I’m sitting at a red light on Ribaut, listening to two women on NPR discuss President Trump's recent meeting with Congress, which, according to them, has gone awry in typical Trumpian fashion. The NPR women are speaking in quiet, respectful tones and I’m listening closely and diligently – because I care! – when all of a sudden I hear (and actually feel) some loud, familiar music coming up behind me.
I remember sitting in a Queen Anne chair, having a cup of Nescafé coffee, and looking out of my hotel window in Luxembourg City. From the sixth floor of the Grand Hotel Cravat, looking down on Constitution Square, the view is in direct alignment with the Monument of Remembrance, a war memorial to the citizens of Luxembourg who volunteered to fight in both World Wars and Korea.
Although, I am not sure what this phrase even means.
I have never raised one so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I do know it has something to do with dirt, snails, and pulled puppy dog tails. Later, I know because I have carpooled lots and lots them, come fumes of Axe odor masking body spray that doesn’t hide the body odor but makes you roll the window down even in the pouring rain.
The Friday following Good Friday was a very bad Friday for my family.
It started off ho-hum enough, then I got a mid-morning phone call from my sister in Charleston, who’d just had a phone call from my sister in Alabama, saying, “Dad’s collapsed. He’s on his way to the hospital! There’s no pulse and he’s not breathing!”
It’s prom night at Beaufort High, and I’m down in Waterfront Park at the Great Parental Prom Pic Preening. Okay, I just made up that name, but the annual gathering is very real, and it’s something to behold – hundreds of teenagers swanning around the seawall in dazzling finery as their parents snap away and the early evening sun spits fire off the river.