Coffee is the best thing that has ever happened to me in the mornings. Some of you love tea the same way and so I grant you this right, also. In fact there is nothing we love that any other person has the right to declare wrong for us. Over the years I’ve seen battles waged against chocolate, eggs, red meat, and other products
I am especially in love with this article I found on the Houzz website. The ideas I love most are: 1.) Give an old quilt a new purpose; 2.) Display fall gourds the elegant way; and 3.) Paint your front door. Ideas one and two (Houzz’s 1 and 4) are especially easy and inexpensive. We all have an ancient quilt languishing in the hall closet or the basement storage area. The gourds can be purchased from the produce department of the local grocery store. Okay, Boomacious fans, hop to it!
Yesterday’s passing of Heavy D made me ponder that question. I fell in love with hip-hop because it’s hard not to love an art form that literally saved thousands of children. My early career saw the beginning of teen on teen murders for starter jackets and gym shoes. My students were the first to be killed in senseless gang initiation murders. Consequently, even those students who would never make it out of the ghetto could sing along with an art form that resonated and told stories of their lives.
The first 45 I ever bought was “Shop Around”, by the Miracles. “Who’s Lovin’ You” was on the reverse side. Since my father’s turntable was designed for 33 1/3’s, I had to buy the yellow plug that snapped into the middle of a forty-five to make it fit the
I conclude Black History Month with a salute to two women who have gone above and beyond their duty to help raise generations of girls through sports in the Chicagoland area. The first of these two women is Dorothy Dawson: former teacher, Dean and ssistant principal of Dunbar High School in Chicago. The second is Ms. Dorothy Gaters, Girls Basketball Coach at John Marshall High School, Chicago.
My 27 year-old daughter and I had a ball laughing at how my generation had to use manual typewriters for our high school and college term papers. I thrilled her with stories of hundreds of balled up papers tossed on the floor near the trashcan. These papers boasted mistakes, lumpy whited-out corrections, and strikeovers warranting me to have to start all over again. I described all-night typing sessions, pumped up on “No Doze”, while I slaved over a paper that was due the next morning.