Probably 1968? Dennis, sister Jennifer, and Brutus. He disappeared one day, never coming back.
I have a thousand stories, and each one is a node that leads to a hundred others. I read about writer’s block but suffer from the opposite curse, a gush of ideas each day, all wrestling to get out, to breathe.
These are memoir pieces, tied in some way to my story, to growing up in a time and place, to growing up with certain people with certain ideas.
Here I am going for a run with my best running pal. I’m pretty sure the neighbors wonder…
I expected the seas to part. I absolutely expected lots of yelling and hand waving. At the very least, I expected to be dragged to the truck by my ear. But Mom and Dad just looked at each other. They probably winked. “Fine.”
Instantly, I knew what happened. Why hadn’t I caught this? Shouldn’t I have caught it?
I’m flabbergasted now, as if I’d never lifted the hood before, or know where Sweden is, and how old the car is. I’m feeling like a genius just for knowing how to gas the thing up.
Not all my Christmases were paeans to greed and selfishness.
It’s that time of year, and an embarrassment of reading riches pour into my inbox almost daily. What to do? Share.
Enjoy most in elementary school reading parlance, correlates directly with more books checked out and more time spent reading.
Can tiger’s blood be far behind?
Then – then! – I saw it and heard it again. I almost wish it was a baby cottonmouth with a mouse in its fangs, crying and squealing.