You’re driving down the road, and that song comes on the radio that forces your hand to reach for the volume knob.
Several years ago, after hunting deer with my father from dawn until dusk in a cold November Wisconsin drizzle, Dad and I returned right at sunset to the screened porch of the cottage to swap our guns for fishing rods. Without even going inside, we joined my brother and a few other men and walked the mile or so to the Petenwell Flowage, where we set up on the beach to fish for walleye through the night.
There are just some things you don’t talk about with the neighbors.
According to The American Journal of Medicine, researchers in Mississippi (the state, not the river) have found that if you order chicken nuggets at a certain national food chain, you have less than a 50-50 chance of getting actual chicken meat to dip in your honey-mustard sauce.
Some years back, at a school where I used to teach, I took part in a group that looked at how hard it was for kids to read some of the stuff we asked them to read.
As I watched a fat bumble bee nuzzle over the hollyhocks this morning, I thought of Emil Skampa, our next-door neighbor more than 50 years ago. I think of Mr. Skampa almost every time I see a bumble bee, thanks to that long-ago lesson in the cinder alley behind his garage.
I was reading a book this morning – one of those novels with a “life is short” message – when my cellphone made that little “whip-dunk” sound to announce a text message was coming in.
On a summertime trip to a cabin in northern Wisconsin many years ago, we kids convinced Mom and Dad to take us out to a roadside diner one evening, where we could get real burgers and fries prepared by real burger-and-fry cookers. It wasn’t that we had any problems with Mom’s cooking, but somehow the grease always tastes better when you’re eating it out. Mom agreed – she was never one to turn down a night off from the stove if the finances would allow it – so off we went.
I suppose today you’d be considered a bad parent – maybe even a criminal – if you let your 12-year-old son hop into a leaky rowboat on a rustic lake and oar his way out of sight right at daybreak, knowing you wouldn’t see him again until suppertime.
A few years ago, my wife and I debated the merits of having a swimming pool in the backyard. We made a list of pros and cons, and the con side won out.
There are a lot of birds that can swim, but the bald eagle isn’t supposed to be one of them.
Our granddaughter Johannah was over at the house the other night, and she wanted to bake a recipe for her high school Spanish class. After checking to make sure we had all the ingredients, she was ready to rock and roll.
My daughter had to go to St. Louis this week for a business trip, so she asked if I would mind watching her little dog, Diva.
Peer pressure is a harsh, forbidding landscape for a teenager to navigate. I know. I’ve been there.
I was watching a Justin Timberlake special on TV a few weeks ago, and as that amazingly talented young man sang, danced and smiled his way across the stage, I said to myself, “You know, if I ever switched teams, Justin Timberlake would be my first choice.”
After an extensive scientific study spanning an entire six-pack, I have come to an important linguistic discovery:
Look, I like breakfast as much as the next guy, but that’s the last time I spend a hundred bucks on a stack of flapjacks.
As a ham-handed guitarist with a voice even a mother would disown, I have butchered more than my share of Irish pub songs.
My wife and I went to lunch last week with a group of people, and one of them was a charming young lady named Africa, although she was actually from Venezuela.
It’s a simple question, so it shouldn’t be hard to answer: How happy are you?