By Margaret Evans, Editor

I was Facebooking with a friend the other day about a phenomenal concert we’d both seen the night before – a performance by the Clover Choraliers, an award-winning high school choir from the upstate – and she mentioned that their first number had brought her to tears.

            “It brought me to tears, too,” I responded. “And I remained there.”

I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching lately; trying to figure out how to raise children in challenging times. The way I remember it, growing up was so much simpler than it is today. And with every generation that ticks by, we lose even more of an appreciation for the smaller, quieter things in life. To me, innocence is becoming as fleeting and as fine as the white blur of the blown dandelion weed.

By Margaret Evans, Editor

Recently, I was lying in bed at 3:40 am – never a great time to be awake – thinking about the column I had to write later that day. When you’ve been penning columns for 15 years, like me, you sometimes approach them with a degree of weariness. (Been there, said that, and who cares, anyway?) If you’re also approaching deadline, that weariness can be tinged with panic. Weary panic is an unpleasant sensation.