Columns

It might be time to give our friends across the ocean a break. True, they are pretty easy targets with all their assorted goings-on but as my neighbor Maddie says, don’t be so judgy. The French elect a man to lead the country and then almost immediately the streets are filled with people marauding and rioting and toting libelous placards in protest against him. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Greeks can’t balance a budget. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Brits can’t decide if they want to play and share well with others. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Russians, well the Russians are crazy from the head cuckoo bird Putin right down to the poorest, meanest peasant. They can’t even kill their enemies in a civilized manner. Poor Alexei Navalny was poisoned with a particularly nasty agent. When that failed to silence him, Putin put him in prison. Navalny went on a hunger strike in protest of not being able to consult the physicians he wants to oversee his care. That is obviously not crazy and something all of us can relate to. Even without the poison.

Years ago, Patrick McManus lamented that he had never had a dog he could be proud of. Me, too. Having spent a portion of my youth watching “Lassie” I yearned for a smart dog like that. In hindsight, of course, it’s fairly evident it wasn’t that Lassie was so blindingly brilliant. It’s that Timmy was terminally clumsy at best and a total moron at worst. Seriously, how many wells can a ten-year-old fall down? After the sixth or seventh one, wouldn’t a reasonably observant kid start looking out for them? Or at least not strike out over the fields without pitons and crampons and other-ons so he could climb out sans benefit chien? Apparently not. Lassie, whose magnificent ruff remained suspiciously spotless and unmatted while digging dirt and pulling ropes and parting the waters, was on call 24/7 to rescue hapless Timmy. That’s just the kind of dog he was. (Yes, in quite a blow to female empowerment everywhere, Lassie was a he.)

Wednesday was one of those days. It was after supper, the children had gone outside to play, and Joshua was extra fussy. This handsome little boy with bright blue eyes, a pet by all, was having a rough day with teething. Wearily, I glanced across the messy house, wondering just how much management I had left.

Editor’s Note: Gloria’s husband, Daniel, is writing the column this week, Gloria will return next week!

The flowery May, who

Amerigo Vespucci probably would be amazed if he knew what “American” means today.

A gentle spring rain is a wonderful gift. Warm , nurturing—a good thing.

By Chris Piper

Editor’s note: This is a two-part column from Gloria chronicling and celebrating the adoption of Jesse, age 3, and Hosanna, 4.

Take a moment to get the picture: it’s Wednesday evening of the big day — the final adoption of our precious foster children. Hosanna, age 4, flitting here and there through the group of family and friends, gathering for the celebration party at Daniel’s shop. I took a moment to observe her holding Julia’s hand, both wearing their new lavender dresses. Yes, they are sisters forever. Then there was Jesse, age 3, in a lavender shirt and blue pants, matching Elijah, who is only four months younger. The most awaited day has come. As of this morning, we are a forever family.