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Well, we are putting our feet back into the home selling pool.

HHBL and I have been thinking about it for a while now. Contemplating the timing. Girding our loins for the fight. Steeling ourselves for the inconvenience and emotional toll that selling a home takes out on all who participate in the ritual. At least on the sellers side.

There were a number of things on the “realtor would like you to do this” list that we hadn’t gotten to the last time that Chez Knit was on the market. Those things are now done. Darn it the shutters really do look nice. In the last 18 months or so we have continued to clean out and pair down. Everything is clean and picked up and in place. Heck even the unfinished side of the basement is clean. Of course, if you know me at all then you aren’t surprised at this.

It is often said that a man’s job defines him. I am not sure if that is totally true but I do think that a woman’s home, or at least what people think and say about it, can define how she feels about herself in her daily life. And if you are a type “A”, over achiever, highly organized, perfectionist like I sometimes

Today’s world of education is fraught with potholes, even for a typical child.  Strong statement, I know.  As a parent of two adults, one with a learning disability and one without, and a teacher for over 40 years working with typical and at-risk youth, I speak from experience. 

I can’t speak for the generation that went before me.  I reject the nostalgic concept that life a generation ago was more kind.  However, I do believe that today’s school aged child faces enormous challenges. 

One area of angst that almost every parent experiences occurs during the first few weeks of school.  Unless your child attends a school in a small community that knows each family and the children who are being nurtured in their midst, there are simply too many unknowns.  A great many parents experience a feeling of free-floating anxiety during the first few weeks of school.  Most classrooms are comprised of extrem

The winds of freedom-yearning blowing in Egypt, Libya and elsewhere make me think again:  Why flags; why not spirit?

In the luminous wartime motion picture, based on Michael Ondaatje’s novel, “The English Patient,” the dying heroine in the desert cave looks up at her lover and asks, “What is it with all the flags?”  Or something to that effect.  What I do remember clearly is that the plea touched my heart and has resonated with me ever since.

This was felt even more so after taking in (via both the book and the film) the incandescent sub-story of the Canadian nurse falling deeply in love with the Indian minesweeper. This minesweeper had such strong command of his British subordinates who were engaged in the meticulous and often fatal exercise of digging up live German mines from the dirt roads of France and Italy.  His men respected the turban-crowned Sikh and impeccably skilled bomb engineer because he was good at what he did.  Race, color and breeding melt