My aversion to spiders reared its head again this week.
As I’m made clear in this space before. I don’t like spiders. At all. Spiders are creepy looking and they spin creepy-looking webs. They are quiet and unpredictable. They’re sneaky and they show up where you least expect them. They are also used as objects of evil in horror movies.
I have spent the last few weeks trying to sell my car and buy a one, and I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that the way we buy and sell cars in this country is quite insane.
When I go to the meat department of the grocery store, the steaks I’d like to buy for dinner and clearly marked with a price. If I can afford the price, I buy the steaks and I have a delicious dinner. If I can’t afford it, I pick up a pound of ground beef and a box of Hamburger Helper and I have an adequate, if not delicious dinner.
It’s ten-thirty on Wednesday morning. My hands are shaking. I’ve been wiping away tears. The news people on TV keep talking about Alison Parker and Adam Ward, the reporter and photographer gunned down in Virginia.
I really have work I need to do. It’ll have to wait and my boss will have to understand. What I’m about to write isn’t for my bosses. It isn’t even really for you, my readers. This one is for me. I need to write it, maybe to make myself feel better, maybe to feel like someone is doing something. So bear with me.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Mrs. Hall, the best English teacher I ever had.
She taught me composition and grammar in high school, and I suppose she, technically, was my first editor. She was the first person to truly critique my writing, and I have no doubts that she made my writing better.
A friend whose daughter is interested in a career in journalism asked me recently what courses the young woman should concentrate on when she goes off to the University of Georgia this fall.
I had to think about that for a moment. There were some courses I was required to take that I’m not sure have been of much benefit to me over the years.
I used to hate it when my mother would make me sit at the dinner table until I finished eating my green beans or turnip greens or Brussels sprouts or whatever nasty thing she put on my plate.
But years later, I am thankful for one thing. As a result of being exposed to lot of kinds of foods, I am not a picky eater.
I couldn’t sleep the other night, so at a little after 3 in the blessed a.m., I turned on the TV.
Big mistake. I have 500 channels of TV, and I can barely find something to watch during prime time. The overnight hours are a vast wasteland, filled commercials for Snuggies and Pocket Fishermen.