Lifestyle

“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.

In a poll of several hundred experts, angel food cake was voted the preferred cuisine of heaven. Angel hair pasta came in second. But Angel Food Ice Cream kept showing up as a favorite from kids in Memphis, Tennessee. Is this some new flavor?

Water becomes the center of attention when the temperature climbs because of the cooling relief it can provide. Making a day of splashing through sprinklers, swimming laps in a pool or horsing around with friends at a waterpark is part of the summertime experience.

B Dear Aunt B, I have been betrayed. How do I let go? Sometimes I don’t even know what I am feeling. Am I angry, sad, or hurt? I have no idea how to even process or even know what I am really feeling. Please give me guidance.

B