“No, Tim! No!” Ron hollered as he, and his best friend, flew out of the boat, splashing into the hot ditch near the Sangchris Lake Power Plant like innocent lobsters tossed into a pot of boiling water.
Earlier that day, Ron and Tim had been busy cleaning their boat trailer wheel bearings in our garage in preparation to tie their boats together, watch the sunset, and fish until midnight at the lake.
Sea Weed, our 14-foot Aluminum Sea Nymph V-hull boat, was only 3 feet at its widest point. It was more like a wobbly canoe, especially for anyone standing…
When it comes to Christmas, I’ve never gone all out like they do in the movies.
Commercially, the Christmas focus is on selecting the perfect gift for every family member, but I don’t have the female shopping gene. I have trouble deciding what to buy for myself, let alone others. Thank goodness our grandchildren are finally old enough to appreciate the gift of cash.
Cooking a full-blown, home-cooked Christmas dinner for the extended family isn’t my thing either, even though I did it for many years. And honestly, I don’t remember the last time I made Christmas cookies.
Of the 8 million Americans who received their second Covid-19 stimulus payment on a debit card, my 90-year-old mother should not have been one of them.
When Mom opened a letter with a debit card attached, she assumed it was junk mail and tossed it in the trash. Having second thoughts, she pulled it out of the garbage and, with her failing eyesight, concluded that it was about the stimulus payment. Since her first payment came by check, she thought the letter might be a scam.
I visited mom a few days later when she asked, “Did you get your…
I’ve had my share of summer vacations. I’ve even written about them, but there’s one that stands out among all the rest — the time my husband was spotted allegedly throwing drugs off the Clay’s Ferry Bridge over the Kentucky River.
The weather was clear and sunny when we left Gatlinburg, Tennessee to head home after our five-day vacation. My two oldest children were unable to go with us, so it was just my teenage daughter, her friend, my husband Ron, and me in our trusty blue Jeep Cherokee heading back to the Midwest.
As we left the Great Smokey…
In 2010 I was asked to be a Mother’s Day speaker. My children were grown and gone with children of their own so I wrote a ten-minute talk about my three rules for “Mothering, not Smothering”.
I let the talk simmer for a few days. When I read it again…
The two women stood in the church foyer nose to nose, arguing over the color of foil surrounding the Easter lily pots.
It didn’t matter to them that it was Easter Sunday, that the church was packed to overflowing or that every member had turned to watch the commotion behind them.
“You told me the foil should be purple,” exploded the soprano when she noticed that hers was the only Easter lily in the front of the sanctuary NOT nestled in white.
“I told you white,” insisted the alto.
“You told me Purple!”
The last remaining choir members…
Something I’m eating is making me sick.
It clogs my nose. My throat gets thick.
Could it be ice cream, milk, and cheese?
Does dairy create my wheeze and sneeze?
Something I’m eating is stopping me up.
My innards are blocked in a poop pileup.
Could it be chocolate, creamy and sweet?
I hope it’s not chocolate I should not eat!
Something I’m eating is making me bloat.
Could it be food with a high fructose coat?
Candy bars, soft drinks, cereal and such –
I think I’m bingeing on way too much!
Something I’m eating is keeping me plump.
I tossed the circle of string into the air where it snagged on the left hook of the coat rack in my bedroom, like a pair of panties flung during a passionate movie scene.
The string fling was an experiential writing class prompt to inspire a personal story about one’s life; toss the string and tell a story about what it lands on, the shape of it, or the exercise experience.
My first thought was passion and panties. Could I write about that? Sadly, the only airtime my undies saw was when I hurled them into the clothes hamper. …
When I woke up on Thanksgiving Day Mom had been in the kitchen since the crack of dawn, fussing over the Butterball Turkey for its noon debut on our dining room table.
Dad had just returned from picking up Grandma. My older sister Melody (14) was sitting at her vanity table trying to style her hair after substituting frozen orange juice cans for hair curlers. My contagious sister Julie (6), her neck swollen with the mumps, was on the sofa watching a Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was 12, hiding out in my bedroom, wrestling with a big secret.