Peace, be still
By Renae Brumbaugh
As I write this, I’m listening to the snap and sizzle of corn popping on my stove. Yep, the old-fashioned kind, not that yucky microwave stuff that leaves half the bag unpopped. And I’m trying to figure out what in the crunch I’m going to write about this week, since my article is due in about . . . two hours. Yeah. I could write about the new grass I just laid in my yard. Or about my son’s basketball team, which consists entirely of sixth graders, yet plays in a league of sixth, seventh and eighth graders, and how no matter who they play, they feel like they’re in the land of the giants.
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