In a few months, we Stocktonians will have opportunity to celebrate our town’s “sesquicentennial” — the 150th anniversary of this town’s settlement. Sesquicentennial is a mouthful of a word, but easier to say than the word for the 125th anniversary: “quasquicentennial.” Say that three times, as fast as you can!

This piece was not written by me, but it sure resonated with me when I read it on a Facebook share. Since it gets passed around umpteen-thousand times all over the world once it gets on Facebook, I call it fair game to share in this spot of mine. I was blessed with the opportunity recently

Even though she is three years old, I still call Charley a puppy. She certainly still acts like one, especially one morning not too long ago when she was playing with a little frog. I was watching from a distance as I watered my flowers, but I suddenly realized what was going on, and I went over to her and tried to chase the little frogger away a bit faster. Charley was clearly wanting to make a point that I was spoiling her fun, so she quickly snapped at the small frog and then ran away from me. In just a matter of a few seconds, I saw Charley drop that frog, and almost immediately she began foaming at the mouth. Spitting, frothing, coughing, over and over, but still interested in where that blankety-blank frog was going. I quickly ran inside and grabbed my tablet, asking “what should I do when my dog picks up a frog and begins foaming out her mouth?” The first thing that popped up told all about this inevitable trick that frogs will do to get the last laugh when they feel threatened, and the information assured me that she would be alright; but if she continued to foam at the mouth after a couple of hours, I should take her to my pet vet. I stayed home with her for 30 minutes or so until I knew for sure that the foam factory had shut down. I’d like to think that Charley learned a lesson in this, but I would be giving her way too much credit because she was having a lot of fun with that little hoppy-toad.

Way back in early spring, I was perusing an online ad for flower seeds, and on a whim, I ordered three packets of sunflower seeds in dazzling colors as they were shown: Red Wave, Italian White, and Bright Blue. I also ordered a packet of Sunflower Miniatures, traditional in appearance but only about a foot tall, that I wanted to plant around what used to be a windmill. The seeds were promised for early April arrival, and the seed company held true to their word as I received them April 8. But as I removed them from the package, I was totally flummoxed! In my package were four small plastic bags of seeds — no labels, no identification whatsoever, no way to know what was what. Now if I had planned to just scatter them in a flower bed, it wouldn’t have mattered. But I had a particular plan that I could picture clearly in my mind, and I just couldn’t understand why a reputable flower seed company would send out seeds without any type of labeling at all. Scratch that word “reputable!” I went back to the impressive confirmation email the company had sent, with little thumbnail photos of the flowers I had ordered, and at the bottom of the email I found the following message: “If you have any questions, reply to this email or contact us at info@GardenerStar.com.” So that’s what I did! I replied to the email and explained that I ordered certain colors because of a plan of how I wanted to plant these seeds, and I couldn’t proceed with that plan if I didn’t know which seeds would produce what flowers. I further commented that it didn’t make sense to sell flower seeds unmarked and that I probably would not be ordering from them in the future. A few days later I had a reply that, if I would take a photo of the seed packets, someone there could possibly identify them. So that’s what I did. I laid the four little packets of sunflower seeds on a white sheet of paper and took a picture, then sent that photo to them; and in just a couple of days, someone from the seed company replied by handwriting on my sheet of photos the names and identification of each seed packet.

I've come to believe there are two kinds of people in the world: those who love roller coasters, aka “thrill rides,” and those who don't. I unapologetically fit in with the latter, and I proved it last week when we took our youngest grands to Silver Dollar City. But it was there I came to understand the power that our youngest granddaughter, Karsyn, age 10, and her not-so-little brother, Jackson, 7, have in working magic to get this Memaw to do things that I would never, ever-in-mylifetime do: that is to ride, not one, not two, but THREE “thrill” rides that I would never, ever-in-my-lifetime do.

Inner Strength We were traveling last week, and I plan on filling y’all in on how that went as we took our two youngest grandkids camping at Silver Dollar City: amid record-high gas prices and potentially record-high heat. And, yes, I have lost the last marble in my wee brain as it just rolled down into the air conditioning vent.

The theme of the 2022 Symphony in the Flint Hills Signature Event was, ironically, “Weather in the Flint Hills.” It had been three years since we had last been to the Symphony concert out on the Kansas prairie, and we were so eager to go again. Apparently, so were the more than 7,000 others in attendance.

Kansas was recently ranked as the “least beautiful state” by the food and travel website Thrillist.

Here at the Sentinel, we have experienced the loss of a dear, sweet friend. Our big yellow cat became very sick with bladder cancer, and the humane thing of putting him to sleep was the only choice.

Gun violence and school shootings are a uniquely American epidemic. Sandy Hook Promise is shining a light on these vital facts and statistics.