A loud crash was the noise I would have expected to hear, but only some cracking and popping and large thump interrupted my preparations for a lunchtime date with my husband last Saturday. However, the outside noise did compete with Jimmy Buffet’s songs emanating from the stereo. The prospects of Margaritaville, or at least a Cheeseburger in Paradise, had motivated my morning housework. Cranking the music also kept the roar of winter winds, a sound that wears on my soul, from breaking my weekend mood. My intentional blissful ignorance of the winds did nothing, however, to stop their destruction.

Kudos to Gov. Tim Kaine and the General Assembly for passing and signing legislation requiring the General Assembly to give consent to any tolls that would be placed on the Interstate 81 corridor.
According to a press release from the governor’s office, every lawmaker along the I-81 corridor voted in favor of the bill sponsored by Delegate Todd Gilbert and Sens. Mark Obenshain and John Edwards.
The legislation comes as the Virginia Department of Transportation is looking to widen the road to the tune of $11 billion. The plan to expand the highway’s capacity, funded by tolls on commuters and tractor-trailer rigs, has been rightly criticized for the past six years.

Although it was only a few years ago, when my maternal grandmother died, she was almost 100 years old. While I would not call her a prude, she was very much a woman of her day. There were things that no one should speak of, one of which was sex. All discussion of the subject was off limits, particularly in church.

Crocuses are starting to bloom. I am seeing more robins every day. And the one sure sign that spring is here (or almost), baseball has begun spring-training. Hallelujah!

It’s an emotional issue that must not be dealt with emotionally.
Good luck with that.

I never knew the old fellow. He died before I came to Marion, maybe even before I came to be. He was not a member of my family, but my wife’s family. Still, I feel a kinship with him and an admiration for him. I have seen his fuzzy photograph. Most photographs were fuzzy in the ‘50s. Still, in this photo he looks kind and gentle, the quintessential grandfather. My wife says she remembers him walking to church, slowly, methodically with great dignity and intention. He was always there and never late. No one knew why he came.

Candles flickered across the altar, at times their flames seemingly imbued by the prayers they symbolized. About 20 voices united in ecumenical prayer that on this cold Lenten night was voiced in music.

I could not help but notice the contrast. Within the same newspaper appeared two different stories concerning women.

I found an article in Thursday’s paper interesting. I was reading the Bristol Herald Courier, the daily sister to the Smyth County News & Messenger, when I read a piece about “lost towns” as the article referred to them. These are communities that were once bustling small, rural towns and now either no longer exist or are hardly more than a wide spot in the road.

As is customarily the case during the harshness of the cold winter months, as of lately, I have been battling more than my share of sinus infections and colds.  Whenever I am sick, I cannot help but think of my late great-great-aunt Hazel.  Hazel fretted incessantly every time anyone in the family was the slightest bit under the weather.  If you sneezed once, she would fill you full of Benadryl.  If your stomach was the slightest bit upset, she would force you to take Pepto Bismol, as my mother will tell you.  She didn’t exclude herself from the equation either.