She sat down in the theater seat next to me. I felt her looking at me. Then she said, “You’re Cindy Dawson,” and stuck her hand my way for a handshake. I looked at her. I had no idea who she was, but I extended my hand as well. “I’m from Hamilton, too,” she said.
What were the odds of two English women from Hamilton sitting down side by side in a New York theater? “Do I know you?” I asked. She . . .
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A scraping noise. A quiet car driving away. The clock said 3 AM. She peered out the window. The garden hose lay near the street, splayed on the sidewalk like a giant snake. Someone was stealing the hose? Or trying to? She dialed 911.
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So here’s the thing. It’s May. The merry month of May. The grass is greener, the flowers scent the air, the light hangs about later in the day, and all those aches and pains the cold weather brought on have faded. What I don’t get is why haven’t my spirits improved. Why does everything still look so bleak? Spring has sprung, but my winter blues are still around.
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I love the spam that really knows me – gets me. You know, the ones with subject lines like “soar in your private jet” or “meet beautiful Asian women” or “male enhancement drugs.” They are so perfect and fitting that I love getting them. And you know I’m going to open and respond to every one of them because, well, they are especially for me.
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Things I saw on a recent road trip: hundreds of geese – some with chicks, magpies, meadowlarks, fresh snow, eroded red sandstone in astounding shapes, green fields with ample water, mountain valleys and farms, a small college in a small town where the only goal is to produce great educators, potato storage sheds, newborn calves, small town cafes with excellent food, an old car roundup, athletes on bikes, and many many rivers. It’s nice to be reminded I live in a beautiful country.
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The history lesson of my life begins with typewriters. The kind with keys you pushed down about an inch and only had one font. Then electric typewriters came along with more sensitive keys that you barely touched. The keys on my laptop are not something you pound. But it’s the keyboard on a phone or a tablet that astounds. Tiny letters – still arranged like a qwerty keyboard – defy the fingers and create a brand of humor that is a manifestation of auto correct.
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My mom said his name was Seth, but we always called him Mr. Moustache. We liked to peek at him when he walked down the sidewalk each morning and evening. That stache was as big as a rat! It curled down his face like an upside down U. His regular hair up on top of his head was grey, but the monster stache was pure black. We argued a lot about whether he dyed it.
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We could hear him – a woodpecker – each time he stopped in the neighbor’s back yard to peck at their wooden play structure. Janelle would jump up from where she was playing and run to the yard. She would stand at the fence, eyes peering between the pickets into the neighbor’s yard, and watch the little brown bird make a big noise with his beak.
When he flew away, she returned to the house to announce, “Mommy, I saw a woodpecker.”
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Airtight. Airtight. Her mind raced. Airtight. She didn’t know why, but she was sure the container needed to be airtight.
She raced to the kitchen, pawed through plastic bags, aluminum foil, old mayonnaise jars. Finally she grabbed a plastic bag and ran back to the bedroom, where Ed still screamed in the bed.
With two fingers, she felt among the bloody goo for Ed’s . . .
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I can never water my trees enough. It’s the desert where I live. I’ve killed many trees because I didn’t water them enough. So when my peach tree started looking peaked I asked the tree doctor what was wrong with it. I thought it would be some horrible disease. Nope. Just add water. Poor baby is thirsty.
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