(Note: I wrote this column in 2015, while living in Las Vegas of All Places.)

For me, two of the loveliest words in the English language are “Life persists.”

I happened on them years ago as a college freshman, sitting in the library on a gorgeous spring day, bored spitless, working on a history paper. I don’t recall what I was researching. Funny, isn’t it, the things we find while looking for something else?

Out of nowhere, those two words came dancing off the page in a quote by Gandhi from his essay “On God”: “In the midst of death life persists, in the midst of untruth truth persists, in the midst of darkness light persists.”

Suddenly I wasn’t bored any more. I reread those words a dozen times. Then I closed the book and left the library. Outside in dazzling sunshine, I kicked off my Weejuns and danced barefoot across a spring-green lawn back to the dorm to call my granddad.

A man of many talents, and the father of 12 children, he’d been a baker, a shoe salesman, a restaurateur and a sometime Baptist preacher, who, as my grandmother liked to say, “worked for the Lord when he couldn’t find a paying job.”

Growing up, I loved to talk with him about what he called “the things of God.” I was pretty sure the Gandhi quote fit that category, and I couldn’t wait to hear what he’d think of it. He was a mite hard of hearing, so I had to repeat it a few times, but once he got it, he laughed.

“All I can say to that,” he said, “is amen and amen and amen!”

We talked for a while about other things, my schooling, his checker playing, the weather. I told him how glad I was, after a long winter, to finally see spring and especially to find that quote.

“Why is that?” he asked.

I was feeling all full of myself, a big college freshman, so I said, “Well, spring is a sure sign that, like the quote says, life persists. And it just makes me happy.”

He chuckled again, the way you might laugh at a slow-witted dog that finally learns to sit up and beg for a bone.

Then, in his lovely baritone preacher’s voice, he recited just for me his favorite “springtime” verse, words from the prophet Isaiah: “The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose … even with joy and singing.”

My granddad. I wish you could’ve known him.

I told you all that to tell you this. I love spring. And this year, I was especially hungry to see it. Maybe you were, too.

Flying home last weekend to Las Vegas, after 10 days in California, I looked down on hills that were so green I could almost taste them. Nearing Vegas, the green turned a drab desert brown. We landed after sunset, and the only green to be seen was neon.

But the next morning, to my surprise, I awoke to find signs of spring all over my yard. In my absence, all sorts of things had sprouted and leafed and budded and bloomed. I’d tell you their names, but I’m sorry, I don’t know them. I just call them Lucy or Ethel or Fred.

Three days later, my husband and I drove to Scottsdale, Ariz., to see the Giants play the A’s in spring training. The drive across the desert was flat-out spectacular, a profusion of wildflowers and blooming cactus. I could almost hear my granddad laughing, “The desert shall rejoice.”

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we’re still alive.

After my first husband died, a friend sent me a card that made me want to kick off my shoes and dance barefoot on the grass. It read, “Just when you think you will never smile again, life comes back.”

Life persists, and so do we, in the green of spring and the dead of winter; in the birth of a child and the passing of a loved one; in the words and deeds we leave behind and in the hearts of those who will remember us.

Spring reminds us that life persists and we’re alive forever.

Amen and amen and amen.

(Sharon Randall is the author of “The World and Then Some.” She can be reached at P.O. Box 922, Carmel Valley CA 93924 or www.sharonrandall.com.)

(This column is from 2015.)

A covey of quail skitters across the lawn, spooked by my arrival. Or maybe my lack of makeup.

A dozen finches wait turns at the feeder, chattering like tourists in a buffet line.

A breeze rustles the palm fronds and sunlight streams through silver clouds to shine like beacons on the desert.

I wish you could see it.

On a spring-like day in the dead of winter, I’m sitting on my patio feeling lucky. I’ll tell you why, after a bit of background.

I spent my first 20 years in the mountains of the Carolinas, one of the places God meant when he looked at his creation and said in effect, “Oh my.”

For the next three decades, I lived on the coast of California,  another “oh my” kind of place, in a house near the beach with three headstrong children and their basketball coaching father.

Then the children grew up to be headstrong adults, and we lost the coach to cancer. So I spent some years alone in my “family museum,” with four bedrooms, five sets of dishes, a silent basketball court and a whole lot of great memories.

During those years, to my surprise, I discovered that “alone” can also be an “oh my” kind of place. Or so it was for me. I had family, friends, a job I liked and, as we say, my health. It was a good life, vastly different from the life I had loved for so long, but it was good none the less, with an abundance of blessings to keep me humbled and grateful and happy. I had no need, no plans to change it.

Then, as the old Elvin Bishop song says, I fooled around and fell in love. Dangerous, I know, but don’t even try to tell me you’ve never done it yourself. 

Next thing I knew, in a blind leap of faith, I remarried and moved with my new husband to the last place on Earth I ever dreamed I’d call home: the desert outside Las Vegas of All Places.

Perhaps you’re wondering what sort of woman grows up in the Bible Belt, rears her children in Paradise, and ends up on the outskirts of Sin City?

That would be me, a woman who has tried, come hell or high water, to follow her heart wherever it may lead.

I blame my grandmother. Growing up, if I felt confused (as I did much of the time) she’d say, “Honey, follow your heart. It’s a good heart. Trust it.”

I had no idea what she meant. I’m not sure I do even now. But in Sunday school, I learned that the heart is a repository for love — the love of God, the love of family and friends, the love of all that we hold dear — and that it speaks to us with the voice of love, always in a whisper.

In time, I learned to listen for that whisper. It’s hard to hear it sometimes over other voices — logic, anger, envy, jealousy, insecurity and such. They don’t whisper. They yell. But listen closely. You can spot it. 

What it tells you might not be easy to do. In my case, it almost never is. But when you hear it, you’ll know it’s right. That’s the test. The right thing always and only comes from a place of love.

So why do I feel lucky? Here I am in an “oh my” kind of place on an “oh my” kind of day. I followed my heart from the mountains to the coast to the desert where — with a good man who makes me laugh and slow down to watch sunsets — I’m living a new chapter of my life.

I miss family and friends and mountains and beaches and seasons, especially fall. But I visit them often, if only in mind.

There is peace in knowing that today, for now, I’m where my heart led me to be. Who knows where it will lead me next?

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow’s a dream. All we have is this one, sweet, lovely “here and now.” Why not enjoy it?

This morning I heard from young woman asking advice on a life-changing decision.

“Follow your heart,” I told her.  “It’s a good heart. Trust it.”

Here’s wishing her, you and all of us, an “oh my” kind of life.

P.S. Five years ago, after 12 years in Las Vegas, we moved back to California to be closer to our growing family and live in Carmel Valley, a truly “oh my” kind of place.

(Sharon Randall is the author of “The World and Then Some.” She can be reached at P.O. Box 922, Carmel Valley CA 93924 or  www.sharonrandall.com.)

(This column is from 2019.)

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about birthdays. Why? From the end of December to the middle of February, our big “blended” family celebrates eleven birthdays. The birthday people include my husband and me; three of our five children; three of their spouses; and three of our eight grandchildren.

That’s a lot of cake. Not to mention, cards and presents and dinners and parties. I call it the Birthday Express. It’s quite a ride. Only two more celebrations this week, then the grand finale, which happens to be mine.

The remaining eight family members were wisely born at other times of year. Some have a whole month to themselves.

Few things are more fun than celebrating the birth of someone you adore. My standard wish (besides “Happy birthday!”) is “I’m so glad you were born!”

I started saying that to my kids when they were small and now they say it to me, too. I love getting cards that were handpicked just for me, or handdrawn by grandkids with stick figure drawings that make me look skinny, and don’t joke about getting old.

Aside from good wishes and a lot of hugs, I don’t need gifts. When you’ve blown out as many candles as I have over the years, your mark of a great birthday isn’t presents or parties. It’s hearing “happy birthday!” from someone you love, then getting to take a nap.

But there’s one birthday ritual I try to keep every year. I take time to think about my life’s journey, places I’ve been, people I’ve met, things I’ve learned along the way.

Then I ask myself this question: What do I know now that I wish I’d known long ago? Here’s my latest list:”

_ My children would grow up healthy and strong to be people that I like as much as love. Had I known this, I’d have gotten more sleep and less gray hair.

_ We shouldn’t take things so personally. Not everything is about us. Let’s give others, and ourselves, a break.

_ Actions are more important than looks. It’s better to be kind than beautiful. Unless you can manage to be both at once.

_ Things change. Count on it. The best we can do is change with them, and pray that we are changing for the better.

_ If you need help, don’t be too proud to ask for it. And if someone needs your help, try not to be too busy to offer it.

_ It’s OK if someone doesn’t like you. Chances are, they’re not very likeable themselves.

_ Hair is like a child. It has a mind of its own. You can try to change it, try to make it do what you want it to do. But it’s better just to let it be what it is.

_ Say what’s on your heart, and make sure you say it like you mean it. Some words are better left unspoken. But there are three things that need to be said often and sincerely: “Thanks.” “I’m sorry.” And “I love you.” And to telemarketers, “Please don’t call me again.”

_ My mother was right about all sorts of things that I was sure she was wrong about. I wish, not only that I’d known it, but that I had told her so before she died.

_ We don’t need someone to complete us. We can be whole on our own. But if we share our life with someone who is also whole, the sum of us can be greater than its parts. And that can be a whole lot of fun.

_ Those of us of a certain age shouldn’t fear that a birthday means the end of youth. Age is only a number. Forty (or 60 or more) is not the end of youth. Thirty was the end. The payoff for aging is getting to stay alive, and maybe, if we’re lucky, getting grandchildren.

_ Finally, the best thing about birthdays is realizing we’ve been blessed to live another year and had a chance to keep learning, loving and laughing.

Here’s wishing you a happy birthday whenever it may be. Yes, I’m so glad you were born.

(Sharon Randall is the author of “The World and Then Some.” She can be reached at P.O. Box 922, Carmel Valley CA 93924 or www.sharonrandall.com.)

Dear Readers: In December, after 32 years of writing a weekly column, I decided it was time to stop. To all of you who’ve written to congratulate me, I can’t thank you enough. I also can’t answer all your mail. But I’m trying. And I’ll keep trying for as long as it takes.

Meanwhile, I’m posting past columns each week on this site. The following is from 2007. It was written, not by me, but by my former editor, who is also my husband. Tomorrow is his birthday. Yes, this is his gift.

“The Torch Lunch”
by Mark Whittington

I am not Sharon Randall. Sorry to disappoint regular readers of her column. She is sick. Not the “I got sniffles, but I can still write,” sort of cold, but the “I ache all over and am going back to bed” kind of flu.

At one point she actually said, “Don’t look at me, I look like a mangy dog,” and described how her old mangy dog would look at her over its shoulder. She does not look like a mangy dog. I’m just saying that’s the look she gave me when I asked what I could do to help?

“Nothing,” she said. Then she whimpered. So I dragged home canned soup and fruit and juice and every remedy suggested by family, friends and the doctor. I even brought her peonies like the ones she carried at our wedding. They almost put a smile on her cold-sore-crusted lips. But she got sicker every day.

Finally, I volunteered to write her column. Either that or she’d call in sick. So rather than disappoint her readers across the country, she agreed to let me tell you this story about the day we call “the torch lunch.”

Years ago, before we were married, when we both worked for a newspaper in California, I invited her to meet me at Ferdi’s, a lunch joint that serves New Orleans style food hot enough to make you sweat on a foggy day. The place was a newsroom favorite, so she expected a crowd from work to join us. When she arrived (20 minutes late) she was surprised to see just me _ in a starched white shirt and big goofy grin.

Later she’d recall thinking, “Well, this is different.” Also, she claims I was sweating and she had never seen me sweat. She ordered jambalaya. I got the barbecue shrimp, extra hot, floating enough oil to guarantee that I would stain my tie.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. It’s funny. At the most important times, the right words are often just beyond your reach, even if you work with words for a living.

So I asked her about her recent trip to the Carolinas, and she talked about visiting her family. She also talked about a man she’d met who wanted her to make those visits permanent. I figured it was now or never.

So I blurted out, “Before you up and get married, you should know there’s a line of guys stretching around the block waiting for you to say you’re ready to go out with them.”

Or something like that. I had slipped into that underwater zone where you can’t hear anything and you’re sure your ears are going to burst from the pressure. Then, in the distance, I heard myself say: “You know, I’ve been carrying a torch for you for a long time and I think you ought to give me a chance.”

I don’t know who said what next. I was trying not to pass out. I looked across the table and she was smiling. I took it as an encouraging sign. Or maybe pity. I was sure the lid had popped off the cayenne bottle while the cook was peppering my shrimp. My starched white shirt was soaked clean through.

Maybe those weren’t the exact words I wanted to say. “Carrying a torch” is not the same as “I love you.” I was, after all, just a boy from California of All Places trying to win the heart of a Southern girl _ a heart that had been broken two years ago by the death of her first husband.
But somehow she got the message. And so it began, a five-year courtship. (After the torch lunch, it took a while to get the nerve to ask her to marry me.)

A year after our wedding, we moved to Las Vegas of All Places, where I work for a newspaper and she writes her column at home in her pajamas.

We spend most evenings at home watching sunsets together over the desert. In all the years I’ve known her, I think this is the first time she has been sick enough to miss writing her column. After she reads this, I’m sure it will be the last.

(This column is from 2022.)

Do you ever dream of doing something big, but feel too small to try? Whenever I feel that way, I like to think about Darlene. I wrote this story about her years ago. It goes like this:

Long after it was all over and done, folks still liked to wager on what possessed her to do it. Some said it was the mower. Others blamed the bull. But there was more to it than that.

One summer, while visiting my family in the Carolinas, I stayed at my sister’s house, but spent a few hours each day writing at my friend’s place.

Jane lived out of town on a few quiet acres surrounded by cow pastures. I’d show up early, we’d drink coffee, then she’d leave for work and I’d stay behind to write, free of distractions. At least, that was the plan.

One morning, I’d just written a lead, when I heard a truck coming up the road. It was Jason, the teenager Jane hired to mow her yard. I’d not met the boy, but I knew his parents.

“Hey, Jason!” I said. “I’m glad to see you were lucky enough to get your mama’s good looks!”

He laughed, thinking it was a joke. I offered iced tea (in the South, not to do so is a sin.) He said, “No thank you, ma’am,” and fired up the mower. I watched him cut a strip by the fence. Then I went back to work.

Minutes later, the mower stopped. I looked out the window and saw Jason sprinting across the yard, flapping his arms like Big Bird on fire.

“Lord help us!” I said, “the cows are out!”

For the record, I grew up with cows. I could still milk one, maybe, if need be. But milking is a far cry from catching.

Once, as a child, I got chased up an apple tree by a nasty herd of Herefords that held me hostage until I handed over every apple in my bucket. Since then, I’ve been a bit wary. It’s not that I don’t like cows. I just don’t trust them.

Still, I’m a country girl, born and raised. When cows are on the loose, I can’t ignore them. Besides, poor Jason was pitifully out-numbered. I’d have given better odds to Custer.

The culprit was Darlene, a sassy little Holstein, all black and white and full of herself. For some reason, she’d apparently decided to jump the fence and lead her sisters in an unarmed, four-legged rebellion.

“Jason!” I shouted, running out the door, “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll try to cut ‘em off!” he yelled. “You go call Mr. Lee!”

I found the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

“Tell Mr. Lee his cows are out,” I said, “and it looks like they mean business!”

Meanwhile, Jason, bless his heart, had managed to corral most of the escapees under an apple tree where they now milled about munching apples, looking all guilty and glum.

Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I saw a black and white flash moving fast: Darlene was making a break for the road!

Not one to be cowed by a cow, I grabbed a stick, planted my feet and met her head on.

“Stop!” I ordered. Much to my surprise, she did.

Lowering her head, she turned her muzzle to one side and stared, as if sizing me up. And then I saw it: A fiery hot gleam in her eye. When she twitched her tail and charged, I threw down my stick and ran.

Darlene never looked back. She kicked up her heels, trotted across the road and jumped clean over a barbed-wire fence to join Bubba, the neighbor’s bull, in what I hope for her sake were far greener pastures.

What do you think? Did she do it for love? Or for adventure? Or because the mower scared the bejeezes out of her?

No. I saw the gleam in her eye that day. I wish you could’ve seen it, too. She did it for one reason only: Deep down inside her big, bovine heart, Darlene believed in herself.

(This column is from 2012.)

Out of the blue, the boy phoned to ask a question about a moment we shared years ago, a moment so momentous we would never be the same.

I remembered it well. How could I forget? He said it wasn’t important, he just wondered what time it took place. I smiled. He had no idea how important it was to me. Or how long it would keep me awake, flipping dusty, dog-eared pages of my mind, to find the answer.

What kind of mother forgets what time her child was born? It’s not like I wasn’t there. Yes, I had a few distractions. I didn’t check my watch. But still ….

Here’s what I clearly recall. I was 23 years old, married almost three years, living 3,000 miles from my family in a town so new and unfamiliar I’d get lost going to the grocery store.

My husband was teaching and coaching at a local high school. We had health insurance and a steady paycheck. We’d bought a house for about two years’ worth of his salary. It would shelter our family for nearly 50 years.

I was absolutely over the moon thrilled to be pregnant. All my life, I’d wanted to be a mother (and a grandmother, but first things first.) My experience with caring for children was limited to two younger brothers and a year as a substitute teacher.

But I’d done some reading about parenting and felt ready for whatever lay in store.

Basically, I had no clue. It didn’t matter. What I didn’t know, the boy would teach me.

On the day he was due to be born, his father had to coach a basketball game. At half-time, I was sitting in the bleachers, like a whale riding a see-saw, when I felt the first contraction.

I sent a note to the coach in the locker room: “In labor, might need to leave.’’

Minutes later it came back: “In foul trouble, game over soon.”

The game went into overtime. When his team finally lost, I bit my fist trying not to cheer. We rushed home to get a bag for me and a burrito for the coach, then drove to the hospital in the same car our soon-to-be-born baby would drive 16 years later to get his driver’s license.

By 2 a.m., I was in hard labor. Then it got harder. The nurse was a woman whose son had been my husband’s student.

“Don’t worry, child,” she told me, “I’m gonna take good care of you.” And she did, not only for my first baby, but for my second, three years later, and my third, three years after that.

On the second day, when I was still in “hard labor,” my husband made the mistake of asking if I could “hurry it up” because he had another game that night.

He claimed he was joking. I was not amused. Then I heard him on the phone telling one of his players he was “stuck” at the hospital and needed him to fill in that night as coach.

“I can hear you!” I said.

“Gotta go,” he whispered into the phone, “good luck!”

Things got a bit fuzzy after that. Somebody told me to push, so I did, for a really long time.

Next thing I knew, the coach was laughing and I was holding a little person who had hands that were tiny, but huge, like a King Kong action figure, and a lop-sided head like the rag doll that went through the wringer of my grandmother’s washer.

He was looking in my eyes as if he knew who I was, someone he had searched for and was so glad to find. And I found myself falling, falling, fast and hard, forever and always in love.

His life was just beginning. Mine would never be the same.

What time was it? I don’t know. All I know is this: It was the right time _ not a moment too late or too soon _ just when he was needed by the world, by his dad and, most of all, by me.

But according to his birth certificate (that I finally found in a box after searching half the night) it was 5:57 p.m.

Happy birthday, Josh. I am so glad you were born.

This column is from Oct., 2020.

Seems there’s always something to worry about. As my mother used to say, “If it’s not one thing, it’s two.”

At times, it’s enough to make you want to put on a flea collar and hide under the porch with the dogs. I would never do that. I don’t have a porch. Or a dog.

But some people seem to worry a lot less than others do. Take, for example, Jonah.

My husband and I share eight grandchildren. Jonah is our youngest. I’ve been watching him closely since the day he was born 18 months ago. It’s one of my favorite things to do.

We live 382 miles apart, Jonah and I, so I mostly watch him in videos that his mama and daddy send me. Almost daily. Several times a day, if I’m lucky. And we FaceTime fairly often.

Jonah in video is not as much fun as Jonah in the flesh, but it’s a lot better than no Jonah at all. I wish I could’ve sent my mother videos of her grandkids. Maybe she’d have worried less and lived longer.

Watching Jonah has taught me a lot about how to avoid the ill effects of worry and stress. Here are some things that seem to work well for him:

_ First, he doesn’t watch TV. Except an occasional episode of “Peppa Pig.” And he doesn’t own a cell phone. He loves to grab his mom and dad’s phones, but they try to keep them out of his reach. So, unlike some of us, he isn’t glued to an electronic device. He’s far more in touch with the real world. The birds outside his window. The tickle of his dad’s beard. The smell of his mom’s hair. The temptation to try the big slide at the park or the joy of mastering a new word. (His latest favorite is “no.”)

_ He gets more exercise than a team of sled dogs. Runs more than he walks. Dances on tables. Splashes in a puddle or a bath or a lake. Keeps his mom and dad laughing and on their toes.

_ He sleeps like a baby. Limp as an over-cooked noodle. Naps if he feels like it. But sometimes he will wake in the night and try to rouse his dad to play.

_ He eats a healthy diet. Lots of veggies. No sugar. Only stuff that’s good for him. His parents make sure of it. He likes most everything they offer him. If he doesn’t like it, he spits it out.

_ He spends a lot of time outdoors, playing in the yard, going to the park with his mom or taking walks with his dad. He stays engaged with people who make him happy, not sad, and with things that are beautiful, not ugly. He cuddles with his mom. Reads with his dad. Plays with his cousins. FaceTimes with his nana. And loves to help. You should see him vacuum.

_ He never hides his emotions. He yells if his mom leaves the room. Gets mad if his dad won’t let him put the iPad in the fireplace. And if he falls down the stairs and bumps his head, he screams bloody murder. But when he stops hurting, he quits screaming and climbs back on the stairs. He cries when he feels like crying. And he laughs a lot more than he cries.

_ Finally, Jonah knows that he is loved. He has learned that the world isn’t perfect. It can be a painful and frustrating place. There are bees in the grass that can sting his feet. Stairs he can fall down. Cell phones and iPads and other expensive stuff his parents try not to let him break.

But mostly he sees the world as a good place—a place not for worrying, but for learning and exploring and being happy.

Jonah doesn’t have time to worry. He’s too busy having fun, living his one, sweet, beautiful life.

As adults, we seldom get to enjoy the kind of freedom we knew as children. We have jobs and responsibilities. Families to care for. Bills to pay. Decisions to weigh. We need to be vigilant and informed and involved.

But worry gains us nothing, and it robs us of peace and hope and joy. We can learn a lot from a toddler.

When I grow up, I want to be just like Jonah.

Note: I recently retired from writing a column, but some of you have asked me to repost old ones. This one is from 2006.

Sometimes if I’m feeling low, I call my sister and it’s like candy, how Bobbie cheers me up. Never mind that she once tried to shoot me. Yes, with a gun. Yes, on purpose. No, I’m not making it up.

I have an eye witness who will back me up, if he knows what’s good for him. But let’s not dwell on that. Far be it from me to hold a grudge against my only sister, even if she never said she was sorry.

Forgiveness usually requires repentance, but I afforded her grace for three good reasons: One, she’s my sister; two, I’m still alive; and three, by the time Bobbie repents, I’ll be dead of old age.

But enough about that. I want to tell you about how she brightens my day. Here are some examples:

When we were little girls, our parents split up. But Bobbie told me that sisters never split up, they always stick together.

When our brother was born blind, she said his blindness wouldn’t matter to anybody, except to people who didn’t matter.

When I won a scholarship and went off to college, and she stayed behind with three babies and a bad marriage, she told me to be safe, have fun and make her proud.

When I left the South to live my life in California of All Places, she flew out to be matron of honor at my wedding and let her 3-year-old scatter rose petals in my path.

When my first husband died, she put me to bed and made me rest. Six months later, she took me to Mexico and made me pose for a picture with a live chimpanzee.

Years later, when I brought my former editor to the South to meet my family, she told me if I didn’t marry him, she would.

So I married him. But that is not to say that jealousy was a motive in her nearly shooting me. OK, here’s that story:

One summer, when I flew home with my new husband for a family reunion, my sister loaned us her car to pick up my kids at the airport. As we were leaving, I suddenly recalled what she always kept handy in the glove compartment.

“Wait here,” I told my husband, “I’ll be right back.”

I ran back in the house and found her half-asleep in her recliner.

“Sissy!” I said. “Wake up! Your gun is still in the car!”

She yawned. “My what?”

“Your gun!”

“Well, bring it in,” she said.

“I’m not touching it!”

“It won’t hurt you!”

I crossed my arms and gave her a look. She made a face, got up and stomped out to the car, mumbling words I won’t repeat.

My husband was sitting in the driver’s seat listening to a baseball game on the radio. He raised an eyebrow when he saw us.

As Bobbie opened the car door and bent down to reach into the glove box, she made a totally rude remark about my character. Never mind what.

And then, OK, I’ll just go on and tell you: I poured a Diet Pepsi down the back of her pants.

It had not occurred to me that, at that very moment, she might already have the gun in her hand. I began to suspect it, however, by the look on my husband’s face — the same look I once saw when we went for a walk and a bulldog ran up and bit a chunk out of his arm.

Imagine my surprise when Bobbie’s head spun around like Linda Blair’s in “The Exorcist.” And then, yes, she fired off a shot.

Never mind that she fired it up in the air. My husband didn’t know that. Suffice it to say, hers were not the only pants that were wet.

Bobbie claims that it was all my fault. And that, if she had actually shot me, she’d have gotten off free and clear on grounds known in the South as “The fool needed killing.”

Still, there is one good thing about that incident. I mean, besides the fact that she didn’t kill me.

Since that day, if I call her up and she’s not home? It still cheers me up like candy, just to think of my sister, and the sound that Diet Pepsi made gurgling down her pants.

This probably won’t be my best column ever. I always hope for the best. But doing our best takes more than just hope.

Especially in writing. If I cook a bad meal, my husband will get over it. Eventually. But a bad column will haunt me forever.

Writing takes time and effort and a fair amount of passion, all of which I try to give to every column and hope to give to this one. Do you think I’m stalling?

There’s a simple way to say a hard thing: You just go on and say it. I will do that. But first, I want to offer you some advice I’ve shared in columns over the years. I call it, “A Dozen Simple Rules of Common Sense”:

1. When you pass people on the street, smile and say, “How’s your mother?” And they will probably say nice things about you at your funeral.

2. Know what you believe, practice what you preach and always tell the truth. If you tell a lie, at least tell one people will believe, so you’ll only be known as a liar, and not a lying fool.

3. Take care of living things. Feed your animals, tend your crops, be kind to children, old folks and everyone between.

4. Never be rude. If you slip, apologize. Failing to apologize is not just rude but tacky. And you should never, ever be tacky.

5. Avoid confrontation in the heat of anger. Remember, in some states “He needed killing” is not a justifiable defense.

6. Never try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of time and it will annoy the pig.

7. If you have to swallow a frog, don’t look at it too long before you put it in your mouth; and if you have to swallow two frogs, go for the big one first.

8. Never gossip behind people’s backs. They’ll hear about it, unless they’re dead. And never speak ill of the dead, unless they’ve got it coming.

9. Seek first to understand and last to be understood. If you want to learn, ask questions.

10. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Let your wealth be the gold that shines in your words and heart and deeds.

11. Love everyone, even people you don’t like. But treasure the jewels who will laugh with you in good times, weep with you in hard times and reassure you that you aren’t entirely crazy.

12. Stop doing what you’re doing when it’s time to stop. Don’t keep stalling. Just stop.

OK, I’ll say it: This is my final column. The decision to end it is one of the hardest I’ve ever made. But the choice is all mine. I feel led, not forced, to stop.

I’ve written a column most every week for nearly 32 years. It’s been a dream job for me. Those of you who read it, the editors who edited it and the newspapers that published it, made that dream a reality.

I cannot thank you enough.

Over the years, a great many of you have written to say that my stories are your stories, too.

When my first husband died, you said you were praying for me and that your children were praying for my children.

When I remarried and had grandchildren, you cheered.

You even pulled for Clemson to win every game just to make my brother Joe happy.

You wrote pages front and back to share with me the joys and sorrows and histories of your lives. I couldn’t always reply, but I read every word. And soon, you became for me, not just readers, but friends.

I hope I’m a friend to you, too. I plan to post occasional notes on my website (and on Facebook) and look forward to connecting with you there.

Please keep sharing your stories with your children and grandchildren and anyone who will listen — and ask them to share their stories with you.

Our stories tell us who we are, that we are all different in ways that make us interesting, but so much alike in the ways that matter most — the matters of the heart. Sharing our stories can turn strangers into friends.

Thank you for letting me share with you my stories and my life. It has been such a pleasure. I wish you grace and peace and joy.


(Sharon Randall is the author of “The World and Then Some.” She can be reached at P.O. Box 922, Carmel Valley CA 93924 or www.sharonrandall.com.)

Lately I’ve been thinking about gifts. Not just the gifts we wrap in paper and give to people who don’t need them. But all the gifts we are given that make life such a pleasure and enable us to give back in some way to the world.

Yesterday, my older son sent me a video of 19-months-old Leilani, learning to fly.

They were playing at a park when Leilani ran over to the swings. But instead of asking for help to climb onto the swing’s seat, she leaned over it to lie on her belly. Then she lifted her feet, spread her arms like wings and sailed back and forth.

“Are you flying?” said her dad.

She beamed up at him with pride and yelled, “Yeah!”

Then I heard my boy’s familiar laugh, a waterfall of delight.

That video was two priceless gifts in one: The sight of a little girl taking wing, and the sound of her daddy’s laughter.

I thought of what my mother would say when she had barely enough money to buy groceries: “The best gifts in life can’t be bought. God gives them free and clear to a grateful heart.”

Today I awoke to another gift: Rain. Enough rain to soak the Earth without washing us away.

I once took rain for granted. Never again. After recent years of little rainfall, we keep a bag packed, ready to go, in case we need to run from a wildfire.

If you live in a drought-prone place like California, you learn to appreciate rain. If you want to complain about it, you keep the complaints to yourself.

We often fail to appreciate people and things that mean so much to us, until one day, we realize we don’t have them any more. But there’s a simple way to show appreciation before it’s too late: Just say “thank you.”

Gratitude changes everything, both around us and within us. It opens our hearts and minds and souls to freely give and receive.

More than an awareness, it takes determination to show true gratitude — to feel it, say it and mean it with all our being.

What does it mean to you when someone thanks you for something you’ve done? It helps, doesn’t it? It may even make you want to do it again.

One summer, years ago, I flew back to the South to visit my stepfather, John. We’d had a rough spell in our family, losing in a painfully short span of time my mother, my husband and my brother Joe’s wife, all to cancer.

John now lived alone in the house we all once shared. One evening he and I sat on the porch sipping iced tea as we had often done on hot summer nights.

Thunder rumbled on the mountains. Lightning bugs glittered in the yard. A scent of honeysuckle filled the air.

We traded questions, catching up on the family. Finally, I said, “So, how are you doing in this big house without mama?”

John took a minute, rocking slowly, staring at nothing. Then he cleared his throat to speak.

“It’s hard,” he said. “We didn’t always get along. But I still miss her. I reckon I always will.”

I nodded and he smiled.

“But you know,” he said, “this is a good time in our family. Everybody’s got work. Nobody’s got cancer. We’re all doing the best we can. We need to be thankful and remember it.”

A year later, John was gone. But his words to me that night were a gift I’ll always treasure.

We make the world a better place by being better people _ kinder, gentler, slow to judge, quick to offer grace _ and by practicing gratitude.

All families have hard times. We prop each other up, pray for strength and do the best we can.

But we also have countless good times to remind us we’re a family and give us stories to tell our children who’ll pass them on for generations to come.

This is a good time for me and my family. I hope it’s a good time for you and yours. Thank you for reading my words.

It’s a gift I’ll never take for granted.