Opinion
I told myself I wouldn’t write this column, but Angela just won’t let go, nor would I wish it so. This is for all who mourn Angelas of their own:
As losses go, this isn't a big one. I shouldn't even care. Still, I'm sad about it. It's hard to accept that the best jeans in my closet – and possibly the world – are on their last threads.
In the last century, a boy tried to impress me with his vocabulary. He thought I would fall in love with him by trying to intrigue me through intelligence. In the late 1970s, while other boys were playing sports, helping on the farm, and cruising the square. He was sitting at home, memorizing three new words each day. I have no idea how long it would take him to get through a Webster’s Dictionary. Nonetheless, he tried this method for at least a year.
I'm lucky that my first professional writing job was in a newsroom because it taught me something important: You don't need a perfect environment to get work done. You don't need silence, an organized room, a particular candle, or a big chunk of time.
Recently, I took my two youngest grandchildren to the jump park at the Battlefield Mall.
Good news, armchair critics: Young people can still write compelling and coherent prose and poetry with exceptional candor and grammatical skill.
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