I imagine Abraham Lincoln entered the romantic lamp-lit ballroom and exclaimed, “How clean these women look,” as he weaved through dresses of silk and crinoline. I imagine he was out of his element at that fateful dance.

Snowshoeing up Shadow Mountain is hard.

My shopping goal was to simply purchase a container of tahini paste.

What are my top 10 movies for 2019? It’s hard to say, since I’ve seen only six of them.

Eight hours later I found myself barreling up the sidewalks of Manhattan in a rickshaw with my daughter-in-law and her mom, circumventing a midtown traffic jam, rushing to Lincoln Center to make the 8 o’clock curtain of “Madama Butterfly” at the Metropolitan Opera.

This morning I defrosted an antelope roast to slice into jerky for the holidays. Toward evening I brought in a load of firewood. Tonight I’m having an elk burger for dinner.

A particular family member of mine is raising four Plymouth Barred Rock hens.

During my quiet hours, cozying up with thoughts of Stalin is not my general modus operandi.

“Doreen,” she said, “you need to clean out your pantry more often. Clearly you have a fatal flaw in your homemaking skills.”

I myself will never buy cheap pumpkins from a dubious looking stranger.

Toast is very comforting, but my toaster, not so much. My gleaming white two-slice toaster was a gift. I took it out of the box, made my first piece of toast and realized this was not the toaster for me.

The shutter on my camera clicked just as a car pulled up in front of the house.