Seasons change and so do people and the circumstances we live. Some things are conscious choices but most changes “just happen.” It’s how we deal with them that makes all the difference.
This month I stand at a crossroads. It looks minor but one never knows what a big difference a small choice can make. I have decided to stop my column, “Short Takes on Life,” that has run in the newspaper for about two and a half years. I told the editor a couple of weeks ago that April 28th will be the last entry.
Will I still be able to say I am a newspaper columnist? She invited me to come back anytime so I suppose I can continue to think of myself as such, at least for a while. I remember I once took a ten-year hiatus.
I’ve determined to put a bookmark here. When I do that with a book, it usually means I intend to come back to the place soon. Experience has taught me I will sometimes, in the midst of a cleaning frenzy before company walks in, slide the book back on the shelf and forget all about it.
One never knows what a rainy day might uncover.
I love the way Robert Frost expressed these thoughts in “The Road Not Taken”:
|I shall be telling this with a sigh|
|Somewhere ages and ages hence:|
|Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—|
|I took the one less traveled by,|
|And that has made all the difference.|
I can leave comments on other WordPress blogs; why not this one?
All comments on here are “subject to Moderator approval.” That’s me! Sometimes it may take me a few hours to receive/see/authorize your comments. I appreciate all interaction with the readers.
Janet, I think I am actually going to be able to leave a comment afterall! Yea. OK, since I am here I will tell you my frog story here. Apologizing in advance because I know I will be too wordy! Several summers ago Tom and I drove over into the pasture. While walking around we found a small toad frog. I picked it up intending to bring it back to the house and put into the garden. It was wiggly and wetting on me so I put it inside a small white paper bag that was in the floorboard of the pickup. It would hop against the sack and make a funny little noise. I began to realize that it was hopping and squeaky/sqawkying whenever I would speak. We thought that was kind of funny. When we got back to the house I very carefully opened the bag at ground level so he could make a new home near whatever bugs needed catching. The garden was full of vegetation so he disappeared in no time. A little while later Tom and I walked back out to the garden. That little guy recognized my voice because when I spoke we both heard the little feller cry out again, somewhere in the garden!