Today we return to the ditch we visited last week with several suggestions from my readers about what to call it. The one that sounds the most like what I might have called it back in the days of my life where its treasure first appeared was “crick.” 

Lexington Willow is not her real name, but nobody knows what her real name is. The school kids taunt her by calling her “Elephant Girl,” but that is not who she is either. 

For me, one the attractions of our new home after we moved out into the country has been the little stream running between the two houses on our “compound.” 

To tell the truth, I debated with myself about whether this was the time for a review of a book like this.

I could have answered the editor’s question about the lilies in my story for Cricket Magazine without consulting an expert, but I knew he wanted an authority. 

A rather weird phenomenon has shown up in this Coronavirus atmosphere. In conversations with book-loving friends, several have mentioned something I had noticed in myself. 

You won’t find the event on any holiday-marking calendar you pick up, but since my blogging day falls on May 1, I feel it’s necessary to mark an event from this day in 1937’s history.

In a time long ago and a place fairly far away, I was a senior in high school. I begin in this manner in accordance with warnings about giving away dates and places that will help hackers steal your identity. 

Emily Blejwas jumps right into the title of her book, Like Nothing Amazing Ever Happened, with a TPing, (which seems an important thing to read about right now!) 

As far as I can tell, Peanut thinks he’s the appointed guard for the Butler-Taylor Spread. From his perch in the tree, he can spot an invader to our eight acres with those big chartreuse eyes. 

Not quite ten years ago, Deborah Wiles promoted Countdown and Revolution, the first two books of her historical trilogy, at the Fay B. Kaigler Book Festival at the University of Southern Mississippi. She alluded to her not-yet-written third and final book of the series to take place during the Viet Nam Conflict.

Aunt Ruth left peacefully to meet her maker during her sleep early in this coronavirus pandemic. Like many other families, we have postponed our time together to share our stories, our memories, and our grief. In the meantime, writing them helps as I look at a wish fulfilled.

The March 2020 issue of Smithsonian magazine took me back in time with its article on Gene Stratton-Porter in “The Legend of the Limberlost.” 

This is poetry month, and most of us have more time to observe it than usual. I have always taken the designation as an excuse to read extra poetry. This year with the extra time, I’m trying my hand at writing some. 

Shock and grief hit the world of children’s book readers and writers this week in the death of Tomie de Paola. The lovable little guy became a literary giant among children, teachers, and writers. 

Spring triggered curiosity with seven-year-old Benjamin as he turned over a rotten log and discovered a slug. He brought the animal to show me on his open palm and introduced the animal as “Slimy.”

On her recent visit, my sister Ruth recommended a compelling book she was reading on the plane. Then she went further and sent it to me when she got home! 

CDC, WHO, and the media have brought on a turning of the tables by our youngest son, aided and abetted by our DIL, who live next door. Al and I are grounded in the pictured place until further notice. 

One of the disappointing losses with the cancelling of the Fay B. Kaigler Book Festival was the visit by this year’s USM Medallion award winner for her body of work, Rita Williams-Garcia. 

What began as an adjustment for our voting place turned into an adventure on March 10.