Welcome!
Lashley Lane, or parts of it, has been a pen name of mine over the years. I treasured my life on that little street. I was safe and cherished and nurtured, imprinted with good memories. We are way Beyond that now but the influence of those early years is embedded deeply.
I’ll be remembering real life and musing about this and that from the past, present, and future. I remain fiercely loyal to the ideal of family and friends being redeemable just as you and I are redeemable, so you’ll just have to trust me with occasional details as I honor privacy. Above all, please realize my Christian point of view. I only hope it will be obvious.
Be sure to click on the navigation bar to find your way around. Happy reading!
LATEST POSTS
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Francie’s Chicken Salad
She was a tiny little old white-haired lady from New Jersey whose energy defied her age despite her occasional smoking and addiction to daytime television. And she was my first best friend in Arkansas. The memory of how I came to meet Francie is murky but it feels like it was somewhere on the upstairs…
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A Chickahominy Dream Come True
Dear boys and girls, Maybe you recall the very first post on this blog was about Chickahominy Reservoir in eastern Oregon and my weird unfulfilled curiosity about that place. You’ve probably been wondering if that long-standing dream was ever realized. Well, wonder no more. Here’s Bob representing our mutual enthusiasm on the day we finally…
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One Thread
Written in black sharpie on the back inside cover of my 8th grade yearbook is this: I have tears in my ears from lying on my back in my bed while I cry over you. Now if those words are not poetry I do not know what is. And ohhh, I loved the boy who…
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A Twist — Not a Knot
Confession time. Since the stay-at-home order I’ve been cross stitching like a mad man. I’m not sure exactly how many mad men actually cross stitch, but you get the idea. It’s a little weird. I’ve read about so many folks taking care of their families in such admirable, practical ways — canning, baking, sewing, hunting,…
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Real Estate Bird
Right in the middle of writing a different blog post (a pretty dreary and potentially depressing one) I thought, “Hey, let’s lighten things up a bit.” We’ll start with the basics. Parakeets can talk. And fly. Twelve-year old girls aren’t always smart. But they mean well. The summer of 1974 was monumental. We, our giant…
