It was a headline that caught my eye. “Where should vote centers be?” it read. And beneath in smaller print, this: “Parties agree on several locations, others still up in

What a deal that was. Graduating a kid from college is not nothing. It’s not, especially when it’s your first buckaroo. And when First Buckaroo is the first of a

“We need to coffee again. And yes. That’s a verb.” Such was the note that I slipped to a friend the other day. I know where Mr. Webster put it.

On a bright and sunny Sunday, it happened. There we were, sitting up in the bleachers. And there they came, a line of black-robed, tasseled graduates processing into the gym.

Driving along on the way to church, he chirps it from his throne behind Daddy. “My teacher was happy at me.” It’s the Cheerful Little Cricket, our newest scholar who

It reads like a novel. Some days, a tragedy; others, a comedy, but always a volatile plot line. A friend, observing the action, said, “You should make a sitcom about

It was the second time through that did it. I’d found it once already, counted it up and gave it back. A day or two later, kneeling on the rug

I could scarcely believe it. Why, it was hardly American, not to love it like that. To skip it right over, to pass it right up. To go for the

For months, it had nestled there in the pocket on the back. Upstairs and down, wherever The Girl went, it had gone as well. To the back room, doing laundry.

Sitting in the back of the room, I heard her say it. “Criss cross. On your bottoms!” It was Little Schrock’s pretty, blonde and cheerful teacher. Settling into the now-familiar