The Misfit Christian — Click on the image to see the book at Amazon.com
Live Happily on Less — click image to see at Amazon.com
Grammar Despair — click image to see at Amazon.com
- Obedience Is Not a Virtue
- We Learn More from a Dead Leaf Than from Our Smart Phone
- How Do We Know What’s True?
- Wearing Masks — What Happens When We Do This?
- Trendy Phrases Lead to Shallow Talk
- Manipulating Numbers — It’s Really Easy
- We’re Not Turning into Zombies, Are We?
- What Is Freedom? And Are We Free?
- Whom Do We Trust?
- We Need Time to Think
This Woman Writes Facebook
Steve Henderson Fine Art Facebook
Monthly Archives: August 2010
Each week’s haul she bore to The Happy Friendly Place, which might have been more aptly named Dragon’s Lair, and trebled, quadrupled, and octupled the prices. For awhile this worked, and The Happy Friendly Place thrived.
Not having ever traveled to New York or Chicago, I don’t know if Metro-people talk to strangers — and I can understand a reluctance to do so — but in a small town, there is no such thing as a stranger. If a person is standing next to you and he’s reaching for an orange, well, then that’s reason enough to strike up a conversation. If he heads to the bananas next, then it’s time to discuss fruit salad recipes and swap diabetic relative stories.
Actually, I sympathized with the mechanic, faced with an apoplectic male whose sense of perogative equalled that of a British Lord (albeit one in a t-shirt and baseball cap) and an irritated woman the age and demeanor of his mother.
So this week’s funeral prodded me into translating talk into action as I dealt with the claims office for our shipping company concerning a painting that we had sent to Rive Gauche Galleries in Scottsdale, AZ. Quite fortunately, the painting arrived unscathed, probably because the frame around it took the hit from the tires that ran over the box and cracked the frame straight through.
In addition to our ability to make memorably embarrassing comments, we all manage to mangle the pronunciation of the English language to such a degree that outsiders assume that we are first generation Norwegians and Poles, as opposed to third.