It was sometime in the 1960s or perhaps even the early 1970s. We could possibly even narrow it down a bit more than that . . . let’s say the mid-60s to early 70s. There had been a murder . . .
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
Carl Jeter had walked out on the deck of his house to survey the flood waters of the Guadalupe River—and to be certain the level was no longer rising.
It was bedtime in the Guinn household and six-year-old Malcolm had decided tonight was the night to declare his independence.
They had been married almost 25 years when Death suddenly took him. Twenty-five years of traveling around the country with his work. Twenty-five years of adventures and building their family and finally settling into a place they believed they could call their forever home.
It was quietly hiding in the chaos that was once a well-organized, barn-shaped workshop/storage building, one now filled with all the things no one needed but with which they couldn’t bring themselves to part.
Do you remember when new vehicles didn’t come with on-board navigation systems and if you wanted one you had to buy something like a Garmin or a Magellan or some other brand that would talk you through your trip?
Recently I found myself playing a rousing game of “Chutes and Ladders” with my grandson and his mom (my daughter)—a game I soon realized I was destined to lose.
Facebook is like the double-edged sword of social media. On the one hand, it can be the spreader of good news . . . But it also serves as the bearer of all that is bad.
