The Breast/Best Pearls | Excerpt from Bury Me with My Pearls, Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

The perfect dress was waiting for me in a small boutique in Aiken. Caroline’s should have been the first place I looked, but I live in Charleston. I spent an entire afternoon perusing all the shops on King Street with a friend. Nothing fit. If it did fit, it did not look right for my age or shape. Women in their mid-fifties want to be stylish and classy, which should not be difficult when one is a perfect 10. That is, size 10, so yes, I am curvy with an emphasis on hips. I was looking for a dress to wear for my daughter’s wedding rehearsal and dinner in March.

Journaling has long been a way for humans to validate their experiences, concerns, and hopes. It gives the writer a feeling of meaningful achievement in creating a permanent record of his or her life, and it leaves a legacy for family and friends as well. History is built upon the records of those who took the time to leave us their thoughts and experiences. Some of the most powerful diaries are those written by pioneers, men and women at war, and those segregated in one way or another from society. Thoreau, Florence Nightingale, and Lewis and Clark are a few who left priceless accounts of life in other times. We

“Oh, wow!” she kept saying, in that breathless sort of wonder that can be heard only in the voice of youth and innocence. “Oh, wow!” Her tiny nose and hands pressed against one store window and then another. She pointed to counter after counter filled with candy. And then several displays of plastic eggs. And scenes of stuffed bunnies and yellow chicks and woven baskets of every size. Even a stack of nothing more than colorful socks caused her to express delight. “Oh, wow!” she said, again and again, as her tiptoes carried her from place to place, store to store, joy to joy. She is only two-and-a-half years old,

“My mother said to me, ‘If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope.” Instead I was a painter, and I became Picasso.’” Pablo Picasso Growing up, I was fortunate to have a “cool mom.” She was, and still is, very generous and hospitable. She was always at events and parties, usually with food. We would come home with friends and she would have fresh-baked cookies, and cheese and cracker and fruit platters, all laid out for us. She would go with us to water parks, set up a “home base,” and let us wander the water park and