It’s a date. Or four.

 

By Kathleen Thomas Gaspar

Just about the time my own children began blessing me with grandchildren, a peculiar thing started happening in my pre-frontal lobe.

The pre-frontal lobe, dear readers, is the brain’s very own file cabinet for short-term memory. I know because I Googled (or, more precisely, Binged) it on line. And just because I am at this moment in time explaining the pre-frontal lobe and its critical role in our ability to remember facts and figures doesn’t mean the information will still be with me 24 hours from now.

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Love is in the air

By Kathleen Thomas Gaspar

Had I not seen them with my own eyes, I might be inclined to doubt they’re here already. But just so you know, during Saturday’s early morning stroll with Kizzy (translation: she was in such a hurry to get to the open field that the only part of her feet making contact with the ground were her toenails, and I was being pulled in her wake), I am pretty darn sure I saw a robin fly from my neighbor’s yard into his tree.

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This not just in, and no film at 11

By Kathleen Thomas Gaspar

Not everyone is blessed with a job that’s also a passion, a gift and a need. But I take no undue satisfaction in the fact that I was born to observe and take notes and ultimately cover the news.

Heck no. In fact, there have been times when I wished I knew how to do something, anything, else. Those times have almost always coincided with horrendous deadlines and stunning lack of both advertising revenue and copy inches.

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This is my story, this is my song

By Kathleen Thomas Gaspar

Unlike, say, global warming or the height of the fiscal cliff, my singing has never been the subject of debate.

OK. Maybe there were a few times when I warbled to someone’s approval. I remember that my father liked my early childhood renditions of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and “This Old Man,” the latter with its catchy refrain of “knick knack paddy-whack, give the dog a bone.” And there was one moment of aural glory in fifth grade when Mrs. Goldsberry had me sing the first verse of “Kookaburra” a cappella in front of the entire music class and then surprised the daylights out of everyone by saying, “Very nice.”

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Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

 

By Kathleen Thomas Gaspar

Back when I thought 50 was old, which was the year I turned 50, I began what is now a longstanding tradition of making New Year’s Resolutions for self-betterment.

Like several billion other inhabitants of Planet Earth, I made some boring and quickly abandoned promises like losing five (to seven) pounds by Valentine’s Day or reading at least three of the classics by the end of the year. And, like my billions of counterparts, I never did lose the weight, which clings contentedly to my thighs and rear end. Nor did I crack Jane Eyre. Or Little Women. Or anything by Henry James. For those omissions alone in certain circles I deserve a disdainful sniff.

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Silent night, holy night

 

Surely there is one person on this earth with words to comfort the shattered hearts and quiet the anguished cries of this nation. Surely the heartless clamor and senseless drumbeat of political blame will cease, and the families of murdered children and teachers will be given back the very breath that was ripped from them.

Surely. Dear God, I pray You send a messenger of healing and hope. Dear God. My God. I pray the souls rest with You. Amen.

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