I Was So Scared

Writing about childhood memories yesterday made me recall the time the wind up record player in my bedroom closet started whirring on its own. I had no idea what that sound coming from my closet was, but it terrified me. I remember being frozen in place, unable even to shout for my parents to come save me from the strange noise. I could see my dad in the backyard outside my window, but couldn’t summon him.

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A Childhood Memory

My father like to hunt and fish. He took me along, so I was raised around guns. I was an excellent shot – a regular little Annie Oakley. I took this talent with me to the county fair in the summer and used it to plink my way through all the shooting galleries and win little stuffed animals by downing rows of plastic ducks. As I got older and went to the fair with boys, none of them wanted to shoot with me, because I always did better than they did. Some girls would have missed on purpose. But not me.

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Call the Cops

I love a mystery. One of my favorite mystery writers is Dana Stabenow. She has a series of novels about a native Alaskan woman dubbed Kate Shugak that are always fascinating. I just read her latest, “Restless in the Grave.” One thread of the plot revolves around Alaska getting cell service and all the resulting calls to the cops.

Mostly, I enjoy the character Kate. I get a vicarious thrill from the descriptions of Alaska – where I have never managed to go, despite wanting to for years. Stabenow tosses in a few humorous moments, some literary twists, and brilliant turns of phrase that please the writer in me. If you’re a mystery fan, too, check her out.

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Nice Doggie

Learning calligraphy turned out to be the smartest thing I ever did at the age of 14. It was easy for me. I was a great student of penmanship. When I turned 16 I got my first job based on my ability to write words beautifully. My job was to paint “NICE DOGGY” on dog food bowls. The painting part was not much fun, but going along to the craft fairs where the bowls were sold was big fun. That’s where I met . . .

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That Tiny Dog

“Remember that tiny dog mom had?” My brother Jerry did a perfect imitation of mom talking baby talk to a dog that fit in the palm of her hand. We laughed at him – a welcome break in the grim afternoon. We’d just come from the funeral home, arranging for mom’s last public moments.

Sarah sighed. “It was silly how much she loved that stupid dog. For such a little thing, it had a huge empty nest to fill.”

“Let’s find a photo of him to bury with her,” I said. “She’d like that.”

We . . .

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An enormous dog

I approached the farm house juggling an armful of files and my purse. An enormous dog came running. I stopped in my tracks. This dog was as big as a horse, I swear. He was solid black with a huge square head and long skinny legs that looked like they came up to my armpits. He wasn’t barking or growling, but he was moving fast. I may have been praying that my legs would start to function again so I could run from the monster, maybe I even screamed for help. It’s a little blurry to recall. Then . . .

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A Cup of Friendship

If you were an American expat in Kabul how would you find friends, survive, thrive? Perhaps by opening a coffee house and become part of the lives of the residents, sharing life and a cup of friendship. If it were me, I’d be thinking every minute of every day about how to get out of Afghanistan . . .

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