I posted a request on Facebook, asking friends to share stories for Halloween.

“The thing I’m finding with Americans,” said a co-worker who hails from Montenegro, “is that so many of them live to work, instead of working to live.”

I’ve always been prone to pink eye. I was so susceptible that if someone on the opposite end of my building had a child in the same school as a kid who had pink eye, I would catch it. I’ve just always been bent that direction.

I built a house once, a long time ago. For years I would pass it each time I went to visit my parents, and then it burned down.

I recently wrote about those “when our eyes met” moments many of us have had with the animals who become members of the family. That instant you know they’re about to be yours.

Much as I love “The Wizard of Oz,” there was something about those ruby slippers that always stuck in my craw.

My daughter and I were mid-conversation about animals recently when she suddenly laughed.

I’ve always preferred to be alone when I write, so I will carry my laptop down by our creek or out on the porch. Sometimes in bed. But I was feeling uncharacteristically non-hermit-like, so I plopped down with my computer in the corner chair in Don’s home office.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one could easily prompt that many from me. With a good many being expletives.

Don didn’t seem to think it was odd I packed sandpaper for our vacation. Neither did Celeste.

My friend, David Miller, formerly of Charleston (now a resident of Washington state), writes the best emails. He doesn’t write all that often, but when he does, he unfailingly gets my wheels turning with whatever it is that has spurred him to write. This latest perhaps more than most. The ti…

“A few months ago,” the email began, “you did a story about a time you went to a laundromat in Charleston for the first time. You didn’t know how to work the machines or how much it cost to do a few loads of clothes and were surprised it ended up costing around $25 to do your clothes.

When I lived both in Poca and South Charleston, it seemed easy to meet people.

I imagine what I’m about to say is likely to offend someone.

I recently attended a baby shower where the guests were asked to write their favorite bit of parenting advice on a slip of paper.

For just about as long as I can remember, my dream car was a truck. Not just any old truck, but ...

It’s odd how many businesses and products have disappeared during my lifetime.

There are only two people where I work who are over 50. I’m one of those two. The majority of my co-workers are mid-20s to early 30s. Fresh faced and energetic, with a work ethic their parents would be proud (and possibly surprised) to witness.

There’s been a spate of news coverage recently of “food deserts” in America, a term I’d only heard once before, after writing about an experience I’d had a few years back at a Charleston laundromat.

“How did she come to be named Bug?” asked our next-door neighbor, Becca, as Bug figure-eighted around Becca’s legs.

I wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a serious child. Although quiet and shy and often nose-deep in a book, I generally preferred to be chasing down punch lines over being profound or introspective.

I’m generally good at multitasking, but trying to write a column while simultaneously packing for a camping trip is harder than expected.

I’m not terribly gifted at math, but believe I’ve discovered a formula.

I’d only been in the car a few minutes and had just started telling a story to Don when our GPS navigator interrupted.