Why some people will never master the art of leaving the house on time
For crying out loud, can we go already?
When my father passed away earlier this year, I am convinced he exited a very happy man. One of the reasons he would have been content, I imagine, is that he had lived long enough to observe me, his only married son, go through exactly what he had to, three decades before.
Sunday mornings at my house were dreadful for me. I hated every second. This was primarily because I looked forward to church about as much as Trump looks forward to those Pickfords trucks due to arrive at the White House in January...