How I've survived violent crap. And dancing
One Potato Gone She was so beautiful, Potato. I did not believe I would ever be the best friend of such a beautiful creature, or such a devoted, loving, cuddly, funny, athletic, perfect, puppy. But, for a minute, I was. The minute was: Delightful Exhausting …
29. years of marriage later and not much has changed. Hellooo! I’ve been writing and performing the story of my life for the past 3 1/2 years. To accomplish this epic feat, I’ve been hiding from my daily life and not writing anything here, or anywhere else really. Today, that hiatus is over with the…
Do you have an “If” of your own? Or answers to any of these? What if: a librarian had ADHD-would books be kept alphabetically or skip around the alphabet? happiness had staying power a dog wore slippery shoes – what would happen to their confidence?…
Feet barely skimming the water, sitting on the end of the Miller’s dock on Lake Pillsbury, sunburned and exhausted from a day spent water skiing with my best friends, Lisa and Nellie. My brother, Matt, has just dropped off a contraband six pack of beer. We’re 13, it’s the end of the summer before we…
I think I’m the one that broke the rules. But only in the daylight. I didn’t always look to see who was there. I rarely locked it. I left it wide open if something exiting came in. Or went out. In my original families home, the best things came in through our front door; mail,…
I was 12 when it was time to learn how to ride a motorcycle. My father collected used cars, boats, motorcycles, people, accidents. Buying anything new was a foreign concept to my parents. They both loved to refinish antiques. Obsessive almost. I’ve always wondered what, exactly, they were trying to rescue, or buff out, or…
My mother made things: clothes, vegetables, furniture, houses, enemies. As a product of the depression, she was frugal to a fault. As absolutely annoying as this was, sometimes it was comedy gold. I grew up in the 1960s, a decade which, in and of itself, is fairly amusing. I was both awed and baffled by…
I was five when my father threw me out of our boat into Lake Mendocino. It was time to learn how to water ski. Bobbing behind the boat with my lifejacket hovering over my head, my left arm got tangled in the tow-rope. I yelled “Hit it” hoping the rope would sort itself out. I…
Because poetry seemed a worthy activity during our time of inactivity.* Protest signs Empty water bottles Beer cans Cigarette butts Gum wrappers spent bullets Crumpled signs smoking shells spattered blood…