I have a friend who works on her feet all day, muscling through migraines and chronic neck pain. After her day job, the real work begins when she arrives home to care for a disabled loved one. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t have that luxury. She works and sleeps and does it all over again.
“Start walking.” Those two words burn a hole on page 154 of “The Polygamist’s Daughter,” a chilling child’s eye account of life in a cult led by a 1970s self-proclaimed prophet dubbed the “Mormon Manson.” “The Polygamist’s Daughter” will take you on a 300-page journey from all that’s awful about this world to all that’s
How we respond to life’s ubiquitous “it’s not fair” moments is a true measure of our maturity. This is why I decided against scratching a grown human being’s eyeballs out this week. Context probably matters right now. “Hi, Mom.” Two words, tone, and time of day told me everything I needed to know. The Man
I didn’t love much about my maiden name of Huth. Americanized from the guttural, German “Hütt,” it was mispronounced in classroom roll calls and corporate phone calls. But it did give me the best nickname in the history of softball. Babe Huth. I know. It almost makes me sorry for every other player who has
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