As I sat thinking of the glory days ahead, my almost liberated brain alit upon an interesting idea…a stay-cation in which I would do only what I really wanted to do for seven consecutive days and nights.
(This bit of family humor by Patra Taylor appeared in the June 2010 issue of The Charleston Mercury.
Three months of freedom begins
The morning of the last day of the school year found me counting the minutes until the final bell rang in anticipation of that glorious moment when I…ah, I mean, Benn could finally herald in the long-awaited Season of Freedom, more commonly referred in to in these parts as summer. Arriving at Benn’s school an hour early (he asked me not to be late), I sat in my vehicle along the carpool route enjoying the light breeze flowing through my open windows with delicious thoughts of nearly three whole months of not being jarred out of bed by that annoying beeping of my alarm clock dancing through my head. I knew I won’t be able to de-program myself from waking up at the same early hour as I always do, but allowing my eyes to flutter open of their own accord is a whole lot easier on certain of my vital organs. Continue reading “Stay-cation results in journey of no return”
All these years later, I’m still a dreamer. I believe our dreams are who we really are. Every one of us is a little bit rock star, a little bit astronaut, and a little bit Stanley Cup winner.
[This appeared in the July 8, 2004 edition of the Charleston Mercury.]
These boots were made for walking
I was almost a ‘60s sensation.
In the summer of ’66, I decided to form an all-girl rock band, a cutting edge idea at the time, especially for a girl of 10. I figured a generation that welcomed the Beatles, the Animals and the Rolling Stones would also be receptive to a group of pre-pubescent, relatively talent-less rockers of another sort. I was clearly ahead of my time. Continue reading “Howling dogs make for sweet summer dreams”
I wondered silently if I’d remembered to take my Metamucil that morning, and if McDonald’s would do for our graduation dinner.
[As our son, Benn, was graduating kindergarten, my husband and I had no idea that one day he would be an enthusiastic agricultural student at Clemson University, racking up 4.0 averages during his first four semesters. And where did he get his love of farming? (Don’t look at me.) From Arnold Ziffel, of course.]
Green Acres is the Place to Be
As the dog days of summer overtake me, I like to reflect on the pleasant, yet unusual way my summer began – at a kindergarten graduation. Participating in the pomp and circumstance of five- and six-year-olds engaged in their last hurray of innocence is an activity enjoyed mainly by young, enthusiastic parents, and wise, seasoned grandparents. Continue reading “A game of Beat the Clock and a kiss goodnight”
More recently I realized that I had, in fact, constructed an enormous Rube Goldberg of self delusion regarding the exact number of years that have passed since my birth.
Here’s more family humor from one of the Charleston Mercury columnists, Patra Taylor.
Me! One of the beautiful people
I spent spring break in South Florida with the beautiful people.
At this point, the accomplished storyteller should be waxing poetic about the exploits of her college break (sadly, only one) spent in sunny Florida in order to move the storyline forward. While I would love to re-live those few short days on the beach in Fort Lauderdale, and embellish my memories enough to make them worth reading about, I fear pushing the rewind button on that coming-of-age period in my life would trigger enough specifics to flash the approximate date of that trip across my conscious mind causing me to be just one spontaneous subtraction problem away from inadvertently recalling my current age, rounded to the nearest year. I’m pretty good at math, so I’ve decided not to go there. Continue reading “Doing the funky chicken comes of age”
Mandatory science fairs and their evil spawn, science projects, are the scourge of parenthood brought on by the “Sputnik scare.” They should have been banned, like nuclear proliferation, at the end of the Cold War.
Here’s a bit of family humor by one of the Charleston Mercury columnists, Patra Taylor.
How many ant farms does it take?
It’s been weeks since Punxsutawney Phil poked his sleepy little head out of his burrow, spied something dark and ominous, and darted back to his comfy featherbed to wile away another six weeks of winter. Most people believe Phil was frightened by his own shadow. I have a different theory. Continue reading “Science fair draws cynical parents closer to nature”