Stashes of Stuff
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Noise
Cars honking, toddlers wailing, buffalo stampeding… what doe these have in common: noise!
Giving
Tis the season of giving, sparked by Giving Tuesday on December 1. I hope you gave your heart out that day along with lots of dough in your wallet. If you didn’t replace the jingle of personally pocketed coins with Santa’s spirited jingle bells as you wrote checks on that day, do so now while you listen to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwZjz_WEpaM
I just went over to bake Christmas cookies…
I just went over to communally bake, but then…
Living Life as a Miracle: Broken
Dang! The ancient stretch cord holding the beads and bangles of a Christmas bracelet broke and all of the baubles came tumbling down. Just as we headed out to church service on Sunday.
Alzheimer’s App?
There’s an app for that.” It’s become as ubiquitous as “Can you hear me now? or “Ask Siri.”
Reformed
There’s little worse than being cornered into conversing with a reformed ______. Insert your own term from this list, please: alcoholic, sinner, fatty, cigarette smoker, slut… being placed in Harangue Hell.
No salad course, of course
The provocative phrase above, written on a cocktail napkin of vibrant blue hue, drew a laugh and my quick purchase at a local shop. It’s evoked many a laugh since as we shared among guests in our house. Suddenly it reared as a dare in my mind, a challenge to write a salad story starter. Here goes:
Grant Boys
Larry and I recently trolled the Grant Boys Store in Newport Beach, an institution of sorts. The store had occupied a block of prime CA real estate for 60 years, likely a record on Newport’s streets of sun-drenched dreams, where a well-toned tan bests camo gear every sun-blessed day of the week. No sand, beach towels or suits on its racks, surf or Boogie Boards stocked by our ‘Boys’ in the city of the famed wave-breaking beach.
Past as Prologue: Iowa Writers approve
Jackie and Steve Breeden live on a small farm, the vintage dream of the American Midwest. The vast fields surrounding their home have long been held by Steve’s family, but are cash-rented to neighbors who possess fresh burnished resolve. Buttressed by a longer line of credit at the bank and buffered by younger bones.
The couple have earned a contented life. Their gravel lane undulates a rise and their farmhouse aligns like a nose between two cheek-like hills under the eyes of God. Robert Frost would have composed a poem just for them, if he lived in their time.
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