The first year Ron and I were dating he gave me a 973-page book for Christmas, The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. Any other woman would have thrown it at his head. Lucky for him I’d rather read than be frosted with diamonds. . . . Continue reading
It was not our intention to spy on our daughter and her friends. Honest! It was a fluke. A chance coincidence. A July 4th opportunity we couldn’t pass up! . . . Continue reading
Damn birds! I knocked their house off the front porch light with a broom then hosed off their leftover building debris for the second morning in a row.
I looked for eggs first; I’m not heartless. Plus there’s a federal law that forbids disturbing an occupied nest. Not that any of my neighbors would report me, but one never knows. . . . Continue reading
After hearing disparaging stories about the fruitcake’s shelf life of 100 years, I never had a desire to try it until I discovered mini loafs of the seasonal concoction in my grocery store a few years ago. It was that first loaf that started the whole sordid fruitcake affair. . . . Continue reading
According to my mother, when I was a toddler my dad said nothing made him happier than when I paid attention to him.
What did he mean by that? Was I too busy playing tea party to notice him, so when I was attentive it was extra special? Or did I shower him with love and kisses, leaping into his arms the moment he stepped foot in the house? It’s all speculation. My mother doesn’t even know what he meant.
I set the Windex bottle down
upon the Camry’s hood.
My windshield sparkled clean and clear,
like all windshields should.
But then a heard a tip tap sound
and turned my head to see
the Windex walking on the car,
determined to be free.
Early in our marriage Ron drove us from Springfield, Illinois to Crystal Lake, Illinois for my older sister’s wedding anniversary bash. My plan was to arrive by noon, eat lunch and help prepare the house for the big event the following day.
We didn’t have a cell phone or GPS back then. Usually, I am the navigator, watching the road signs and giving directions, but this time I was reading Fat Tuesday by Sandra Brown, totally absorbed in the imaginary world.
1990. I tied the 50 inch piece of string into a circle and tossed it into the air. It snagged one of the hooks on a wall mounted coat rack in my bedroom like a pair of panties flung during a passionate movie scene.
The string toss was a writing prompt. The shape of the string or whatever it landed on was supposed to inspire an idea for a personal experience story. Sadly, the only airtime my undies ever saw was when they were hurled into the clothes hamper. No story there.
(2011) I smiled at the congregation during the thirty second musical intro of my solo as if nothing was out of the ordinary, while in fact I was opening every nook and cranny in my head searching for the words to the first verse of the song.
Hearing the notes of my entrance cue, I opened my mouth hoping the words would leap out of their hiding place, but they didn’t.
The hole in the blanket was the size of a dime. It was perfect for spying from my bunk in the pirate ship Mist Tent, where I had been held captive for two long days and nights.
I peered through the opening and spied the Bedroom Dresser, another ship on the Sea of Hardwood Floors. Inside a shadowy cave on the shore of Closet Door Cove, ghosts wearing my clothing taunted me as the Mist Tent dropped anchor in Bedroom Harbor.