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I was rudely awakened one minute before my alarm clock was set to go off. That itself can make you angry. But the cause for that early wake up call was that one of my children was screaming in an awful, shrill tone that he accidentally wet the bed. 

Do you know how many times the words “political party” appear in our beloved Constitution? Zero. Not once. And yet, our two major, private political parties get to write almost all the most important rules in the public political system that they dominate and control. The result is dysfuncti…

As someone who has two precious pups that mean the world to me, this sweet story about a lost — and then found — dog pulled at my heart strings. The kindness it comes wrapped in does, too.

During this past strange year, my family learned, as I’m sure many families did, that dad only has a limited number of yarns to spin and most of them weren’t that good the first time they were heard.

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A fresh pot of coffee. Stretchy yoga pants. Consistent WiFi. A dog leash hung next to the door. A clean supply of masks. That’s pretty much all I need, here on the 373rd day of the pandemic. 

Since we have become “Front Yard People,” we have become really good friends with our neighbor, Mr. Gary. We used to talk to him in passing, but now, whenever we hear his garage door open, my kids all go running: “HELLO MISTER GA-RAY!” 

For more than two decades, Des Peres resident Michelle Moffat has worked as an inpatient surgical nurse, a rewarding career that’s given her a front-row seat to the spectrum of the human condition: fear and pain, hope and healing, life and death. Or as any nurse will tell you, any given shift. 

I grew up watching “Friends.” As I watched season after season, tracking the characters and laughing along with the ambling plot of their lives, I was sure that when I grew up I would have life all figured out. I would know what my lane was, and have my character traits all parsed out. But I…

This month’s Buzzing Love column, which aims to be its own little “Kindness Corner” on the first Friday of every month, comes from a reader inspired by Leslie Gibson McCarthy’s recent column.

As 2020 would have it, there have been some changes in the Tentschert household. My son, Colin, has moved back home after a short stint living with his sister. In addition to his belongings, he also returned with a 1-year-old Beagle/Chihuahua mix named Ollie. 

Among the gifts I received from my dad, Les Gibson, were a love of reading and history, of arcane knowledge and trivial facts — the latter of which made the game show “Jeopardy!” must-see TV. My earliest memories are of us kids riding in the car as he, a typesetter by trade who never went to…

Happy New Year! How about trying to be a little kinder in the year ahead? You never know how much your kindness could mean to someone, and you might be the only person who took time to be kind. 

Every morning, as I stand in the bathroom getting myself ready for the day, my kids run amuck through the house. It never fails that one of them barges into the room wailing, with tears

Mom wanted us out of the house. It was Christmas Eve 1973, with four kids under 13 underfoot, along with food to prepare and gifts to wrap. She had that look in her eye, the one that said, “Cross me and die.”

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The Frisco Bell would have started ringing on Tuesday at the afternoon pep rally at Kirkwood High — its high, happy clang resonating through the halls.