Lifestyle

I was with a group of friends recently. We were chatting about life’s challenges. There was a discussion about someone near and dear to us who is going through times tougher than you would wish on your worst enemy. That’s a perplexing saying, yes? I do my darndest to not have enemies, to see situations from another’s point of view when possible or plausible. But, I guess it does illustrate a point. We did a little verbal dance within our circle. This person is going through this. This person is going through this other thing. We stopped mentioning names. It became more of a prayer activity. I’ve always felt like group prayer can get tricky. Amazing, yes. But, as humans, we are a curious bunch. We love crossing the line into gossip, you know, for the sake of the good. But, back to the altruistic moment. Someone said something that went a little like this, “People are broken, aren’t they. We are broken, aren’t we?” I hadn’t spoken for a long while, but suddenly, I felt emboldened with a tiny seed of motivation that began to take root. I thought of something that only someone who’s been around the hurting block could harvest from the recesses of the gut. I belted it out fast and purposefully. “We’re like glow sticks. We don’t work until you break us.” Everyone paused. “Oh, great,” I thought. “Look what you did, dummy. Now they know. You’re weird, what with your rambling thoughts and those odd nuggets of useless trivia you store up in your soul that fix nothing but bubble out at the worst moments.” But, the pause ended as quickly as it had started. A few people reached for their phones. “Say that again,” one friend demanded. “I want to write that down.” Sheepishly, I confessed that I was 78% sure it was either something I’d seen on Pinterest or read in Oprah’s magazine. We ended our get together and someone joked that they were going to embroider that saying onto tea towels or a pillowcase or some other such nonsense. As I drove home that day, I started thinking about many things: people in need, people in turmoil, people at the end of their respective ropes, and glow sticks. I thought long and hard about glow sticks.

B Dear Aunt B, What makes for happiness? Is happy too big of a goal? What am I missing? I just feel like happiness is too hard.

People, rather us, as we are people – the collective us, talk an awful lot about karma. Karma is given the identity of a woman, apparently, as “she” is oft referred to in this manner. Karma is a B word. Karma will come back to bite you. It is the revenge of the woman scorned. That, at least, is the American interpretation, though we tend to skew things to our advantage rather than use them as intended, to learn an important lesson or illustrate a point. Karma is Hindu. But, we’ve done a bang-up job of misappropriating “her” into western society. The above referenced quote has even been bastardized. It should read, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.” And, no, it is not from the Bible. Also, it was not written by Shakespeare. It’s from another British dude, William Congreve. He wrote a play, considered a brilliant tragedy, called The Mourning Bride. This all went down in 1697, over 80 years after The Bard bid the world a fond farewell. And, this ends your lesson on karma. Because, trust me on this – listen closely, karma is bull poop. You heard it here first. Wanna know why? Because, I strive to be a good person on the daily, but I am a lowly sinner. I have hurt more people than I care to acknowledge. I have messed up the unmessupable. I have sliced people with words sharper than knives. I have middle fingered those who were only trying to save me. I have been a good person. I have been an awful person. I have been everything in between. And yet, here I sit, still trying, still plugging along, still offering up my pitiful penances and still praying for redemption and a kinder heart. Karma did not come back to me. She has not bitten me, nor has she scorned me, nor has she taught me any promised, painful lessons. In fact, I sit here crying tears, eating parmesan crisps, and drinking hot tea, in awe of how kind of a place the world really is – at least to me.

Texas attains new records in March 2023 with the largest civilian labor force and greatest number of people employed in state history. The seasonally adjusted civilian labor force increased by 78,800 to reach a serieshigh 14,898,100 people, while the unemployment rate held steady at 4.0 percent. Texas added 28,600 positions to reach another series-high job count at 13,839,200 total nonfarm jobs. Since March 2022, 575,100 positions have been added.

“Jesus is on top of my ship. We are going to go to heaven,” says John, 5.

B

Pits come in a variety of size and location options. Famous pits immortalized on screens, the big ones and the television ones, include but are not limited to: the rabbit hole-ish pit Alice tumbled into catapulting her to Wonderland, the pit of horrors from Silence of the Lambs where Catherine is instructed to rub the lotion on the skin, the NASCAR pit from Talladega Nights where young Ricky Bobby gets his start in the racing world, and the boiler pit on Days of Our Lives circa 1992 where Stella trapped Dr. Marlena Evans for an entire summer, keeping her alive by feeding her vermin and making pitiful faces that can only be shown on soap operas cutting to a commercial break. Pits are never good. Hence, the expression, “This is the pits.” That should’ve been my first clue. After two months of pneumonia, I needed something to look forward to. In steps my husband. “Honey, we have that concert coming up. Did you forget? We booked a hotel and everything, right?” Ah, yes! Tickets to see the Kentucky poet himself, Tyler Childers. If you don’t know Tyler, you owe it to humanity to watch him sing on YouTube. Start out with “Shake the Frost.” Follow that with “Follow You to Virgie.” End with “Lovely Lady May.” You’re welcome. He’s part Bob Dylan with a big dose of coal miner, seasoned with a little Hank Sr. There’s a yodel and a yearning in his voice that will break your heart and give you hope at the same time. “Now I ain’t the toughest hickory that your axe has ever felt/But I’m a hickory just as well/Yeah I’m a hickory just the same/I came crashing through the forest /As you cut my roots away/And I fell a good long ways/For my lovely Lady May.” We’d had the tickets for months. My excitement started building. One evening, as we were discussing when we would check into our Irving hotel and where we might eat and all the fun we might have, my husband pulled up the digital tickets to proudly show me our amazing seats. That was glitch #1…. turns out we were in the pit.

When God tells us to be content, does that include being content with disgusting things?

The E! Terrell Entertainment Series concludes this year’s highly successful 20th anniversary concert season with the renowned Side Street Strutters at the Jamie Foxx Performing Arts Center at 7:30 pm on April 27th.

My middle son flew in (on a plane) to visit his brothers and me in Florida. As it was just me and the three boys (#testosterone), it fell to reason we’d want to do something both athletic and outdoorsy. Kayaking on a river seemed like a good fit.

And additionally, Kendall searched and found some photos of the original museum, located in the “ upstairs” of City Hall. The photos are as follow: (1) Sarah Pinson Harp speakmore ing to school children and the Grand Opening and including (2) Jamie Laywell, unidentified woman, unidentified man at microphone, Charles Whitaker, Weldon Bowen, Sarah Pin-son Harp, Mick Spellman, Don T. Cates — (3) & (4) Boy Scouts leading the Pledge to the Flag—(5) Sarah Harp, Mick Spellman, Don T. Cates.

“Ricky” Townsend was born in 1954 in Terrell, Texas, the closest hospital to the Townsend farm north of Terrell. Rick says he has stayed close to home ever since, because he never found a good reason to leave. His ancestors, the Townsend and Criswell families, were farmers in the Valley View and Briscoe Community areas, and many cousins from this “large family” still live our community.

This is a difficult time of year for me. The world starts to smell different around March. Things develop a heaviness, a staleness. Water turns brackish around me. Things darken. There is rot. It is my soul, you see, as if my body goes through a reverse awakening of sorts. “Oh, yeah,” says my heart to my stomach. “The season approacheth. This is when your only daughter died. This is your great declination time. Enjoy.” Inner me is snarky. This time always coincides with Easter, adding insult to injury. “Great,” I normally say to myself. “I can’t even appreciate the most joyous time of the year, The Resurrection. I am too miserable, in too much pain, and far too pathetic.” Yet, something has been drawing me out of the dark recesses of the corners lately. It’s a phenomenon whose origin I can only speculate upon. Time? That adage is rubbish. Time does not heal all wounds. Family? As much as I love them, really, truly love them in an almost painfully intense way, even my people don’t have this much power. Maybe the grandchildren do, but I digress. Outer me is snarky, too. Age? There is something to be said about wisdom and the straight up fear that surrounds knowledge of one’s own mortality on the back side of 50. Yet, the years are less of an inspiration and more of a thief, it seems. There’s only one thing that has this power. Jesus. I know. I know. I don’t talk straight out religion very often, despite appearing in the religion section. There are more knowledgeable writers in this very periodical who can quote the verses and give the meanings like human commentaries. But maybe it would be good to hear the praise of the depraved, the downtrodden, the one who feels the least deserving of all. Maybe that’s you, too.