Deborah Paul

My mother insisted I know how to read music even if I couldn’t perform it, and maybe that was good enough.

The prospect of being confined to a vehicle worried me far less than the thought of listening to Philosophy and Intellectual History, Volume 2 for 18 hours.

If kids knew what to do, they’d be adults. It’s our job to turn them into the latter.

I assume your company has overhead, which is usually covered by revenue from consumers like me. And if enough of them have difficulty similar to mine, you should be concerned.

Are people wandering the streets muttering “I wish I had a doughnut,” and a score of doughnut shops appear? Or do the stores come first?

The convenience of pulling out a device makes it too easy to snap everything.

Given my experience and obvious affinity for Keystone at the Crossing, no one is better qualified to be mayor of the area than I.

Amid all the chatter surrounding Common Core standards—what education is essential and what is not—I hear a lot about college prep but not enough about prep for life.

Dusty knickknacks were removed from glass-fronted cabinets and plopped down on the living-room floor to await future placement. I took the opportunity to clean and discard. That’s when, after 22 years, I came upon relics stolen by Nazis in World War II.

I left that condo for the last time with a lump in my throat past which I could not swallow. The permanence of the sea reminds me of the impermanence of those of us who marvel at it. This was a gift: the chance to live on the water, if not forever, at least for once in my life.

I have a new semantic bone to pick: overuse of the adjective “amazing,” which now describes everything from a red-carpet gown to a robot.

Grandmas enjoy a more casual relationship with their grandkids than they used to, one that I’ve been fortunate to develop myself.

I’d like to believe I’ve always been more progressive, although had Grant not been a family member, I might not have embraced gay marriage, thinking it too liberal. But when the issue becomes personal, intolerance fades until it vanishes completely.

The Star has more local stuff than it once did, I’ll grant you that, and much of it is good. Sometimes, though, you must get desperate to fill space, as with the piece you ran about a deer beaten on the head with a hammer on I-70.

It was then I realized how lonely I was without a pet. For the first time in my 60-plus years, there was no dog or cat to greet me at the door and warm my lap, no adoring creature to nurture and feed, no nonjudgmental soul to whom I could pour out my heart.