“Dear Mr. Schrock.” That’s how they always began. Written by me, beleaguered housewife and mother of his children, it was my SOS, a twenty-first century smoke signal to The Mister

It was shocking. There they were, the elite cyclists in the racing world, climbing one of the Pyrenees Mountains in the Tour de France. Demonstrating incredible strength and conditioning, they

It pained me to see it. Driving along, the signs were stark, sobering. Past lawns, dry and brown. Past fields of corn, leaves curled and brittle. Past homesteads and farms

It had taken a crowbar to do it.  That, and Mr. Schrock’s famous limb, the Left Leg of Leverage, to fit us all into the truck. The holiday had come.

Like a bolt of lightning flung from the heavens, he dropped it in my lap. “I’d like a sister,” he said, peering meaningfully at me. I think I croaked. I

If there were an encyclopedic set entitled “Great Mysteries of Modern Life,” this one would fill an entire volume of its own. It ranks right up there with “Where Do

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.  They’re always jumping, ever grazing, and seldom sleeping. Yup, it’s summertime and the kids are home.  Somewhere, tired teachers are on their