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Be kind to each other, people. There’s still plenty of goodness and beauty in this world. And a smile goes a long way.
The early weeks spent in my community garden spot were pure toil: digging, seeding, watering, weeding. And waiting.
Every now and then weeding can be gratifying, like cleaning out a closet or clearing a desktop, akin to finding order amid chaos. I suspected that my first dive back into my new garden plot might be like that; after all, I’d have to transform what had become a jungle-in-the-making into framed rows of clean dirt. I needed a bold game plan.
I had all things Floret Farm on my mind when I set out to find the landing for my gardening comeback. I started thinking about joining a community garden – a commitment that would test my professed love of planting and sowing beyond the footprint of my own living space. I explored neighborhoods and asked questions and learned, above all, that there was a shortage of available space but no lack of gardeners-in-waiting. I missed out on openings that first growing season and started to suspect the same result this year. Then I got the call.
I kept up a garden of some sort at each of our several houses while the kids were still around. More than fifteen seasons of abundance. Over time though I grew weary of the constant weeding and the passing off of bountiful harvests of zucchinis, tomatoes and the like to friends, neighbors and colleagues, to the point when gardening became a chore. It was time for the white flag.
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Navy pilots call it the helicopter dunker.
In what mimics a nighttime water crash, the pilots are strapped into a seat, blinded by opaque goggles, submerged and flipped over in a tank of water. They must free themselves from the seat, find the closed window on a mock wall and push their way out to safety.
Walter McMillian had already been sitting on death row for more than a year when Bryan Stevenson walked into his life. He’d landed there even before he was tried, convicted and sentenced to death for the 1986 murder of an 18-year-old white woman in Monroeville, Alabama.
Alicia Hart can tell you more about the brain than you may ever care to know. For the past six years, she has traveled from the frontal lobe around and back again, learning how information is processed, where sequencing and problem-solving occur, and how fear originates, all in an effort to see the world through the eyes of her seven-year-old autistic son, Ewan. The maternal instincts that guided through her older daughter’s formative years – the ability to anticipate fear, for example – were useless when it came to Ewan.
Conservatives rolled out the welcome mat for business when they took control of state government, making clear that unleashing companies from regulatory burdens ranked at the top of their agenda. “The reason I’m running for governor is to represent business,” then Charlotte mayor and longtime Duke Energy employee Pat McCrory told a group from the Council of Independent Business Owners during a 2012 campaign stop in downtown Asheville.
Note • Worthy
I kept up a garden of some sort at each of our several houses while the kids were still around. More than fifteen seasons of abundance. Over time though I grew weary of the constant weeding and the passing off of bountiful harvests of zucchinis, tomatoes and the like to friends, neighbors and colleagues, to the point when gardening became a chore. It was time for the white flag.
Life is rich. My husband Kurt Peters says that often. He’s a sunny-side-of-the-street kind of guy, the Tigger to my Piglet. But I can’t think of an expression that for me sums up 2018 any better.
Over the years the dogs had taught me so much. How a walk can show us the world. How sometimes just showing up is all that matters, and sitting quietly by can give the best comfort. How a simple smile could change a day, and a life. And how messy a life could really be. Now Wojo was giving me one last lesson: how to let go.