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When it happened I knew it would never be the same. We were not friends, just a group of older ladies who liked walking and hiking. We met once or twice a month and explored different areas together. Summer or winter, sunshine or snow, we enjoyed nature.
This beautiful sculpture called “Journeys” can be found in the entry area of the Stefanie Spielman House in Columbus, Ohio.
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That’s an easy one. My Dream Chocolate Bar is as light as a Milky Way that swims in milk. Of course, you only know that if you are my age because we can’t remember what we ate or wore yesterday, but we remember old lyrics and old commercials (not so sure if this is helpful).
Whenever it rained, I walked funny. I wore my rubber boots with pride. I liked to play in the ditch behind our farm where I caught tadpoles in spring. But when it rained, I clenched my toes inside my boots, in case a worm would accidentally find its way into my shoe. The logic of a child. My grandma let me walk funny, she knew I would grow out of it.
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Growing up in a small village in the mountains of Austria, I was raised Roman Catholic. We went to church on Sunday, because everyone else went to church. My grandma carved a cross on the back of every freshly baked bread loaf before she cut into it, and we bent our heads down before we ate, to either quietly say grace or give others the time to do so.
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I don’t know why I said it but I assume it has been on my mind and every year the voice inside me got louder. “I need to fix this!”
The election of the Pope begins tomorrow and Francis’ succession is still considered open. The choice of the name of a new pope is also eagerly awaited because the name says a lot about the agenda of the NEW ONE.
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Chocolate bunnies are as much a part of Easter as chocolate eggs but that was not always the case. In the past, the bunnies were made of sugar. I remember the red bunny, so shiny, sitting on the corner of the desk in my room.
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“What’s the name of that cow?” the little boy asked. He was a city kid. His parents had booked room and board for the summer at our farmhouse. Summer Vacation On A Farm –
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How did I become a pompous ass? I am not sure. I wasn’t raised to be arrogant, quite the opposite.