MyLeslieNotebook

Add caption Today is my absolute favorite day of the year. More than Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter or even my own birthday. More than the first day of vacation or the last day of spring cleaning.  It's the first day of fall. I know, I know, the calendar told me that the first day of fall was last week. But it still felt like summer last week . I'm not talking about when google tells me it's the first day of fall; I'm talking about when my soul does . I had heard whisperings that today would be it. The forecast said highs in the 70s. I walked outside at about 6:30 this morning and it felt like any other morning for the past few weeks. [And I've been burned by weather forecasts before, so I didn't have my hopes too high.] But I went out again at 9:00 and it hadn't gotten even hotter.  Again at 10:30; same temperature. Now you may not know this about me, but I am not a hot-weather person. I am grumpy throughout May because I know summer is

Lester, the most important man in my life, turns 61 today.  No disrespect to my amazing husband, but my dad Les ter--yes, the reason I'm named Les lie--is the ONE man who has always been in my life. Every day, every celebration, every loss, and every monumental moment (and most of the ordinary ones), he has been there.   And more than just a physical presence, Lester shaped me into myself. Some things he gave to me genetically (like my loud sneeze and my loud mouth), some things he intentionally instilled in me (like a devotion to Jesus and a basic understanding of plumbing), and some things I just picked up through being his daughter the past 39 years (like singing harmony, loving Star Trek, and laughing at my own jokes before I get to the punch line).  And though I today focus on my dad and reflect on all the good things he was and is and will be, I feel the need to say this to everyone reading this:  I am so sorry if you didn't have a dad like Lester. Because I fee

I have had the same kitchen towels for sixteen years.  I got a ton of them for wedding gifts and have used them--tons--since I got married WAAAYYY back in 2000. And it just hit me a few weeks ago: these things were disgusting! They were discolored, threadbare, and simply worn out.  (Those of you who know me well know that I am not observant. It literally took a hole in the middle of one of my "good" kitchen towels to make this observation.)  So I asked my mother-in-law to be on the lookout for some "new" kitchen towels for me at a yard sale. [She is a die-hard yard saler, and I love getting stuff for pennies.] The next time she came over, she delivered a box full of kitchen towels. And they weren't just better  than mine. They weren't just newer  than the old ones I had.  They were beautiful. You might doubt that yard sale kitchen towels could be described as beautiful, but these really were. They were huge and thin and perfectly white. As I pu

I try so hard NOT to be a snob. I come from a humble family, live in a humble town in a humble county in a humble state, have married a humble man and try to live humbly.  [But you know, of course, the minute you think you're humble, you're actually prideful, right? Because you're proud that you're so humble.] Anyway, I have a confession to make: I am a coffee snob. It's my husband's fault. For many years, he chaperoned a trip to Costa Rica in January, teaching Tennessee teenagers how to surf. [Tough job, but somebody's got to do it!] He left me at home with our two kids, handling the normal, non-beach, non-surfing, January life.  So he felt guilty enough to bring me back some Costa Rican coffee. Though he has never tasted coffee {I hear gasps from around the world!} and claims he never will, he knows I love it . And everyone on the trip was talking about how great the coffee was in Costa Rica. So the first year he brought me back four or five poun