Robin Garrison Leach

Robin Writes: a weekly column looking at life.

Commentary: There are occasions when a bathroom visitor finds herself without reading material. In this case, any printed surface in the room is fair game.

“Michelle's daddy can lift a house!” My 5-year-old daughter cried giant tears. She wiped her nose with a dirty fist and glared at the back door as it slammed shut behind her.

SUMMER KICKOFF SALE: ONLY 25¢ If you give me a gift, you can be sure I'll keep the box it came in. That box is almost like a second gift.

An essay urging Americans to call the holiday Independence Day, not just the Fourth of July, and to remember the freedoms and sacrifices the celebration represe...

JULY FOURTH SALE: ONLY 25¢ Independence Day has lost its name. In a moment of laziness or maybe just forgetfulness, many of us decided to take away the descriptive title and replace it with a calendar number.

Each July, a traveling carnival transforms a town park into a sensory world of rides, claw machines and hopeful nights in this nostalgic summer memoir.

On the opening night of the carnival, the town was hopping. Every car seemed to turn toward the park. Kids scurried down the sidewalks.

Regardless of the weather or time of day, when we had to go, we sprinted to the outhouse, which seemed to be at varying distances in proportion to our urgency.

I make my way toward the Room of Doom — the one with the mirror and bright fluorescent lights that capture every dimple and pucker and bulge.