It’s been a while since I participated in an “official” spring break and took the requisite trip to Florida to hang out with friends, get rowdy and party till the sun came up. The very thought of doing that now exhausts me and is a reminder that I might be approaching the autumn of my years, which is a bit unnerving too.
In My Humble Opinion
For those of you who work with someone of the Jewish faith, it might appear as though there is a holiday every other month, and you wouldn’t be far off the mark.
While I write about my family fairly often, there are a few who would not mind me leaving them out of the equation publicly and I have deferred, with respect to their privacy.
“Your home will always be the place for which you feel the deepest affection, no matter where you are.” So says the Internet, when asked about the age-old proverb—and I suppose it’s true. While I have lived in (and loved) a variety of locales, I have a deep affection for my childhood home, which I had the opportunity to see last week.
Ever since Dharma the Wonder Dog came into my life, I’ve toyed with the notion of writing a book about her, using the title employed above. Although that book has yet to be written, it never occurred to me that it would begin with a chapter filled with drama like the last two weeks have provided.
No, not me. This time it’s my actual dog (www.Facebook.com/DharmaTheWonderDog) and she has been really, really sick. A couple of weeks ago, Dharma woke up somewhat lethargic, and for the first time ever, she was not anxious to jump out of bed and start her day romping through the woods.
Between the howling winds, trees coming down, power outages and a tornado or two, March definitely roared into town. Whether it goes out with a whimper is yet to be determined, but as last week’s storms raged through the Upper Delaware River region, I hunkered down with the Wonder Dog amending my schedule as sirens wailed outside.
There are many of us who still wince upon hearing those words that most would agree were written in poor taste, and others who will literally guffaw in response to the expression that has been bandied about for an undetermined number of years.
Even though my pickup is still in the shop, I’ve managed to get by—with a little help from my friends. Mother Nature has been more than kind over the last week, and the early signs of spring in the air combined with temporary wheels found me hitting the road once again, in search of both arts and leisure.
At the risk of being presumptuous, I’m going to assume that parents still read to their kids. At least, I hope so. My mother read to both my sister and me and instilled in us a great love of literature from a tender age—something that we both cherish as adults. To the best of my recollection, E.B.