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I came late to the Grandmother Party. By the time my 30th high school reunion rolled around, I was one of the few in my entire class who didn't have a grandchild. I was amazed that one of my classmates already had six – at 48 years old. But then again, she did have two sets of twins.

My youngest child was the first to marry, followed six months later by my oldest child. Only the middle child remains in a content state of solitude.

I'm a realist. I always have been. I see things for what they are, not for what they could be or should be.

Trash. It's everywhere. From once pristine waters and forested lands to rural roads and city streets, it blights what once were beautiful places.
This past weekend, as I made my way back from grandbaby-time in North Georgia, I spied bright yellow objects from miles away along a narrow stretch of road in Putnam County.
As I got closer, I realized what I had seen were 32-gallon trash bags. Since they weren't there when I went up Friday, I surmised there had been a cleanup Saturday and thought, "How nice this community has come together to take care of where they live."

Midmorning last Friday, a dark veil slipped over a large portion of my heart, permanently blocking the light that has shone so brightly in my life for 20 years.