Stashes of Stuff
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Life as a Road Trip Miracle
It was a spectacular summer day in Hoosierland, and we were on the fly. Radio rocking our rental car, zooming at 75 mph on the Interstate, slicing Midwestern humidity like a butter knife.
Closet Case
Swapping out clothes - Winter for Summer wares - an annual rite of Spring. A household cleansing of spirit, re-connecting with my wealth of wear via the mundane. As I sheathed and unsheathed the clothes according to their seasons, repurposing plastic cleaner bags to...
Limerick
Limericks are a form of poetry, an affinity I inherited from my dad. I can quickly quip, like he.
‘Tis fitting to speak of this after eating my fill of corned beef and cabbage to celebrate St. Patty’s Day. ‘Tis.
Living Life as a Miracle: My Lazarus Dad
There are few words that can tilt your world faster than “You’re fired.”
Unless it’s “Your dad’s in a coma and not expected to live.”
Two sentences that I heard within an hour in March, 2008.
Reunion
A complimentary reminiscence arrived via email, preceding the mailed invitation to my high school reunion by a few days. Nancy got my email address from STASHES, an additional boon of my book. Bliss-out, Boomer! We had reignited our relationship, beyond pictures of grandkids and travel report one-liners in the obligatory Christmas card. I was enticed into longing, a need to hug and chat with my hsbff.
If You Give a Writer a Pen…
You may recall that I got a new pen for my birthday. If you don’t, you may read about it here The Seven Year Pen
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, which I feel it is, here’s my penultimate praise:
If you give a writer a pen, she’s going to ask for paper…
Sincerely Yours
Dear Diet,
We are breaking up. I haven’t lost the recommended ten pounds in twenty years.
Instead I’ve added three more since the New Year.
This is a weighty matter to be sure, but I am giving up.
Close encounter of a new kind: Starbucks Nation
It was midmorning, but Starbucks was jammed. What isn’t in Irvine, another over-populated burn in the O.C.? I put in my order and fetched my phone for someone with whom to communicate, like everyone else congregated near the drink station.
Except two young people:
Eight Days a Week
Baby Boomer that I am; at Sam’s I am not.
Bill Engdahl enthusiast that I am, as in “here’s your sign”…
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