If chores built character, I’d be a twelve-year-old Mother Theresa. Today, on a perfect summer morning, I stood in Annie Lee’s porthole-less gloom washing last night’s marinara from Mom’s sailboat emblazoned Melmac. Fish bones floated in the dying suds, making me shudder. Picking bones out of spaghetti was wrong on so many levels. Six-year-old R.J. […]