A Tosa resident since 1991, Christine walks the dog, cooks but avoids housework, writes and reads, and enjoys the company of friends and strangers. Her job takes her around the state, learning about people's health. A Quaker (no, they don't wear blue hats or sell oatmeal or motor oil), she has been known to stand on both sides of the political and philosophic fence at the same time, which is very uncomfortable when you think about it. She writes about pretty much whatever stops in to visit her busy mind at the moment. One reader described her as "incredibly opinionated but not judgmental." That sounds like a good thing to strive for!
Happy Independence Day—whatever that means to you. Because when it comes to history, there’s what we know to be true, what we think to be true, and what we or someone else has invented to support what we wish to be true.
I stopped at Stone Creek on Bluemound for a sinful cup of indulgence, at least in this economy. But sometimes you just have to blow a couple bucks, not only for the sacramental beverage of my people, but for the sense of connection.
Sometimes I run into my neighbors the sudoku-mad-pharmacists bent over the paper or absorbed in conversation with each other. I like them very much. We only exchange occasional small talk, but Sheila fills my prescriptions: she knows a lot about me.
When you get bad news and the shoulder shrug, well, sure, it’s “the economy.” It's also something more. Barring natural disasters, flood and drought and the like, “just the economy” is often an excuse that lets someone—an individual or a corporate body—off the hook.
I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. It's been almost four months since she died, but I find myself thinking about her more, not less.
If I hadn't been thinking about her, I'd have started when her nursing school graduation picture thudded to the floor from its resting place in the closet. It was night time, and I ran to see what had fallen in my room. And there was Mom, in her white cap, youthful beauty, and steady gaze, looking up at me from the floor outside the closet.
The few critics who admit to liking Mamma Mia! the movie—despite their better judgment-- usually try to protect their snark cred. You know the slap-stroke routine: “Clever and well done - in a cringey, cheesey, bizarre way. Now, where did I put my HRT?” (HRT, for those of you who don’t know, is hormone replacement therapy, the bane or blessing of middle aged women.)