I promised to share some lighthearted “Glimpses” from the vintage writings of my life, and the day has come to deliver on that promise. This first Glimpse requires a little background. When I wrote this, our refilled bottle of Mrs. Butterworth had been around for much of my daughter Heather’s young life. The thing about our Mrs. Butterworth was that she talked. She employed a really horrible English accent (it just seemed to happen every time I grabbed her from the fridge) and she had a way of bringing sweetness not just to pancakes but to our very lives. She was chatty and always full of wise words and cheery admonitions. Like:
The Day the Magic Died
The Day the Magic Died
The Day the Magic Died
I promised to share some lighthearted “Glimpses” from the vintage writings of my life, and the day has come to deliver on that promise. This first Glimpse requires a little background. When I wrote this, our refilled bottle of Mrs. Butterworth had been around for much of my daughter Heather’s young life. The thing about our Mrs. Butterworth was that she talked. She employed a really horrible English accent (it just seemed to happen every time I grabbed her from the fridge) and she had a way of bringing sweetness not just to pancakes but to our very lives. She was chatty and always full of wise words and cheery admonitions. Like: