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Memoir
Robert Flournoy
©
Copyright
2018 by Robert Flournoy
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In August of 1963 our high
school began the dreaded two a day practices. In the hot humid
Virginia heat it didn't help that our practice field was mostly dirt,
which turned to dust under the churning cleated feet of football team
hopefuls, and then to muddy sweat which covered our young bodies. . . .
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The
March to Cassis
Andrea Batstone
© Copyright
2019 by Andrea Batstone
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My
husband and I spent
two wonderful weeks one May in the South of France with good
friends. We had many wonderful adventures, but the one that
continues to make us dissolve in laughter is what we aptly called
“The March to Cassis”. . . .
True
Tales from the Wild Heart Critterarium
Albert Vetere Lannon
©
Copyright 2019 by Albert Vetere Lannon
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Wild
Heart Ranch. That’s what my mate Kaitlin and I call the
desert acre-and-a-quarter west of Tucson we’ve lived on the
past 15 years. The area is called Picture Rocks because of the
ancient petroglyphs in the mountains on either side of the Avra
Valley. . . .
The New Fire
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2019 by Karen Radford Treanor
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The
evening was becoming chill. Overhead purple clouds choked off the
last light of the sun, promising rain before the night was over. The
little stone church looked well in this diffused light: one saw the
essence but not the detail. The patched roof, the balding gilt on
the cross on the ridgepole, the weather-beaten door did not look as
shabby as they did by day. . . .
More..
Historic Farming with Horses in Berks County
(And the day a team of horses saved the
Liberty Bell)
Richard Orth
©
Copyright 2018 by Richard Orth
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. . .The major difference between farming with
horses and converting to the 20th Century gasoline farm tractors at
the time was the loss of horse manure to be spread on the fields. With
six horses in Fox’s large barn, he had a considerable
amount of fertilizer to produce his crops. As other horse farmers who
knew the advantages of fertilizing with this manure, the absence of
this traditional substance made a difference. . . .
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Waving
to President Kennedy
William
Wayne Weems
©
2019
by
William Wayne Weems
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Nashville, Tennessee, Saturday,
May 18, 1963. I had
just turned nineteen years of age a few days before, but that day I
was again assisting my Father in his shoe store at 1053 Third Avenue
South. A certain excitement was in the air; Nashville was to have a
visit from a sitting President of the United States for the first
time since Franklin Roosevelt had stopped by in 1934. . . .
More...
Unasked Questions
Patricia
M. Snell
©
Copyright 2019 by Patricia M. Snell
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It’s
too late to ask my father questions, but it’s not too late to
remember him and write about his well lived life.
In
April of 2018, the results of a biopsy showed that my father had skin
cancer and he had about 4 months to live. He hoped to stretch out
that prediction and make it to his birthday in August. We thought we
had plenty of time with him before he died, but the cancer was more
aggressive than expected. He died on May 19, 2018. . . .
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Chicken Caper
Lisa Rehfuss
©
Copyright 2015 by Lisa Rehfuss
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One
blistering
summer day, Mom took eight of us swimming. Knowing we’d be late
getting back, she prepared dinner in advance, cooking chicken three
quarters of the way through in a large pan. The pan was loosely
covered with tinfoil, then placed on the kitchen counter with a note
asking whoever arrived home from work first, Dad or my older sister,
Sue, to put the chicken in the oven. . . .
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The Slant of Light
Reflections on Aging
Elaine Greensmith Jordan
©
Copyright 2019 by Elaine Greensmith Jordan
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This story/essay brings back
memories of my teaching days. Those
are past now, but the pain and insights gained from remembering have
shaped my soul. . . .
More...
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Last
One Standing?
William
Wayne Weems
©
2019
by
William Wayne Weems
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First there was the prehistoric stone
figure.
Mountain ranges in Eastern Tennessee generally run Southwest to
Northeast, so a easier East/West path through those heights was
prized among native peoples. Perhaps this is what led native
craftsmen to sculpt the figure of a bear or a dog sitting on his
haunches beside that trail and facing West, his ears struck up
high on his head. The first accounts of the descendants of European
settlers noted the reverence Native Americans showed to that figure. . . .
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House Of My Dreams
Valerie Byron
© Copyright 2019 by Valerie
Byron
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It was a joyous day when I took possession
of my new
home by the beach. After living in an apartment for so many years,
being able to buy a large, beautiful house was a dream come true for
me. I had come into an inheritance from my mother, who had recently
died, and the money was more than enough to enable me to buy the
property and fix it up. . . .
Far To Go
The Life of a Thursday Child
Howard Martin Osborne
©
Copyright 2019 by Howard Martin Osborne
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Without
pretentiousness, this preface is an attempt to provide some shading
to the themed account of my life that follows.
It
is themed, as in the ‘far to go’ focus that some may
observe is at the expense of fuller coverage, such as marriage
partners and kids and the unquestionable love and respect I have for
them all. They represent a rich vein of detail, most of which remains
sufficiently private and does not echo this admittedly left-brained
focus on journey. . . .
Two Years in Kadugli
Charleine Sell
©
Copyright 2019 by Charleine Sell
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What
had we done?! Our four wheel drive Land Rover crawled along at five
miles an hour for two long days. Acacia and baobab trees dotted the
landscape during the 500 miles to our assignment, along with unusual
high clumps of smooth boulders looking as though they were dropped in
piles eons ago. Kadugli, our destination, was a small, remote town in
Sudan’s Nuba mountains. We didn’t see a single soul
during those two days of travel.
Everglades Adventure
Charleine Sell
©
Copyright 2019 by Charleine Sell
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The
year was 1973, and we had just returned home from three years in
Swaziland, a small country in southeast Africa, where we served as
Peace Corps volunteers. We met there and eventually married in
December 1972 in the capital, Mbabane, before completing our service.
Because I was a Florida girl, and Jack was from Whidbey Island in the
Pacific Northwest, we decided to use our meager Peace Corps
readjustment funds to drive from Florida, where my parents lived, to
Washington State. We hoped to find a place to settle and make a home. . . .
Daddy
James L. Cowles
©
Copyright 2019 by James L. Cowles
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I remember always being
leery of him, even though he was my father. He was a little
man, about 5’9” and always wore a hat to cover his
balding head. He was forty years old when I was born and
although I’m sure he loved me, he never told me until he was
very old and near dying. . . .
High in the Himalayas
June
Calender
©
Copyright 2019 by June Calender
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I
was excited to be going on a trek to a monastery about 17 miles from
Everest base camp to see Mani Rimdu, a major fall festival. A
trekking company supplied sherpas, food, and a guide. They assigned
me a roommate (to be a tent-mate in the mountains). We met in
Kathmandu. She was an MD from North Dakota, early 50s as I was. . . .
More...
A Book of Spells and Magical Enhancements
Sara Etgen-Baker
©
Copyright 2019 by Sara Etgen-Baker
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This is a true
account of how I obtained my first cookbook. Although the cookbook
was small, it played a huge part in helping me learn to cook. Its
recipes have endured, and now, later in life, its pages hold memories
of a simpler time. . . .
A Special Day In 1949
James L. Cowles
©
Copyright 2019 by James L. Cowles
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Winter came early in 1949
and it came with a vengeance; almost ten inches of snow fell
overnight. I was only eight years-old and I didn’t know
that such a snowfall that early was unusual; we were just a few days
past Thanksgiving and all I could think about was that beautiful
white blanket and I could hardly wait to get my hands on it.
To
an eight-year-old, it was a signal that Christmas was just around the
corner; what an exciting time in the life of a child. . . .
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Playing
Cricket In India
s
s
Dale
Fehringer
©
Copyright 2019 by Dale Fehringer
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We
had a day of rest about half way through our cycling tour of India,
and we spent most of the day doing laundry, napping, attending a
cooking class, and playing cricket. It was the playing
cricket
part that produced my worst – and best – memory of that
day. . . .
More...
Cutting the Umbilical Cord
Sara Etgen-Baker
©
Copyright 2019 by Sara Etgen-Baker
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This
is a true account of my thwarted
attempt at cutting the umbilical cord with my family. My altered
plans forever changed my perspective of family and awakened my
understanding of the power of synchronicity. . . .
One Day In Winter
Deon Matzen
©
Copyright 2018 by Deon Matzen
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I could say it was a
cold, snowy, wintry day, but that would not be accurate as it seldom
snows in Beijing. It was cold and wintry, cold enough to go ice
skating on the lake at the Summer Palace. The ice there was about
fourteen inches thick. It was COLD. . . .
Country Dad, City Daughter
Patricia
M. Snell
©
Copyright 2016 by Patricia M. Snell
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Dad
was a country
boy at heart. My heart belongs in the city. We both persevered and
learned to live and prosper where we were transplanted. . . .
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What I Didn't Do In Costa Rica
Evan
L. Balkan
©
Copyright 2019 by Evan L. Balkan
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A
rumination on the balance struck between independent adventure travel
and family vacations. . . .
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Q
Evan
L. Balkan
©
Copyright 2019 by Evan L. Balkan
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A
wonderful trip to Ecuador began in Quito, a lovely city that
nevertheless presented some real challenges. Those challenges
threatened to "overwhelm the wonderful" until a simple but
unforgettable act. . . .
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You Can't Go Home Again, Again
Evan
L. Balkan
©
Copyright 2019 by Evan L. Balkan
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In
late spring 2018, I traveled to Ecuador, where I first visited the
cities of Quito and Cuenca before exploring a volcanic crater and
trekking in the Andes, topping out at just above 13,000 feet while
wild llamas eyed me warily from behind precarious crags. Three weeks
later, I was in Costa Rica with my wife and two daughters where we
did what people do in Costa Rica: swim, zipline, jungle trek, and
generally revel in all that eco-wonderland has to offer. But it was
the trip in between that was the most “foreign” of the
three: on a warm Sunday afternoon, I went to Bowie, Maryland, the
town where I grew up. In 2001, we moved out of what had been
my childhood home, and despite living only an hour or so away, I
hadn’t been back since. . . .
Not Just Another Dead Junkie
Telling
Dave Castro's Story
Albert Vetere Lannon
©
Copyright 2019 by Albert Vetere Lannon
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A
not-so-young man attracted to the new and hopeful swirl of activity
was a San Quentin inmate who had been a heroin addict, thief, and
convicted criminal. His name was Dave Castro, and he was my friend. . . .
The Pennsylvania Dutch Easter Spirit
Richard Orth
©
Copyright 2018 by Richard Orth
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A
Dutch woman in the greater Oley Valley area dyeing Easter eggs and
onion shells on her corn-fed stove. Simply marked by turn of the
century photographer, H. Winslow Fegley, “A Dutch woman dyeing
Easter Haas eggs with onion shells,” Fegley took many photos in
the Oley Valley area of Berks County. Was this farmwoman one of our
past residents? Photo courtesy of the Schwenkfelder Library Archives,
Pennsburg, PA |
Of
the various
seasons of the year there is none so nostalgic or enchanting to the
rural Pennsylvania Dutch than that of Easter. Perhaps almost everyone
in America with an agrarian past feels the innate excitement of this
time of the year as we anxiously await the rebirth of the earth. Long
winter months, which in the past found our ancestors busily
practicing folk crafts and arts as an interlude to their year-long
lives as tillers of the land, are not much different from today's. As
daylight begins to linger in the waning winter weeks our senses
become aware of the gradual renewal of spring life, which is
otherwise so taken for granted were there not a phenomenon known as
winter. . . .
More...
Pennsylvania's Elusive Sunbursts
Richard Orth
©
Copyright 2018 by Richard Orth
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Most Pennsylvania Dutchmen of Berks and Lehigh
County
realize that their local hex-sign painted barn stars are not amulets
of protection for man or beast on their farmsteads. However, these
fabled and colorful geometric designs, identifying our beautiful
countryside as home to quaint, Germanic Pennsylvania Dutch farmers. In examining the writings of authorities on our
Pennsylvania Dutch
(German) Culture, I favor the research of Frances Lichten, about
these historic, folk art designs on our barnsides, as being
traditional sunbursts. Having made a major study on Pennsylvania
German material folk art furnishings and artifacts in the early 20th
Century, Lichten compared hex-sign (barn star) motifs to the use of
sun symbol designs on objects in our native Rhineland Culture. . . .
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When I See Lily Again
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2019 by Emily Hart
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I
have always loved the hauntingly lyrical novel A Portrait of Jennie,
by Robert Nathan and the 1949 film based on the book. So this
story came to be about another artist who has an encounter out of
time.
Fiction is the place where truth abides. There is a
bridge.
Believe what you know. . . .
A
Miraculous Day
Judith D. Galleros
©
Copyright 2018 by Judith D. Galleros
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“Mrs.
Galleros…Judith….Ma’am…Ma’am
Judith….Galleros…words I heard as I drifted myself into consciousness.
“ “You collapsed!” one of the
voices exclaimed! “How are you feeling at this moment dear?”
another voice interrogated.
Limbs trembling, I said, “Please
call my husband.” Then a male teacher grabbed my arm to pull me
up, but I begged, “I need some garments.” I had it
vaguely understood how I wetted myself. My weary thoughts tried to
recall what happened before the fatal incident. . . .
Tales of the Road Life of an Uber Driver
P. S. Gifford
© Copyright 2019 by P. S.
Gifford
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A
Dog’s Life
So
yesterday's driving was at times frustrating, boring and ultimately
satisfying.
It
was a particularly slow Sunday but I needed just seven rides to meet
my bonus for the weekend. I thought I could achieve this in three
hours- four at tops. This hope was reinforced as my first four rides
arrived quickly. They were pleasant enough rides, jovial conversation
and banter and decent tippers to boot. What more could I ask for? . . .
On My Guard
Brenda Wussum
©
Copyright 2019 by Brenda Wussum
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This is story about
a friend who was almost kidnapped and my own
fears about night buses.
go
to fix my hair and it takes a while. Braids usually take long
hours and I am
at the salon a little
after midday. I hadn't envisioned that the style of braids I had
decided on would take longer than usual and I would be out late,
again.
It
is past 9:00pm. The hairdresser is finished with me and the market
has closed a few hours earlier. To make sure I did not have to leave
home the next day, change buses
twice and
travel across the bridge
to this side of
town again, I had
insisted, even
pleaded we finished up that night. Talk about customer
satisfaction! She gave in
to my demand and
led me to a roadside shop outside the market to finish the braids. . . .
More...
The Quail, .410 and Coyote Ben
Don Shook
©
Copyright 2018 by Don Shook
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The
jolt to my shoulder was unexpected, the recoil painful. My Dad
laughed, then scowled as if to say, “Go ahead, try it again.”
Reluctantly, I pulled the trigger and fired his ancient .410
shotgun, this time hitting one of the tin-cans lined-up on the rock
ledge some thirty feet away. How could I have missed the others? It was
a shotgun. A week later the weapon became my sixteenth
birthday present. I loved my new old .410. . . .
More...
Five Pounder
Don Shook
©
Copyright 2019 by Don Shook
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Ages
ago, when a boy, I accidentally caught a two-pound bass on a cane
pole rig using a night crawler. My Uncle Johnny had shown me where
to cast the bait. I was thrilled and the experience sealed my love
of fishin’ for life.
A
bamboo pole, an eight-pound test monofilament line, and a tiny barbed
hook was my only equipment, my uncle’s advice my only
technology. From that point on, I would pursue the wily largemouth
bass with a vigor rivaled only by my pursuit of the lovely Ellen
Morgan during my stint as a high-school quarterback. Over the years,
I certainly landed my share of fish, though I never hooked nor scored
with Ellen. . . .
Sisters: Looking Back
Eileen W. Fisher
©
Copyright 2019 by Eileen W. Fisher
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Much
has been written about the challenges that parents face when raising
a child with a disability. Much less has been written about the
challenges to the sibling of the child with a disability.
This
is my story. . . .
A
Southern Memory
Robert Flournoy
©
Copyright
2018 by Robert Flournoy
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I never know what to say
when someone asks me where I am from. I was born in Memphis and the
family moved before I was one. By the time I was six we had managed
to live in four different states, finally to wind up in El Paso,
Texas, where my father was sent in 1952 after he came back from
Korea. He was a career military officer. We were to move many times
after the Texas assignment, traveling the world. Home was the house
where we lived. That was fine, but my parents knew that we needed
family roots and a sense of place that was more permanent than our
transient lifestyle afforded. So, in the days before interstate
highways and air-conditioned automobiles, we loaded up the family car
every summer and drove to Alabama and my grandparents' farm. . . .
Spreading Holiday Joy - Now, and Throughout The Year
Albert Vetere Lannon
©
Copyright 2018 by Albert Vetere Lannon
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In
our world of never-ending war, of hatred and division, of cronyism
and corruption, of mistrust and fear, the holiday season offers a
chance to take a deep breath and let in the peace, joy and love that
we crave and deserve.
For
many, it is the joy of celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace;
for others it is the act of selfless giving, or family gatherings, or
decorating the tree, or the lighting up of holiday displays, or the
wide-eyed happiness of children opening presents which just might
have been delivered by Santa Claus. “‘Cause Mom, I heard
the reindeer on the roof. I did!!”
In
the avowedly atheist home I grew up in, Christmas was still a big
deal. Mom and I shopped for a tree on Christmas Eve when New York
Street vendors were slashing prices to sell off the ragged –
but to us, beautiful -- last of their stock. Dad made a wonderful
holiday lasagna with little meat balls. Friends came over to share
drinks, fellowship and politics. My little sister and I got to stay
up until midnight so we could open our presents. . . .
"Ici
on parle siSwati"
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2018 by Karen Radford Treanor
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When
we went to work in Swaziland, a tiny independent kingdom in southern
Africa, it was expected that we would try to learn the local
language, siSwati, a cousin to siZulu. The Swazis often laughed at
our efforts, but were unfailingly enthusiastic and helpful, and many
impromptu tutorials were delivered by friendly strangers at the
market or bus station. . . .
The Diary of Anne Sophia Palk
Nicole Van Zyl
©
Copyright 2018 by Nicole Van Zyl
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Anne Sophia Helmore (known
throughout her life as Annie), was born on 12 January 1844 in
Lekhatlong, a mission station in Griqualand, west of Kimberly. Her
father, Holloway Helmore, was there working as a missionary from the
London Missionary Society. Anne was the second oldest of seven
children from the marriage of Holloway Helmore and Ann Garden. . . .
Another Little Christmas Tale
Doug Sherr
©
Copyright 2018 by Doug Sherr
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The old mansion was quiet. I had
pulled the weights off
the chain that powered the grandfather’s clock in the hall to
quiet the awful clack, clack, clack. I stormed and fidgeted around
the dark house. My German Shepard, Sean, followed a few inches behind
me as I stalked about peering out a window and abruptly moving to
another window. Outside, the freezing wind sailed bits of garbage
over the days-old dirty snow. A cat ran across the empty street and
disappeared under a building looking for shelter and warmth. The
night before when sleep wasn’t a possibility, Sean put his head
on my pillow and stared at me, knowing that I was in trouble. I
ordered him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Even a whack on the nose
that made him blink couldn’t make him leave. I hugged him and
said I was sorry. He kept his head on the pillow and it helped for a
minute. . . .
Snow God
Doug Sherr
©
Copyright 2018 by Doug Sherr
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Passion
is as addictive as drugs, but there are no twelve-step programs for
passion. Some activities: surfing, rock climbing, and skiing are good
candidates for the obsessed. Left behind is a life that is measured
by clocks, quotas, and the whims of idiot bosses. People who live by
those clocks often use the term bum to define people who follow their
passion. Those people often fail to appreciate the incredible
discipline these bums have to perfect their craft. I didn’t
realize I was a ski-bum until it was too late. True ski bums switch
hemispheres so that it is endless winter. The lesser ski-bum works
the summer pounding nails or waiting tables or handling four-wheel
drive tour vehicles up the mountain for tourists equipped with the
latest boots and gear who would never think of hiking further than
from the jeep to the picnic. . . .
Bringing
Home the Turkey
June
Calender
©
Copyright 2017 by June Calender
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The
old Bronco coughed and started. Frank liked to get to the gym early
and a holiday simply meant he’d mostly have the place to
himself. Britt was sound asleep. They had no plans for the day, no
family near-by, except Uncle Jake who hated holidays. Yesterday’s
bright sun and the overnight temp drop meant fog. This morning’s
fog was ghostly gauze drifting through the trees. The road was empty
this early. Amazing how many people barrel along on these narrow
roads that weren’t quite town and not quite country where
scattered houses sat shyly among old trees. Frank was going over 40
himself. The road followed the course of Rocky Creek. . . .
Sweet Sixteen
Kirby
Wright
©
Copyright 2018 by Kirby Wright
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Julia
Wright strolled a shoreline boardwalk fringed with kiawe trees. The
last of the Chinese ponds was still in operation and she could see a
gathering of ducks on a muddy bank. Julia had just turned sixteen.
She had on her black-and-white striped swimsuit, with black knickers
and white lace-up boots. She preferred walking Waikiki not
accompanied by her sisters—Sue and Kay were popular and could
steal the attention of admirers. Sue, her big sister, was tall and
wore tight-fitting dresses that showed off her curves. Kay, her kid
sister, dressed more conservatively but nonetheless attracted the
educated set.
Julia
preferred Outrigger Canoe Club types, those outdoorsy boys with great
tans and good senses of humor. But the malahini men who’d
traveled vast distances by steamer to see Hawaii also intrigued her.
Some of those malahinis had brought wives but she still saw them
stealing glances at her. And why shouldn’t they? She was a
brunette with the figure of a New York City model and the face of a
playful angel. . . .
More...
Night Sky: A Memoir
Tylyn K. Johnson
©
Copyright 2018 byTylyn K. JohnsonE
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This
is the story of a scar on my face cutting through my eyebrow, from
when I was but a small child. I had taken some time to reflect on the
significance of that moment in my life and relationship with my
younger brother, as if it were the scene of a narrative of another’s
making. And while what “meaning” I have extracted from it
may have been of little consequence, it does illuminate some bit of
my existence for me, which I want to think is enough to merit sharing
as more than a tale told to others at parties. . . .
My Mother's Story: My
Mother's Legacy
Eileen W. Fisher
©
Copyright 2018 by Eileen W. Fisher
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Just
as every immigrant has their own story, so does every immigrant’s
child.
No
one’s voice remains to tell my mother's story other than mine –
the story of an orphaned Jewish teenager from Russia who manages to
escape to America in 1922, at age fifteen.
It
was only from time to time that my mother was even willing to talk
about her childhood — and, usually in response to some event or
bit of news. But even then, she would only speak briefly. If I
persisted, her face would tense up; she would purse her lips and ask
me, “Eileen, why do you want to talk about such sad things?
We’re living today. The past is gone.” And I loved her
too much to upset her further. . . .
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How
Mary and Joseph Spent Christmas Eve
Carol Arvo
© Copyright 2018 by Carol Arvo
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Once
upon a time, a long time ago, in a far-away land without any snow,
Joseph and his wife Mary traveled to the capitol of their country to
be counted in the yearly census for their city. It was a long trip.
Cars, trains and airplanes weren’t invented yet. Joseph and
Mary didn’t have too much money in their budget for the trip,
so they couldn’t rent a camel and had to settle for their
dependable donkey as transportation.
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AWOL
Paul
Marion Fleetwood
©
Copyright 2016 by Paul Marion Fleetwood
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I
went AWOL to see my sweetie (and got away with it).
It
was the winter of 1952 at Ethan Allen Air Force Base near Winooski
Vermont. I was a lonesome Airman who had been away from home
and my sweetheart for way too long. Constantly bored with the
winter and mundane duties of working in the Crypto room, I was always
looking for a way to get back home by hook or crook. My
sweetie
lived in St. Louis some 1200 miles away and I didn't have "leave
time" or money to get back there often. But somewhere
around December 1952 an opportunity presented itself. . . .
The
Haircut
Kathryn
Lynch
©
Copyright 2018 by Kathryn Lynch
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We can
never forget the contributions that the “greatest
generation” of American GI's made to our country. We think
first of those who died and gave it their “all.” It is
easy to forget the GI's who were mechanics, cooks, supply personnel,
intelligence officers, or others who performed support services for
the soldiers in the trenches. This is a story about my Dad,
who was
a military policeman. His small, enduring contribution to race
relations, is one of my fondest memories.
. . .
Ballet Class
Reese Conners
©
Copyright 2018 by Reese Conners
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“Releve,”
tighten your core, squeeze your inner thighs, shoulders down,
heels up, chin on a shelf, roll towards your big toe, lengthen the
back of your legs, relax your face…
“There! Hold
that.” I hear, as I attempt to morph myself into one of the
simplest ballet positions. An overwhelming amount of corrections to
concentrate on, pain simultaneously coursing through my calves
threatening my foundation. Why am I putting myself through
this?
Day after day and week after week of my hair pulled so tight
to
my head that my face stretches upwards. Countless blisters and black
toenails with bruises to accompany them. Yet, today is a good day.
With only the tendinitis in my right ankle to bother me, adrenaline
overcomes my pain with ease. . . .
More...
Transitions - Chapter 1
Doug Sherr
©
Copyright 2018 by Doug Sherr
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This story is the
first chapter of a memoir. It details the moment when I knew I needed a
new life and what i did about it.
The
Triumph fired on the first kick. It’s a little sad when an
English motorcycle is one of the more reliable things in life. When
the bike was warmed up I still didn’t take off. The next twenty
minutes would be a delightful ride down Chicago’s waterfront,
but waiting for me was a windowless office and laboratory. At age
twenty-six, I felt like that little kid on a perfect day who wants to
play hooky; who just wants to play. I turned off the bike and went in
the house to call the boss and skip a day. When he answered, I
blurted out that I wanted to quit. Frank Iwatsuki was a brilliant
engineer and a fine man.
He
said, “Oh, that’s good Douglas, because you’re a
terrible engineer. You should be an artist or poet or something.”. . .
More...
A Successful Woman
Luxhmee Jaypaul
©
Copyright 2018 by Luxhmee Jaypaul
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In
a small town lived a girl called Roshni. She was the sole daughter
and has two brothers. She had educated and ultra-cultured parents who
love her a lot. Furthermore, she livedin an extended family. She has
spent an amazing childhood with her brothers and cousins. She was a
dream weaver and she cherished her dreams a lot. She loved simple
living but high thinking. She always wanted a happy life. She had her
own ideologies and she followed it by heart. . . .
The Speech Contest
Charleine Sell
©
Copyright 2018 by Charleine Sell
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As
a shy, skinny, too tall ninth grader, I was devastated to
learn I
had been selected to give a speech before the whole school!
September
in St. Petersburg, Florida is always hot and humid, but during my
ninth grade year in 1961 at yet another new school, I had a
frightening experience that made me shiver with fear. I had attended
7 different schools over the years. The more recent ones were all in
the St. Petersburg area; seventh grade at Madeira Beach Junior High,
eighth grade at Lealman Junior High, and now ninth grade at Southside
Junior High. Needless to say, I was a shy girl, skinny and too tall,
who spoke in a whisper in class if I was called upon, and never ever,
ever volunteered an answer. . . .
More...
Pickle
Girl
Kathryn
Lynch
©
Copyright 2018 by Kathryn Lynch
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At the end of the Second World War, the country
of Japan lay in
ruins. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were piles of rubble from atomic bombs
with badly wounded people wandering around glassy eyed in need of
medical care. People were starving throughout the nation because
farmers, fearing Allied attacks, had failed to plant their yearly
crops of rice.
It fell to General Douglas MacArthur
and his Allied Forces to to
enter the devastated country, spend time there, and attempt to “fix”
the problems the War had created. Their efforts proved so successful
that within 10 years, the average Japanese citizen was four inches
taller (diet changes), lived an average six years longer (medical
care), and enjoyed growing business success (trade with Europe and
US). . . .
Second
Job
Kathryn
Lynch
©
Copyright 2018 by Kathryn Lynch
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A few years into her retirement, it became abundantly
clear to the Old Lady that her Social Security Retirement check of
$800 a month would support a very frugal lifestyle, but it would not
extend sufficiently to cover extraordinary expenses or expensive
repairs. At the age of 80, heart disease had reduced her days to
resting in a recliner, and her nights to sleeping in the same chair.
A long plastic tube emerging from an oxygenator, pumped oxygen into
her system to assist her breathing. She was, in effect, a disabled
shut-in. It was not clear, under these circumstances, how she could
devise a plan to supplement her income.
The Old Lady pondered this problem for several months.
When no solutions came to mind, the stress of unpaid bills frequently
interrupted her sleep, driving her blood pressure dangerously high.
Finally, in the middle of one very long night, she awoke abruptly and
the answer, so awesome in its simplicity, had been right in front of
her the entire time. She needed a job to make money, so she would
MAKE MONEY! . . .
The Resurrection of Palley
Kathryn
Lynch
©
Copyright 2018 by Kathryn Lynch
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. . .“What's that?”, asked the girl, pointing to
a yellow swathe of color that was too large to be a bush or flower.
The boy, who had little interest in flowers, but who could fix
anything with moving parts, was driven by curiosity to see what lay
partially hidden beneath the tangled weeds.
“It's an old forklift”, said the boy,
“rusted out, dirty, tangled with blackberry vines., paint faded
until it nearly melded with the dead grasses.” “Useless!”,
he repeated, but the challenge of fixing the impossible stirred
within him. . . .
Maya
David Njuguna
©
Copyright 2018 by David Njuguna
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Having
long been plagued by the mosquitoes that reside in my backyard, I
decided to write about the life of just a single one of them. I can’t
be completely sure her name was Maya, but for the sake of the story,
I assumed it was. Some bit and pieces might be a work of my
imagination (the meeting with her suitor for example). . . .
More...
Ianfu
Razel Suansing
©
Copyright 2018 by Razel Suansing
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Braids
in my hair droop alongside my silky majestic gown. Dazzling
chandeliers hover above me, crowning me with their enchanting
illuminations. My father kisses me good night. I see him still
wearing the bracelet I crafted for him when I was six. The tangled
twigs tied along his wrist where his lifeline lies. . . .
Not Just Another History Lesson
Anne Organista
©
Copyright 2018 by Anne Organista
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Every
teacher has his or her moments of glory; those moments when students
rise above their expectations or when lesson plans go awry only to be
salvaged by a completely unexpected situation. I say this with much
candor. In all my years of teaching, many little things made me
happy, feel appreciated and loved. Nevertheless, it was this one
event in 2001 back in the Philippines, when I felt especially proud. . . .
