Most of us have looked in our musty dusty scrapbooks and winced at the hairstyles we sported in our youth. Or our clothing styles, make-up styles, prom dates (well, almost any dates come to think of it), and behaviors. “What were we thinking?†we ask ourselves. Truth be known, at the time, those styles were trendy and socially on cue… Read More
History, Herstory, Our story
Sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse. Genocide. Take you pick on any and all of the afore-mentioned issues you didn’t learn in your American History class as it pertains to Native Americans and Manifest Destiny. As a person of middle-aged status, it disturbs me to discover how often writers of history distorted lessons learned in childhood. In our youth we… Read More
Mother’s Day, The Ring Of Truth
A few years ago: Sleek, sweaty, thoroughbreds headed into the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. The dirt-coated jockeys and horses were tightly clumped in a running pack, and positions were changing faster than women wearing thong underwear at an all day lecture. I bounced on the couch, clapped at the television, and willed my favored horse to go faster…. Read More
The Autograph
The hallway looked like one of those photos where the mirror reflects another mirror and another and another into infinity. Only this mental photo involved a lot more beige. And doors. Lots of doors. Okay, let’s just say it was a long hallway. My husband and I sorta knew where we were going…the community room, seventh floor, book signing. It… Read More
A Grandma’s Wisdom
Grandma-isms. Is there such a word? There should be. My grandma tended to tell me stories of her youth, and spent as much time on her regrets as her successes. I don’t have too many one-liners from her, but the intent and messages linger within me to this day. A peppery and well timed, “Schweinhund!†was always a smile maker… Read More
The Stranger
He sat forward, reading a slightly crumpled piece of paper. I noticed him less for the suit and tie and more for the way his lips moved silently with the rhythm of the words scrawled in longhand. Was it a “Dear John†letter? Was it bad news of some sort? The way his brow formed worry lines made me believe… Read More
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