In Icelandic, gluggavedur (gloo-ka-veh-durr) literally means “window weather,” referring to conditions that are only enjoyable when viewed from inside your home.
On weekdays, before and after school, my neighborhood becomes a raceway for electric scooters. Middle schoolers whiz down sidewalks, dart into grass to avoid pedestrians and dogs, then zip across the streets. Hopefully, they are checking for oncoming traffic. I’m happy to report that they all wear helmets.
I’ll have a couple of text chains with both sides of the family during this Saturday’s Duke-Carolina game. Tar Heel fans only. Other text chains include a variety of people, even Dookies.
I know my own cell phone number by heart as well as my wife’s number. I can also sing a certain Jenny’s number thanks to Tommy Tutone (“8-6-7-5-3-0-9”). The only other number I can confidently recall is the landline of my childhood home, the one I dutifully memorized as a boy.
A praise song for Chapel Hill Toffee, the Carolina blue box that begs to be opened, revealing the shiny plastic that contains — O wonder of wonders! — the delicacy of pecans and dark chocolate.
This year, I’ll turn 44 years old. I hope to live at least another four decades but, one day, I’ll die. I want to be cremated, and I don’t have a particular place in mind for my ashes. But I want a memorial bench.
My daughter wanted something to remember her first Tar Heel men’s basketball game by, and she set her mind on a new stuffed bear, adding to her sizeable collection.
Imagine you are ten years old and on a rec league basketball team. You are all skinny elbows and knees and high tops. You dribble behind your back and between your legs and lose the ball out of bounds.
So many exceptional people work exceptionally hard every day, and especially so this time of year, to make the everyday possible and the holiday even more special.