Featured Articles
Love Looks Back on Itself
by Tammy Kennon
Liv Fun: Vol 5 – Issue 3
I’m glad her name is Tammy,
It seems to fit her style.
She’s love and life and mischief,
You can see it in her smile.
So begins a poem my mother wrote about me when she was 39 and I was a scrappy 11-year-old, the kind of girl known in those days as a tomboy. It’s unclear why she chose to write a tribute to me alone, the third of her four children. Maybe it was Mom’s small attempt to right my awkward, three-strike entrée into a fully formed family that already had a girl and a boy.
My dad was hoping for a much-needed tax deduction, yet I was born six hours into a New Year. Strike one. A boy, born just before me, was crowned the New Year’s Baby (and got all the gifts). Strike two. If that wasn’t disappointment enough, my parents planned to call me Steve, but there was yet that other unfortunate strike three.
It was my eight-year-old sister who insisted that I was Tammy. (And, personally, I think a poem that begins “I’m Glad His Name Is Steve” has no legs.)
It is a testament to Mom that none of these potentially scarring beginnings made a mark on me. I was not an anonymous kid in a crowd, but her daughter with unique foibles and varied interests. Mom took the time to know me.
Liv Fun
by Leisure Care
Autumn 2016
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A Funny Thing About Humans …
by David Naster
Humorous thinking helps us deal with tough times. When we make it a habit to think funny, we develop a great survival skill — the ability to manage our thoughts. Don’t believe me? Check out these real stories about real people who laughed through their tough times, proving you need to let more humor into your life.
Safeguarding Your Personal ID
by Jeff Huse
No company, government or agency has a greater interest in protecting your personal information than you do. Sure, companies have a legal obligation to protect your information. But it’s you, not the company, that feels the consequences most severely when your private information is misused.
Love Looks Back on Itself
by Tammy Kennon
So begins a poem my mother wrote about me when she was 39 and I was a scrappy 11-year-old, the kind of girl known in those days as a tomboy. It’s unclear why she chose to write a tribute to me alone, the third of her four children. Maybe it was Mom’s small attempt to right my awkward, three-strike entrée into a fully formed family that already had a girl and a boy.