 Forgive me if I return to the topic of death. It’s not a usual theme of this blog, but this week I lost yet another friend to a brain tumor, and my husband was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism. Thirty per cent of people with PE die in the first few hours; he went for days before we realized that was what was going on. We are very grateful to God for his mercy. My husband will be on rat poison (Warfarin®) for months while we pray that the massive clot in his leg will dissolve without further pieces breaking off and moving to his heart, brain or lungs.
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 I come from a musical family. My mother used to say in her family the only excuse for not doing supper dishes was practicing your musical instrument. My grandmother did a lot of dishes as my mother and siblings found themselves strongly motivated to practice after dinner.  The Olympics are coming! My first remembered Olympics were Innsbruck in 1968 when Peggy Fleming charmed the world with her skating and that hunk Jean Claude Killy walked off with all the skiing medals. While cleaning out the attic last summer, I came upon a folder of clippings, including some from Paris Match. (Subscribing to the magazine was a requirement of my high school French class.) Most went in the recycling, even those pictures of Killy. But a couple of Peggy in her chartreuse dress went on the inside of my supply cupboard door along with the one of Todd Eldredge and me the day he visited Special Olympics in Indy.
 I discovered this week that I have neglected to blog about my own book! Here I have written about other books I have read, encouraging you to read Robin Jones Gunn, Chimamanda Adiche and Stephen King, and not even suggested you click on my latest in the column on the right. I’m not sure if it is because of my tremendous humility or simply marketing incompetence. (Most likely it is a result of having talked about the book on Facebook until I was afraid of boring people into indifference.) |