school year. Instead of hitting snooze, she gets to hit “off.” In less than 24 hours, the clock has suddenly lost its authority.

I, on the other hand, lift my head groggily from my pillow as I always do, trying to formulate full sentences to communicate to someone my dire and immediate need for coffee.

Finding the brand of a real-life Ken doll

A couple weeks ago, I chatted with a guy at O’Hare Field that looked like a living Ken doll. He was maddeningly good looking — medium height, blond hair, blue eyes, fit and trim and impeccably dressed — and I wondered which Ken doll he might be.

Because it turns out there are more than 50 varieties of Ken dolls out there — Cali Cool Ken, Tropical Vibes Ken, Hip Hoodie Ken, and more. And now they come in a variety of skin tones and body shapes that include slim, broad and original.

Hope Takes Root

It was a gorgeous day at the garden center. A gentle breeze danced through the heavily perfumed air, playfully mixing and mingling with the sweet and savory scents of the flowers and herbs. The earthy scent of grass clippings and warm soil felt like a tender embrace, comfortable and calm.

The parking lot was nearly full, but as we navigated up and down the rows looking for an open space, the other drivers were surprisingly patient, politely waiting for each other.

Meeting the usual suspects to relearn what’s really important

Carol and I love to take a brisk walk every day — usually at least three miles or so, and usually at sunset. It’s a great way to let whatever seemed so important throughout the day to dwindle and fade back into a “So, that happened” memory, and let us refocus our minds back to what’s really important.

Along the way, we often run into a handful of others that we pass with a smile or a wave, but after meeting them time and again, we think of them as “the usual suspects.”

Going Up? The Harrowing Ascent to the Yellow Brick Road

For a good five minutes, I was convinced I was going to have to listen to the Elton John concert while stuck in an elevator.

At, least, it felt like five minutes: the time it took for the elevator to arrive to take us up to our seats in the nosebleed section, where our seats were located at Ohio State University’s Schottenstein Center in Columbus, Ohio. We were there to see Elton John perform live for his Farewell Tour.

We were relieved, my friends and I, to see there was an elevator operator, who had an air of authority perched on a stool in front of the panel of elevator buttons.

Trying to wrap my head around “cat-think”

I am not a “cat guy,” so sometimes I need help understanding how “cat people” think. Today is one of those times.

A few weeks ago, Carol Pavlik wrote in this paper about her attempt to adopt a cat, only to be thwarted by a woman sitting behind a desk who peppered her with stern questions. What was her policy on declawing? Did she have a vet? What would the cat be fed? She answered carefully and thoughtfully, because she had “nothing but good intentions for our hypothetical kitty!”

There’s no entrance exam for parenthood

Before we had children, my husband and I decided to adopt a cat.

We were in our early 20s, starting our jobs that we hoped would turn into careers, living in a sunny one-bedroom apartment. We had to download forms off the internet, fill them out, and take them to an office where a woman looked at us sternly from across her desk. She asked us if we had a vet.

A vet? No, we don’t have a vet. We don’t even have a pet.

Florida Man tales are hilarious — until they aren’t

If you’re looking for a chuckle some time, Google “Florida Man.” The laughable parade of ridiculous clowns is endless:

The Florida man who told police he couldn’t be arrested for drinking and driving because he only gulped his bourbon at stop signs.

The Florida man who stole a Walmart mobility scooter so he could drive his date to a sports bar.

The Florida man who fast-tracked an effective vaccine against Covid, but then told America to inject bleach into their veins instead.

Welcome to the Table

Last week, a group of dear college friends came to my house for fondue. Every few months, for the past 20-some years, we track each other down and have dinner together. Each time we gather, a new chapter is added to our ongoing stories: We’ve shrieked over engagement rings, attended each other’s weddings, compared swollen ankles during pregnancies. We’ve rocked each other’s babies and handed down clothing. We’ve helped each other move out of apartments and into houses. We’ve held each other at funerals and during divorces.

Learning to celebrate the worst day of your life

Sometimes you meet a guy who makes you rethink all the worst parts of your life, and makes you wonder how many curses may be blessings in disguise. Marcus Thomas is one of those guys.

When my friend Carol and I met him in early March, he told us he had just celebrated the 36th anniversary “of the day that put me in this chair.”

“Celebrated” might seem an unusual word to describe the accident that broke his neck, fractured his skull, and confined him to a wheelchair, permanently robbed of the ability to move any part of his body below the neck.

Pandemnesia: How will our memories smooth out the rough edges of these past two years?

It could be argued that, between the fact that my husband is a band director at a large high school and that all four of our children have either gone through or are going through the music department at the same high school, I have attended dozens —-maybe hundreds? —- of concerts.

I enjoy the concerts, but you could say that over the course of a couple decades, the novelty of attending these live performances has worn a bit thin.

But last week, I found myself in the school auditorium, sitting at the edge of my seat toward the front of the auditorium, waiting for my husband (and my son, who plays tuba), to take the stage for the winter band concert.

Debating the merits of angel-sparrow wrecking balls

My friend Carol has been spending a lot of time lately thinking of her childhood as a good Irish Catholic girl on Chicago’s South Side. It’s not that she’s questioning her faith or anything, or worrying if her soul’s ledger will end up in the debit or credit column. She’ll be fine in that regard.

No, it’s that when she talks to her 16-year-old granddaughter, she’s astounded at how Ella’s modern-day Catholic upbringing is so different from her own old-school Catholic upbringing.

Confessions of a Library Lover

My childhood library stood directly across the street from the church where my father was a minister. When I wasn’t helping Dad in the church folding bulletins, or sharpening the pencils in the pews, I was across the street, exploring our local library. I spent hours there. Each time I entered the front doors and heard the soft trickle of water coming from the fountain in the lobby, I felt as though I’d walked into a space just as sacred as the sanctuary across the street.

Drowning under a zero-tolerance wave

It started with an innocent question from a high school student: Why did the Washington Football Team have to change its name? The answer, it turns out — at least in the judgment of some— w as less than innocent.

Mary DeVoto, a Mother McAuley High School teacher of 41 years, was fired for violating a zero-tolerance rule of ever speaking a word that I assume I can’t print here for the same reason. (I won’t test that theory and put my editor in the uncomfortable position of deleting the word — or its writer — from this publication.)

Missing my Forest Retreat

When we bought a little teardrop camper in 2019, we had no idea how much we’d love it. And, much to our surprise, our winter camping outings became even more cherished than in the summer: something about the near-vacant campsites, the icy glare of the moonlight reflected in the snow. With fewer humans around, we became more intensely aware of the hooting of an owl, or the skitter of deer as they ran to a stand of trees.

By the winter of 2020, my husband and I developed a wintertime routine: precisely at 5:30 p.m.

2021! One more year! 2021! One more year!

In case you haven’t noticed, the lamestream progressive media are at it again, spreading their lies to make America un-great again. They’re trying to tell you that the great year of 2021 has come to an end, and that we have to welcome a new year in its place — 2022.

Don’t believe it! And fight like hell against anybody who would say otherwise. If you don’t fight like hell, there’s no telling how many other years the progressive Demon-crats will try to steal from us!

The tales an old turtle shell can tell

I have an old turtle shell, bleached white by the sun, that I found near a canal in Florida and now sits displayed on a shelf in my home. Larger than a football, it must once have been a whopping snapping turtle, the terror of the canal that could relieve you of a finger if you ever messed with it.

The shell is hard as cement, but at the top is a small crack, maybe an inch long. Embedded next to the crack is a round object almost the size of a dime.

THE DOORWAY TO OUR COMMUNITY

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