What if birds didn't sound as lovely as they do? I thought about that one morning before the sun rose. Most mornings this spring, I have awakened to the sound of birds. They start singing early, just after 3 a.m., beginning with a robin, usually, in a tree outside my bedroom window.
After the Vatican announced their recent crackdown on the organization representing 80 percent of the 57,000 nuns in this country, I received an email from a Catholic friend in Los Angeles, saying she's fed up and plans to start attending the Episcopal Church down the street.
With six months to go till the presidential election, the Republicans have finally resigned themselves to a nominee (a Rominee?). The ugliness unleashed by the Supreme Court's "Citizens United" decision (the court's most infamous since Dred Scott) is about to begin, with SuperPac mudslinging in earnest.
Last week I spotted a bumper sticker on a Prius that read, simply, "Think Good Thoughts." Sounds like good advice given the incoming broadsides of the upcoming campaign. Good thoughts may be our only defense.
Francis E. "Bud" Corry tells a wonderful tale — of growing up in an idyllic place where the neighborhood playground was the hub of a kid's life. That place was Oak Park in the 1920s and '30s, and the way Bud tells it, you really should have been there.
When I heard about George Zimmerman killing Trayvon Martin in Florida, I thought about the 1992 Clint Eastwood film, Unforgiven. I wondered if Zimmerman had ever killed a man before. I wondered how he was feeling about it.
The annual wisteria tree display at 9 Elizabeth Court is rapidly fading as spring progresses, but it was glorious while it lasted. Kristin Lister is the master gardener behind the annual showcase of intriguing plants that decorate what was once a front lawn (when she moved in 18 years ago). Since then, she has planted plenty.
I spent more time at 627 S. Ridgeland, the Gunderson home Marie Wackrow lived in for 62 years, than any house except my own. When I was growing up, I only knew her as the mother of my best friend, Jerry. From 1960 till 1965, especially in the summers, I spent most of my time in one house or the other, the alley that connected them, and Longfellow Park across the street.
Forty-four years ago today, like most days, Harriette Robinet, like most mothers of that era, was home with the kids. Her husband, McLouis, better known as Mac, was teaching at UIC. No different, really, from most other days. Except April 4, 1968 was no ordinary day. Several hundred miles to the south, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.