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America Stands Tall
Terrorists fly in, and good people die,
Our innocence and security died that day,
We searched for ways to help ease the pain,
I came home and pulled out the flag that I had,
She is flying proudly just outside of my door,
They made this personal the day they came,
United we stand, just as our forefathers did then, Dianna Petry
An Unpeaceful End to Things
I received a disturbing phone call this afternoon. On the cosmic scale
it's probably pretty small potatoes, but it has been fermenting in the back of my mind
ever since. It was from my cousin a continent away, telling me that her husband had died
two weeks ago. We're not frightfully close, as I've lived overseas much of my life and her
furthest excursions have been to Florida, but I could still hear the raw anguish in her
voice. I wasn't particularly surprised at the news, for he had been ill for several
months. What did disturb me was her tale of the rudeness and cupidity of his sons from his
first marriage. They all but raided the house for items of supposed sentimental value
which might have belonged to their mother, and only stopped when she pointed out that an
industrial shop vacuum wasn't particularly sentimental in nature. It wasn't until they
left that she discovered the missing portable generator.
This is truly the height (or depths) of greed, and it's not the first tale of this
kind that I have heard. What is there about the possessions of the dear departed that
stirs the pond sediment of some souls? Before the last chord of the funeral service has
sounded, there they are, grasping for whatever they can get. In fact, occasionally they
hardly wait for the corpse to cool before the arguing begins. For a widow, already
freighted with misery and the regrets that invariably sneak in (for who among us does not
harbor the fear that we've failed our loved ones, somehow, somewhen) this is an attack
she's unprepared to handle.
The other thing she mentioned, rather confusedly, was that her nearest and dearest
were after her to be sure that all the doors and windows were locked at all times. Every
move means unlocking and locking something, and it makes life just that much more
cumbersome and tiring. Since she lives in the country, in an isolated area where strangers
are a rarity, this is rather strange sounding. I live in a rural community, and while I'm
not about to divulge the address, I don't think we're too much different from other
people. It is a physical impossibility to lock up this house; there are six doors, and
only one has a key that we're sure of. We don't have a watch dog, either. I spend many
nights here alone, and have never had a doubtful moment. Yet she, once the soul of
confidence, a nurse for many years and accustomed to independence, is now so scared and
upset that she hesitates to walk the dog at night.
Between the rude behavior of some and the overly solicitous nagging of others, the
poor woman is being relegated to that purdah that we bemoan in Kabul. She may not be
forced to conceal her skin, but how long will it be before she pulls the curtains and
stays inside, wondering when the next assault will come and whether it will be from
'friend' or foe? She's certainly not looking forward to the next few months. The stepsons
have promised to be back for Thanksgiving dinner. I wonder if they intend to take the good
china when they leave? (My advice, a trifle cynical but honest, was to lock the house and
go to a motel for the weekend. I doubt if she'll take it, though.)
Barbara M. Armistead
Yard Sale
Some days turn out better than others but this one would have had you laughing all day. I
wanted to share it with you.
I do daycare for a living so I always have several little ones in the house besides my
eleven-year-old son and ten-year-old nephew. The boys have come to the age where their
wants exceed the amount of their allowances. They had chosen a Saturday to have a yard
sale of all the toys they no longer played with and clothes that they had outgrown. It
gave me the perfect opportunity to do some closet cleaning myself. They planned to make
good use of the little girls I would that day by having them help carry things and set up
the display.
By 7:30am on Saturday, Chris, my son, was up and already placing yard sale signs on every
fence post in town. He blew up so many balloons that his lip kept the pucker for hours
afterward, and he took charge of the little girls as soon as they arrived. Kyle, my
nephew, was sleeping in and Chris had to put off a block-buster right beside of his bed
to awaken him. I thought the house was collapsing and nearly called 911 before I figured
out that it came from the boy's room!
By 8:30 a.m. the yard sale officially got under way. There were cars lined up waiting for
the chance to grab some family heirloom at practically no cost! Chris, always the one to
take charge, did exactly that. He had the girls occupied, he was handling the customers,
and Kyle was counting the change, several times over in fact. That was his way of staying
put in the lawn chair Chris had carried outside. Chris had gone out prepared with a price
list and value for all of his old comic books and was making very good deals. His deals
were so good in fact that I think I'll get his advice before I buy stock in anything!
I took this opportunity to go inside to fix a big breakfast for these children that were
working so hard. I started bacon, hash brown potatoes and fresh buttermilk biscuits. This
would be a feast fit for any king. Just as I was about to set the table, I heard one of
the little girls let out a squeal. If you have had kids around the house, you know that a
little girl squealing usually means there is a little boy up to no good! I immediately ran
for the front porch.
For several days there had been two buckets of tadpoles on my porch. One bucket held
little tadpoles; one held nearly fully developed tadpoles. (There is a proper name for that,
I know, but it isn't coming to mind). Anyway, the field across from my house is full of
tadpoles in various stages of development and boys on four-wheelers had been splitting
through the water holes where they live. My son, hating to see any life harmed, had
attempted to let these creatures develop until they were grown by gathering them up and
bringing them home.
One of the little girls had decided to touch the nice tadpoles and a second little girl,
being quite lady like, promptly pushed the first little girl forward. She landed head-first
in the bucket, and that was what caused the squeal that got my attention. She
immediately pulled her head out of the bucket and stood there screaming for help. She was
covered in a green slime that was oozing downward from her hair and face onto her dress.
Chris was scolding her because he was upset that the creatures he was trying to save were
now flip-flopping all over the front porch. Meanwhile, the second little girl had taken
off running in fear, the other children were standing wide-eyed with their mouths gaped
open, and Kyle was laughing hysterically. I was just trying to get the situation in hand.
I was holding the front door open as I tried to remove some of the green slime from the
first little girl. Apparently a few of the frisky, nearly frog, tadpoles found their way
through the door and onto the dining room floor. I know this because my mother came
through the house trying to figure out what all the commotion was about and stepped on one
(or more) of the now flattened tadpoles. The squishy feeling between her toes made her
quickly lift her feet, which promptly landed her on her backside on the floor!
Stop laughing now, she could have been hurt! I stood there thinking that this whole thing
could have been a sitcom episode or else my family was the model for "The Three Stooges!"
At this point the scene was something like this: all of the customers at the yard sale
were laughing and many left donations on the table without buying anything. The second
little girl had come back around the house and was apologizing with every breath. Our dog
had found his way into the house during the commotion and was enjoying our breakfast. The
local preacher had come to call on us, and my mother's use of her own distinctive
vocabulary made sure his visit was a short one!
All ended well though, Chris made about $150.00 and all the children were present and
accounted for when the mothers arrived to pick them up. I was sure the green tint on the
first little girl's skin would eventually fade away and my mother coined some brand new
phrases. I don't think we will ever use them, but we now know that they do exist! The only
things any worse for the wear that day were the poor little tadpoles...
Or what was
left of them...
Dianna Petry
September, last year
Last week 118 Russian Sailors lost their lives in an ill-fated submarine. Fires burn endlessly
in the Southwest, destroying countless environmental wonders. An Airbus crashes in Bahrain for no
apparent reason, killing all onboard. And two weeks ago I underwent surgery that I had finally
come to terms with to amputate my leg.
Mothers and children in Russia mourn this tragic loss of their sons and fathers... and demand
explanations from their government. Wildlife runs in terror and confusion from the only home they have
ever known.... with the ones who survive wondering how to exist in surroundings previously unknown to
them, with years of extraordinary growth and lifelong dreams and homes left charred and smoldering in
despair. Airline personnel collect black boxes and wonder why the craft circled with no apparent
distress and then crashed... medical teams retrieve broken bodies and prepare them for the grieving
families to claim as they try to make some sense of it all. My friends and family wonder what to say to
me... uncertain how one processes such a loss.
And myself? I look forward to getting on with my life after more than five years of dealing with bone
fractures, infections, ulcers, surgeries, and endless wound dressings. After countless glimmers of hope
that the problems in my foot would resolve and I would walk merrily on my way. I finally tired of the
waiting to see and decided it was time to move on with my life.
Living with an injury or illness is trying to the individual involved. It also becomes a stress on the
lives of those most intimately involved in that individual's day to day life. It doesn't take long
before the individual feels the weight of both the offending disability AND the added weight that loved
ones end up bearing in order for life to go on for all involved. Both sides are uncertain and saddened.
It is hard to watch someone you love besieged by pain and often difficult treatments. It is equally
difficult to undergo seemingly endless therapies that take away time and energy from those around you
as they try to make your life more comfortable and "normal",
I finally reached a place in my life's journey where I knew I had to make something change. As much as
it terrified me to even consider giving in to the forces that seemed to want to crumble my lower
extremity, I gradually began to see that I actually was letting those forces take over my life by
letting them continue. I looked in my backyard at the horse who is now going on four years after being
foaled in our arena. The one I keep saying I will work with soon, after I am on my feet again, but who
has never yet shared with me an afternoon of grooming and attention. I knew it was time.
I have lived with diabetes for almost 40 years now. I have never let it decide where my life was going.
I may have had to pare down a few goals and desires... and found some very creative ways around
challenges... but always I followed my heart and my spirit wherever it led. Life is far too short and
far too unpredictable to do things otherwise. I have never had a day where I woke up grateful that I
was a diabetic. I spent my fair share of time yelling and screaming and demanding, "Why me?". But in
the end it was and is me. And I cannot change that. And so far nobody else has managed to figure out
how to do it for me. But in the meantime I figured I'd rather meet the end of my life doing rather than
wishing.
I will not pretend that getting around for now on crutches and one leg is a romp in the park. My
frustration level soars as I see things I want to do but which are unmanageable on one wobbly leg. My
normally lazy self wants nothing more than to take a long walk with my boys and my puppies. I have
learned just how far away something "almost" at hand can be. My bathroom is next to impossible to
maneuver with a wheelchair. Our bed is just a little too low to be able to easily rise to a standing
position early in the morning. And I live in total fear of the night when I wake up needing desperately
to get to that bathroom... and I "forget" in my sleepy fog that I have but one foot. And all the while
I know that my husband sleeps lightly now, afraid for the same thing. And that makes me sad.
In a number of weeks I will be walking on a prosthesis. I look forward to that adventure as the
beginning of a new and challenging trail to blaze on my journey. Eventually that trail may lead back to
the route I was already on... or it might lead somewhere altogether different. That is the wonder of
life. That is what I need back in my life. And it will come. It IS coming.
The Russian mothers and children? They are also going to be blazing new trails. But theirs cannot wind
back into what they previously knew. My life may be changed in many ways, but theirs have had their
very soul torn apart. The splendor of nature will take years to rebuild in the scorched vastness left
behind by fires covering area larger than my entire state of New Jersey. People's lives have been taken
out from under them with all the pieces saved over lifetimes gone in an instant. Families who were
eagerly awaiting the arrival of their children or parents or best friends are left numb and empty as
they drive home with empty seats next to them. The lives of the survivors will go on. But their lives
will never be the same. The victims have been senselessly wrenched from our lives. Their hopes and
dreams ending with their last breaths.
As I look at the world around me, I am continually amazed at the strength of the human spirit. I will
not pretend that I do not feel a sense of loss. I do. Very intensely. And my own anger will surface
from time to time as I ponder the what ifs and the if onlys. I still ask, "Why me?". But it still IS
me. And that is what matters. No matter how much my body mass is reduced, I am still ME. And I am HERE.
As I put things into perspective, I have a lot to work with. I have a journey to continue. And I'll be
darned if diabetes is going to define MY journey.
I'm confidently walking with a prosthesis, and this is suddenly all the more meaningful. Karen Dare
I remember the first time I traveled the streets of New York City alone. With a glance up I could tell the direction home no matter where I wandered. I fought the wind that funnels down Broadway and Whitehall. The walk from the Staten Island Ferry to One World Trade Center was bitter in winter. The steaming subway grates warmed my sneakered toes, my heels tucked in a bag slung over my shoulder. I ducked into doorways when the wind gusted. I remember spring. The artists sat on the sidewalk filling canvases with images of steel, concrete, and power stretching into the sun. There was a fellow perched on the curb before a puddle, dangling his fishing pole. Youth and age-filled suits swished through the revolving doors, never looking beyond their newspapers. I remember the old man who rang his cart bell and emptied an office. No matter how bad he smelled, his bagels and coffee sold. I remember the woman with few friends due to a language barrier and unusual customs, her laughter and eyes wary, waiting for a blow. I remember the courier. He checked his Lotto numbers in our newspapers as he waited for signatures. I remember the secretaries, as efficient in office duty as personal appearance. I remember a man pursing his lips to mangle his Brooklyn accent in attempt to sound like his Italian forefathers. His short legs chased the clerks he called "Tomato." If they are not dead, they are bleeding among so many others. I remember and mourn them all. I grieve for those who have been and will be lost, unable to find home with a glance up at the North Star, the World Trade Towers. Tracey Laine
On the street where I live, many others live who are poor and elderly. My street is a typical middle Tennessee street near downtown. It has very old trees and many, many beautiful flowers. I live in an area called "The Nursery Capital of the World." Everyday, though, I am sad because the old and poor are hurting so much. They are lonely and more often than not do not have the resources to go where they want to go and do what they want to do. So everyday I pray for myself and for them. Well, yesterday when I got home to my apartment one of the eldery gentlemen was sitting outside under a tree just looking across the street. It was a beautiful, cool evening and he looked so peaceful. Beside him there were birds playing in a birdbath, and he seemed to be just watching the cars go by. I was so happy that he was sitting out to enjoy the evening that I went over to talk to him. We talked about "The Cisco Kid," and many other old cowboy movies we enjoyed as kids. We talked about where we would like to travel and those travels we had enjoyed as younger people. When he talks his sounds make a lisping sound like when he was a boy. He never smiled while he was talking to me. I hope to see him smile real soon. Vicki L. Sullivan
When June arrives, most of the country is thinking about picnics and vacations, moms are looking for summer camps for the kids, and kids are happy just to be out of school. In South Florida, we recognize June first as the beginning of the hurricane season. People who are new to our part of the country are nervously contemplating the lists of supplies and foods necessary to weather (no pun intended) such a storm. I like to consider myself practically a native, as I have lived here most of my adult life. In the first years after I arrived, there were only two storms of any consequence to us. Each of them was a category two or three, and left a lot of mess to clean up, but no fatalities and only minimal damage. Both Cleo and Camille gave our family a chance to practice what we would do if a worse storm hit. We learned how to gather our supplies, medicines and water, and how to bring in all garbage cans, lawn chairs and anything else that could blow away or become a missile in a high wind. The winds were scary and the sound made by the gusts blowing around the house was frightening to all of us. After the eye had passed, followed by the quiet, we experienced the roaring noise and rains again. When all was still, we expected to see our yard and perhaps our whole town devastated. But there were only a few signs torn down, and some palm fronds lying in our driveway. As the years passed, we became complacent about hurricanes, and never thought about what damage they could really do. We waited until the last minute to collect a few extra bottles of water, and dutifully filled our car's tank with gas. Every time we were sent home early from work to await the "big one", it blew over, and we were left with the task of taking down awnings, removing plywood from windows and doing whatever chores were needed to put everything back in order. All that changed on August 17, 1992 when a tropical wave moving off the coast of Africa became a tropical storm. I didn't pay much attention to the news reports; after all, we had got by for nearly three months without a storm at all. I should have remembered an old mariner's poem I had heard quoted in the past. June........too soon But like many others, I thought I knew all I needed to know, and so on August 22, Hurricane Andrew came into being while many of us continued to live as though it was a normal day. When I left work on Friday, I had no idea we were in for the experience that lay ahead. The air was clear, the clouds were white and fluffy, and the sky was its same beautiful shade of blue. The TV reporters announced all evening that we should make preparations, so we did the things we had been doing for years. By Saturday evening, the weathermen were more insistent, and the media urged people to complete all tasks. By then, we had begun to feel that something really might happen. At that point it was not known exactly where the eye of the storm would come ashore. All day Sunday our neighbors were collecting objects from their yards that might be propelled by a strong wind, and those with no shutters were taping over their windows to keep broken glass from shattering. We had one whole side of our house unprotected. But now was not the time to try to buy plywood for covering those windows, as the stores had been sold out since Saturday. I suggested that my son spend the night at our house so he would not be alone. Actually, it was I who needed the company! My husband promptly went to bed at an early hour. In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke to hear rain beating down, and then the wind began to howl. I crept into the family room (the unprotected side), and peeked out the window. I couldn't believe my eyes! Everything was dark, except when the lightning flashed. Then I could get a glimpse of our yard. All the trees were bent to the ground, and I could see small limbs flying around. My son watched with me in awe. Just at that moment, our huge grapefruit tree uprooted all by itself, and fell against the side of the house. A loud noise split the air, and our house was plunged into darkness. After some fumbling around, we found flashlights and continued to steal looks out of the windows. When the storm abated, it was eerily quiet, especially without the humming of the air conditioner. Only then did my husband awaken, and want to know what was going on! We stepped cautiously outdoors, I with camera in hand, to check for damage. The whole side of our Norfolk Pine tree was gone, there were countless palm fronds in our drive, and the lovely grapefruit tree my husband had planted from a seed, was lying on its side. All of our small bushes and plants were uprooted, and our neighbors' tree had fallen on the house next door. There was debris everywhere around our street, and we even found a roof tile that belonged two blocks away! We found our neighbors taking pictures, and we all talked of our relief that it wasn't worse. But that was before we were able to see the images coming from our neighbor to the south, Dade County. Their homes were devastated, they had no electric power, and no telephones. In some areas, all lines of communication were severed. The houses looked like kindling wood. Emergency suplies were dispatched, at least those that could get through. For some residents it was weeks before power was restored, and for many, their homes could never again be occupied. We lost power for one week, and a freezer full of food, but were alive and well. In all, this category four storm claimed the lives of twenty-three in the United States, and did a total of twenty-six billion dollars in damage. It was the most expensive natural disaster in the history of the country. Now whenever we get that familiar feeling of complacency, we shake it off and get busy with hurricane preparations. We know that we could be next. And, oh, yes, I will always leave my pajamas in the drawer and stay fully dressed until the storm is over! Molly Grimm
For much of my childhood we lived in a two bedroom mobile home on a small cleared lot on the side of a hill. Two kids bunked in the livingroom, three slept in one bedroom, and the baby and mom shared the other bedroom. I sought elbow room and me-space in the groves and dells of the northern Pennsylvania mountains. I spent hours reading and pretending, playing house or warrior-princess under the low boughs of trees. The moss covered rocks were my furniture and the thick layer of pine needles and last-year leaves were the carpeting, pillows and bed. The musty sharp scent clung to my clothes, and now my memories, as the composting bits and pieces of debris hung from the tangled locks of my wildly unruly hair. It was there I learned to let my imagination flow. I created roles for myself and invented other actors. I saved my stories in some secret file in my head. I escaped the mundane and often cruel moments of the real world by opening a virtual vignette when the where I was at wasn't the where I wished to be. I didn't need TV - the plays, which ran non-stop (without commercials or station identification) in the theater of my inner self, were far more engaging in scope and majesty. I never stopped creating these inner worlds. Finally, with a certain maturity, I have found the Rosetta Stone to translate them into words for others to share. I write. The smell of moss and pine always makes me into a child in the forest again. Playing alone, but never lonely. Lisa Binkley
About twenty years ago I had one of those "unexplainable" experiences. My little farm, east of town at what used to be called "Gates Station," is a "holler," and extends almost to the ridge. On the other side of the hill's flint backbone lies a chunk of the Daniel Boone National Forest, a long narrow valley called "Slab Camp," named for a logging operation that was shut down in the thirties. I crossed the ridge to slip and slide down into Slab Camp with hunting on my mind, and found plenty of signs it'd be easy to nail a deer there, in season. But there was also the unpleasant reality of carrying a deer out, up a sheer hillside, or for miles along a dry creek bed. Hunting was forgotten in a hurry. I did go exploring though... Slab Camp's maybe a mile and a half wide, and stretches six or seven miles, with branches every hundred yards or so. In one of those branches, I plainly saw the remains of an abandoned log cabin, and two or three outbuildings. Now, I've spent considerable time prowling the woods, and I know what fallen trees look like, and this wasn't the first ruined house I'd stumbled over. I know what I saw, no more than thirty yards away. I'd never heard of anyone living in Slab Camp, and the idea of finding a cabin whose existence was not widely known, was exciting. I stood looking at it long enough to smoke a cigarette, and take a hit or two off my canteen. The logs were roughly squared and notched, the way "real" log cabins were, and its tin roof was not quite completely fallen. The smaller of the other buildings was obviously an outhouse, and another looked large enough to have provided shelter for a cow or two. I decided not to go any closer, not right then. After an unseasonably warm October, I wasn't real anxious to stroll into a place copperheads and rattlers would love. Earl "Crow" Withrow, an old coon and fox hunter, had told me Slab Camp was a snakey place anyway, that when he'd kept dogs he never went there, except in cold weather. I decided to come back after a hard frost or two drove any lurking reptiles undercover. Instead of fighting my way uphill out of Slab Camp, I walked to where it met Triplett Creek, where I followed the stream to US 60, and back home. Along the way I counted branches off the main valley, so I'd know just which one held the remains of the cabin. Back then Mom and Dad lived where I do now, and when I asked my father if he knew of any cabins in Slab Camp he shook his head. A few days later, talking to a forest ranger, I mentioned what I'd seen. The ranger assured me no cabins, abandoned or otherwise, stood in Slab Camp. He told me he'd been all over that valley and would have noticed any such thing. The ranger's scepticism was encouraging. I knew what I'd seen, and if others hadn't noticed it, maybe no one had prowled the ruins to see what might be uncovered, at least not recently. By and by the hard frost came, and after a light tracking snow I retraced my route into Slab Camp. I couldn't find the cabin. I backtracked all the way to Triplett again, then reversed my steps, counting branches off the main valley one more time. I got to the appropriate number, but that branch was as empty as a beggar's purse. Figuring I'd miscounted, I walked to the next branch, and the next, and almost all the way to the head of Slab Camp at Buffalo, though I'd not gone nearly so far the first time. Where ever I saw downed trees off the main valley I walked close to see if they'd covered the cabin. No cabin. No outbuildings. No nothing. Where'd they go? I ain't got a clue. But I've kept the memory of a late October day when I stood at the head of a Slab Camp branch, and looked at a ruined cabin. There are mysteries in these old hills. I don't reckon I ever will solve that one. Bob Sloan If you listen to National Public Radio's "Morning Edition" program, chances are that you've already been exposed to Mr. Sloan's tales and homespun humor. If you'd like to learn more about his Appalachian literature, short fiction, poetry, and essays, or to download some of his actual radio spots as MP3 audio files, please visit his website. You can find it here.
The year was 1950. I was eleven years old and in the sixth grade. Two important events occurred. I became, according to my mother, a "Little Lady," and I also became a member of the First Baptist Church of Thackerville. . My poor mother had the task of explaining sex to me, which no doubt accounts for my confusion about the matter to this day. It seemed, according to her presentation, that I could no longer do anything that was fun! I was not one bit happy about giving up my tomboy ways, to put it mildly. Eleven was about the age at which most kids in our small community "got saved," and baptized at Blue Lake, a local pond with murky green water. We wore old clothes so as not to ruin our "better" old clothes. Baptizings were delayed until there were at least fifteen or twenty to be baptized. Thirteen year old Sam was one of the group to be baptized along with me that Sunday afternoon. (Sam didn't know it at the time, but he would one day become my husband.) The watching crowd began singing "Oh, Happy Day," rather un-happily I thought, and the group of youngsters to be baptized held hands and formed a line. They then waded into the water, seeking a suitable depth for total immersion. Unfortunately, what was the right depth for the majority of Baptizees was almost over my head! At eleven, I had not yet reached my destined four feet, ten and a half inches, and that water was rising on me, fast! Now, I surely had not wanted to go to Hell, but the prospect of a Heavenly residence had not much appealed to me either, so it was necessary for me to follow the procedure required to avoid the flames of Hell fire and brimstone. (I am nothing if not a cautious soul.) As my turn drew nearer, and the water got higher, I had just about decided that maybe they had exaggerated how hot Hell really was, and that maybe the practical thing for me to do was to consider the more present threat of drowning and retreat while I still could. (I felt sure that I was the only one in that righteous group who had such rebellious and sinful thoughts.) Then, suddenly, before I had time to slosh my way out of there, the preacher had crossed my arms across my cowardly little heart, pinched my nose shut, then under I went for the two or three seconds it took for my short lifetime to pass before my eyes. I came up, blinded by the water and gasping for air, certain that I must surely be glowing with a "Holy Light." I was surprised to find that I could see, and that everything looked exactly the same. Well, in thinking back on the matter, whether I glowed or not, I certainly felt that I had my rent paid for the hereafter. Lou Harper
Today I got to watch two children, maybe six -- the boy -- and ten -- the girl, play on the grass with a miniature daschund. The boy's hair was longer than the girl's. They both got down on the ground with their heels in the air and let the little dog romp all over them. I listened to their laughter, and I noticed that the adults were sitting around on lawn chairs, chatting and drinking beer. My flamboyant neighbor was wearing a purple tee short with orange shorts and fluorescent-orange flip-flops, and she waved at me when I walked by. A moment later, bless her, she left her flip-flops under her lawn chair, and she, too, went to play with the dog -- and she plopped her butt on the grass and she put her heels in the air! I grinned at them all. So often, we live our lives rather than remembering to celebrate them. I'm going to befriend that little dog... T. L. Stone |
