• I am a woman of faith

    Truth be told, this column should appear on the Faith page of this newspaper because it's about my faith and how it played out last week.

    If that offends you, stop reading now and go on to something else.

    I wasn't reared in a particularly religious home. My parents were spiritual and had their set of beliefs about God and salvation but organized religion wasn't something that was stressed.

  • Let it be told

    By Kim Wheeler

    Guest Columnist

    Welcome to a new column by a group of older women. We were at lunch the other day sitting in a booth at Melanie’s. We were asking questions and sharing concerns.

     There were issues we wanted to research. We were excited, because although from different backgrounds, we realized we all care about our country and our county and this place we call home.

    A column requires a name, and we came up with all sorts but finally settled on “Let It Be Told”.

  • Let it be told

    By Sue Vogt

    Guest Columnist

    I’m reading a new book on my Kindle. The plot is a simple formula: heroine inherits house from distant relative, arrives in town to take possession of it, and discovers a family mystery.

    Of course, at some point, the heroine has to eat. So she pours herself a glass of wine and places a dainty portion of chicken salad on a bed of mixed greens. Really?

  • The potential is there

    Sometimes the very thing you're looking for

    Is the one thing you can't see,

    Vanessa Williams – The Best for Last

    Three weeks ago, on the one day it wasn't freezing, I spent hours driving around the city of Williston photographing it for last week's Welcome to Williston Community Guide.

  • Finding myself in what I left behind

    You can't miss what you never had, goes the old idiom.

    But how long does it take you to miss that which you did have?

    Is it a day? A week? A month? A year? Years?

    Years! I know because over the last two weeks I've become reacquainted with items that were once cherished, but were long since forgotten.

    It happened like this.

    In 2002, my then-husband and I separated and I moved into an apartment that was barely big enough for me, let alone the annals of my life.

  • The changes they are a comin'

    The advent of a new year has never really held a lot of special appeal for me.

    For many, many years I spent New Year's Eve with my parents, playing board games, eating holiday leftovers and watching Dick Clark in Times Square. That tradition held even after I was married, and maybe even more so once the babies came.

    I've been to a handful of parties over the years, and while they're usually great fun, it's also nice just to stay at home with Tom.

  • I am racist

    I'd like to broach a topic that rarely gets openly addressed in Williston—or Levy County or Florida or the United States: racism. Before I get into it, let me make clear two things: first, I am white; and second, being called "racist" is not the same as being called a "bad person." So, without apologies to anyone, let me get straight to the point.

  • The servant's heart

    My father, despite his gruff demeanor and often callous way of speaking, had a true servant's heart.

    He helped people no matter their circumstance or situation, and showed compassion from the start not just whenever everyone else jumped on the bandwagon.

    Daddy did for others even when it wasn't comfortable, or convenient.

    My mother often didn't understand his giving/doing nature because often, it conflicted with doing things for her or around our house.

  • Thankful: Every. Single. Day

    Thursday as you gather with family and friends, or eat your Stouffer's frozen dinner in front of a football game, what will you give thanks for?

    If you're like many Americans, the phrases around your table will be standard, like "thankful for those who are here," "thankful for our country . . . our health . . . our jobs . . . the food."

    You understand. It's what we do, what we say. It's who we are.

  • Let me dream

    Anyone who knows me understands that a full seven or eight hours of nightly sleep is near to impossible.

    At best I get six hours, but recently I've circled back to the four hour sleep cycle.

    The past two weeks have been worse – I'm like a newborn, waking every two hours, no matter how tired I am.

    However, unlike a newborn, I don't demand a feeding. Most of the time I either lie there until exhaustion overtakes me or I get up and prowl Facebook, joining other insomniacs around the globe.