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 | Can
We Just Have One
More Talk...One
More Story?
Lane Dooling
©
Copyright 2017 by Lane Dooling
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Most
of us have gone on a roller coaster ride but the "Sandwich Generation"
adult is in for a bumpy ride...with so many of our parents living so
long and wanting to stay put (in their homes). Come take an honest,
sentimental and emotional journey down this unique path...
I
can remember like it was yesterday when my stepfather, Alan, hustled
through the front door as I was preparing our family Midwestern
Thanksgiving meal and exclaimed “I am really worried about your
mother’s memory.”. . .
Sanctuary
William Larsen
©
Copyright 2017 by William Larsen
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June,
1969. I was lying in a hospital bed in Long Binh, South Vietnam: jaws
wired, tracheotomy, tubes strung like guidelines into my nose,
throat, chest and both arms . Earlier in the month, the army Brass
had dropped us near a battalion-sized NVA bunker complex. Swarming
our hundred or so iron-clad bodies into the jungle next to it, we
were met with an avalanche of blazing fire. Several of the Grunts got
hit and if Nam taught me any one thing it’s this: when
Grunts get hit, there’s one word that rips from their lips
right along with “AGGHHH”, “please God” and
“motherf....r”, and that word is, “MEDIC!”
I had
heard it before. Heard it way too often. Heard it and responded as my
hard-ass blue-collar father taught me-- head-first into the fight.
For some time that strategy had worked. I waded through the ruptured
guts of others and came out clean. This time was different. This time
I got hit as I crawled into a clearing to reach two Grunts who had
gotten cut down in the NVA ambush. Crawled straight into a sniper
round that caught me flush on the chin, shattering my jaw in over
seventy places. One second I was firing my M-16 into the jungle
applying a little preventative medicine; the next, I was part of a
three-man heap. . . .
The Despicable iPhone and Me
Margaret Valenta
©
Copyright 2017 by Margaret Valenta
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Once upon
a time, long ago, when I was a teen-ager, I’d come home from
school eager to telephone my friend Diane.
I’d
pick up the phone and a pleasant woman - present on the line and not
a recording- would say, “Number please.” I’d give
her Diane’s number and she’d ring the residence. When
Diane answered, we’d spend a long time talking. The phone was
free and the service not expensive. Very simple.
In
today’s world, that telephone is called ‘a land-line. . . .’
More...
One Pound!
Martha
Yarborough DiPalma
©
Copyright 2017 by Martha Yarborough DiPalma
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“This
summer you’re going to stay with your cousin,” Dad said.
I noticed he had taken out his handkerchief from his back pocket and
was wiping his eye. Was he crying? “Your mom is sick and needs
to go to the hospital for a few weeks.” What? Mom? Sick? Seeing
Dad with his handkerchief and hearing his words, confused and excited
me as a ten year old, but his usual calm self helped me relax. . . .
More...
Independence
Day
Eileen
Sateriale
©
Copyright 2017 by Eileen Sateriale
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I remember one 4th of
July when I went to visit my friend who lived in New Jersey. I made
friends with her when I was in college and single. I was now visiting
her and both of us were married. I was afraid of the visit not going
off well because I was worried that her husband and my husband
wouldn't get along. . . .
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Joseph Strauss The
Mighty Task is Done
Dale
Fehringer
©
Copyright 2017 by Dale Fehringer
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Joseph
Strauss was a tenacious man. Despite his small stature, he was a
giant of a man his whole life; an over-achiever who was driven to do
great things. And, as his signature achievement, the Golden Gate
Bridge, attests, he was able to accomplish them. . . .
Our
Forgotten Veterans
Robert Flournoy
©
Copyright
2017 by Robert Flournoy
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On Memorial Day, and Veteran's Day, I try
to visit the Confederate cemetery here in Franklin, TN, to pay respect
to the forgotten veterans of our country's most costly war.
Farm boys who may or may not have owned a
mule to plow their 40 acres, and answered their country's call just as
valiantly as did the boys from Ohio and New York who also paid the
ultimate price on the hallowed ground of the Franklin battlefield where
9,000 men were killed or wounded in what has been described as the
Civil War's deadliest 5 hours.
Where did such courage come from? These
forgotten veterans deserve a moment of respectful silence, as do the
women who loved them, left at home to keep their children safe, and
fed. . . .
The
Last (And First) Time I Saw Paris
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2017 by Karen Radford Treanor
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"My
French may be a bit rusty but I don't think it's incomprehensible",
I muttered to my granddaughter.
"Well,
we got here eventually," Jess said, pocketing the fancy phone
with which she had guided the cabdriver to our hotel. "And
probably they speak a different sort of French in the Congo, or
wherever he comes from."
My
travelling companions weren't going to let trivial complaints get in
the way of their enjoyment of Paris, so I swallowed my grumbles and
followed them into the miniscule lobby of the Hotel du Mont Blanc.
Bethany had selected the hotel sight unseen on the basis of its being
near Notre Dame and the Seine. It was located on a tiny dog-leg
street, Rue de la Huchette, barely more than an alley. A pleasant
concierge pretended to be impressed with my language skills and
handed over the key to a family room on the 5th floor. . . .
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A Beautiful and Haunted Tune
Evan
L. Balkan
©
Copyright 2017 by Evan L. Balkan
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. . . .“Welcome
to Mississippi, Birthplace of America’s Music.” So say
the highway signs. Indeed, what Mississippi has to sell is a
legitimate claim to being the incubator of the country’s most
enduring indigenous music: the blues. And while it sometimes seems
like the blues is thoroughly out of the American mainstream,
relegated to festivals your weird uncle goes to, the fact is the
blues undergirds virtually every facet of American music; no blues:
no rock and roll, no jazz, no hip-hop. . . .
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Why
I'll Never Go
Back to Albuquerque
Nancy Massand
© Copyright
2017 by Nancy Massand
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Traveling
is an adventure. Traveling with toddlers redefines the term and
borders on disaster. I was traveling to California with a toddler
and an eight-month-old infant to join my husband, who was working
there on a short term project. Our connecting flight was in
Albuquerque, and in those days back in 1980 the airlines didn’t
transfer luggage. I had to collect our suitcases and transport them
a half mile down the terminal to another airline, with two children. We
were carrying clothes for six weeks, in addition to the usual
truckload of baby paraphernalia. . . .
More... The Black Days
Kay
Harper
©
Copyright 2011 by Kay Harper
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It
was March when the black days came—long, hollow days when
nothing major had changed in my life, and yet a shift in my
perspective had left me inconsolable. There was terror in every
moment. My mind was on an endless loop. What do I do now? I can’t
escape. I’ll never escape. I can’t see out. I can’t
see in. It’s too black…too black.
Although
I had lived many bouts of depression’s rollercoaster, I was
still in denial about the seriousness of my condition. Two months
prior while trying to conceive, I had stopped taking lithium—the
medication that stabilized my mood. A multitude of doctors had told
me that it would be detrimental to the fetus. . . .
Part Of Him Was Lost
Joni Bour
© Copyright
2017 by Joni Bour
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William,
stood quietly on the planked walkway to the Gardner General Store,
and rubbed his work-hardened hands through his wild, salt and pepper
hair. This was a nervous habit, he’d performed when his first
son had been born breech, and when there was a cougar hunting his
calves. Usually, he would pace a little, or maybe let off a few curse
words, then fix to getting busy. On that day however, the trouble was
bigger than a cougar, or a crop failing, hell it was the biggest
problem that would ever be in his lifetime. The short man, with his
hair still wild, hadn’t made up his mind if he ought to make a
run for home, or wait for even worse news than what’d just been
said over the static of Avery’s Philco radio. . . .
To Be Free
Joni Bour
© Copyright
2017 by Joni Bour
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I
sit writing notes, and handing off prescriptions for the Doctor to
review and sign. We are waiting to move on to the next case, and I am
thinking about you. I hate you, I long to be free of you, and I hate
myself for thinking that. I want to love you, and I wanted you to
love me. I needed you to love me. . . .
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Other Roads
Anna G. Joujan
© Copyright 2017 by Anna G.
Joujan
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Rifling
through my wallet to pull out my dimes and pennies, I apologized to
the clerk. "Sorry," I told her, when I had the right amount
for my gas station cappuccino, "I like to use up my spare change
before leaving the country."
"Oh!," she said, her
weariness morphing into a starry-eyed smile. "Must be nice,"
she added. I felt at once guilty and starry-eyed for my own version
of hers. . . .
More...
Can You Have a Good Time in a Country that Speaks a Different Language?
Eileen Sateriale
©
Copyright 2017 by Eileen Sateriale
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Sateriale
Family Vacation, August 2001, Quebec City, Canada
Several
years earlier our family had visited English-speaking Canada and now
we were curious about French speaking Canada. We had our girls, ages
twelve and fifteen help us plan the trip. I had taken French in
school many years ago and my high class took a trip to Quebec City. Too
many years had passed since the last time I’d been and was
anxious to return. . . .
Shine Service
Phillip Byron Jones
©
Copyright 2017 by Phillip Byron Jones
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. . . .When I was a boy my father
was the consummate mentor. He taught me how to bait a hook, sight a
rifle scope, pack a suitcase and get a clean shave without a cut. He
was also adamant that laziness separated men from a gentleman. A
gentleman acted a certain way, and always – always, had a high
shine on his shoes. Years later, as a lawyer, and because dress
shoes are a necessity, the need for a good shine was tantamount. And,
with that, I stumbled into Shine Service and met a man that now,
25 years later, I’m glad to call friend. For the past 25
years Shine Service (and Percy), have been a regular part of my
weekly ritual; no different than having lunch. . . .
The Man and the Moon
Joni Bour
© Copyright
2017 by Joni Bour
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In
dedication to the Moon, who helped forge history and the Bandon,
Oregon, Historical Museum for their preservation of the past and
inclusion of the photo of the building of the Moon.
I
fumbled with my new digital voice recorder and forgot half my
questions, before Thad Potter climbed out of his truck. He was thin,
almost bowing in the midsection, and had a noticeable limp, proof
that carrying the worries of a fish captain could crush the bones and
spirit of a man, if he let it. He was friendly, and pleased to share
photos of the Moon, the boat he had once owned and captained, and
sold, some four years before. He seemed unaware that I had searched
high and low for six months to locate him; phone calls, and web
searches, even craigslist ads, had all failed me, until a Facebook
request changed everything. . . .
More...
Ravin' Mad
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2017 by Karen Radford Treanor
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This story is set in the
early Noughties, when I was less experienced in the business of
backyard fowl keeping. I have learned a lot since then,
usually
the hard way.
For a long time after we
moved to the Perth Hills I thought we had crows in our yard.
They flew in from the state forest across the road and they were big
and black and shiny. They said “Caw” and
“Aaaar-wark” and made other corvine comments.
I happened to mention the
birds to a neighbour one day and was told “Naah, mate, those
aren’t crows; those are Australian bearded ravens.”. . .
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Milly Dearest
Judith Nakken
©
Copyright 2017 by Judith Nakken
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Mama was vain, of course, and probably quite
mercenary. My biological father – divorced when I was barely
two – swore that the first words she said to him on the church
steps that October day in 1935 were “Give me some money.”
Then there were the late in life episodes of eggs and chickens and
the rubber-banded legacy to my sister and me. But in those formative
years before I hated her, I didn’t notice this trait. I only
saw her beauty. In makeup, she was breathtaking, Lana Turner with
auburn hair. Around the house, puttering with her modeling clay or
water colors, even her faint freckles had a golden glow....
Well Bred Bread
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2017 by Karen Radford Treanor
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There
is a
not uncommon belief that making bread is difficult, and not a task
for novice cooks. This idea has been put about by the Bakers’
Guild since 1256 AD to encourage people to buy from bakeries rather
than do it at home. It was reinforced by Charles II who didn't want
his many lady friends spending time in the kitchen that could be
devoted to him instead. And recently further enforced by an army of
self-diagnosed gluten intolerants. Assuming you are none of the
above, read on....
The Day We Went On Strike
Bonnie Boerema
©
Copyright 2017 by Bonnie Boerema
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I started
Conway-Phillipsburg High School in 1957 in the old brick
building built in 1920. The school board kept to pass school
bonds for a new updated school on the outskirts of Conway, MO. but
to no avail.
It was our Senior year of
1960-1961. Most of us classmates had attended in the old
dilapidated building all twelve grades.
Being only silly teenagers,
one school day on our lunch hour, we decided to go on strike, and
protest for a new school. Our teachers didn't care because they
were wanting a newer facility themselves.
. . .
Coma
Bonnie Boerema
©
Copyright 2017 by Bonnie Boerema
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A woman EMT was talking loudly to me, saying Kay over and over. She kept asking questions
to see if I was coherent. She first said, "What year is this? I didn't
answer her because I was still
trying to figure out where I was, and what was going on. Then she said, "Who's the
president?"
I said, "Donald Trump."
She pointed to her watch, and
said, "What's this?". . .
Honorable Man
Bonnie Boerema
©
Copyright 2017 by Bonnie Boerema
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My
dad, Ernest McFall was born July 17, 1922. He grew up in the Great Depression. He had three brothers and three sisters.
They were dirt poor. His dad, Arthur McFall
farmed and worked on the railroad. He went to grade school in a
one room schoolhouse, east of Conway,
Missouri. . . .
Trans-Siberia Railroad
June
Calender
©
Copyright 2017 by June Calender
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The
Orient Express did not
appeal to me. Book and movie made it sound too “jolly good”
— tea and sherry with Lady La-de-da and Sir Secret Agent. I
read that it was impossibly expensive and, by the end of the 20th
century slow and grungy. But the Trans-Siberia Railroad—ah,
that was a rail adventure of a different sort. Ten days long, eight
or nine time zones, wilderness— gritty, only for the hardy who
could endure monotonous forest and tundra. . . .
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To
Oregon, By Blood
Emerline E. Whitman
©
Introduction copyright 2017 by Leslie Soule
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Massacred
By The Indians
The
Terrible Experience of a Columbia County Girl
To the Editor of the
Columbus Republican:
As I have frequently been importuned by my many
friends
and acquaintances in Columbia County for my history, I will briefly
give you an account in my poor way, of the journey across the plains
in the year 1860, hoping that you will be kind enough to publish the
same. . . .
More...
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Jerry Garcia: I Play for My Life
Dale
Fehringer
©
Copyright 2017 by Dale Fehringer
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Jerry
Garcia used to tell
a story about an incident at a concert the Grateful Dead played in
San Francisco’s Fillmore Auditorium. Before the concert
someone brought in a birthday cake, and Garcia scooped up and ate a
fingerfull of frosting. Just then, the guy who brought the cake
warned that the frosting was laced with LSD. . . .
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Raising Kids
Steve Alexander
©
Copyright 2015 by Steve Alexander
revised 2017
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If
there is to be a world fit for good people, there must be parents
willing to train their children to create that world and to live in
that world.
I
think most parents today are on the wrong track. I think they are
doing a poor job of raising kids fit for a world of nice people. Most
kids of today are ill behaved, whining, screaming little criminals.
They run their families, they are a nuisance to others, and their
parents (who were raised the same way) let them get away with it. Bad
behavior is accepted as “part of growing up.” They
call
it “self expression.”. . .
A Lucky Day
Karen
Radford Treanor
©
Copyright
2017 by Karen Radford Treanor
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As
previously noted, bandicoots haven’t got much road sense.
I think it has to do with their small size and their limited field of
vision which just can’t encompass a huge vehicle bearing down
on them. This is the story of one very lucky little bandicoot
that I met when I was still living in Western Australia. . . .
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Shame of the Tugboat Edison
David Winnie
©
Copyright 2017 by David Winnie
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BAM!
BAM! BAM!
George
Raab was unable to tell if the pounding he heard was from the whiskey
he had imbibed the night before or someone’s fist on the door
of his room in the Hewitt Avenue flophouse. Opening one eye, he could
make out the pale, curved shoulder of a doxie he’d hooked up
with the night before.
The
incessant knocking was coming from the door, with a shouted voice,
“George Raab! This is Deputy Nathan Beard. Sherriff McRae
needs to see you, posthaste.” . . .
More...
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Burn
Baby Burn?
William
Wayne Weems
©
2017
by
William Wayne Weems
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Racist.
So I was called
during a back and forth debate with Facebook comments. I am aware of
the present loose use of that slur, and the contention among some
folk "of color" that it is impossible for them to be racist
while those of "white" skin are by their very culture
necessarily prey to such attitudes. But naïf that I am, I thought my
participation in the Civil Rights restaurant sit-ins during the
1960's would somehow insulate me from such a charge. . . .
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Doing It By The Book
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2017 by Emily Hart
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\
Now
I'm not saying that in
Jessie Bell's place I would have gone a step further and struck the
match, but then again, I'm not saying I wouldn't have.
I
was completely surprised
the first time. After all, when Jack made rude little cracks
at
me I fired back with some smart crack of my own. That was
what
we did. Our friends thought we were cute.
Feisty.
When Jack backhanded me across the face it wasn't just the blow that
knocked me off my feet. . . .
The
Lesson
Marion Parks
©
Copyright 2017 by Marion Parks
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You
sit at the traffic light, waiting for it to turn green; the tip of
your fingernails tap out a little rhythm on the metal and plastic
disc inside your steering wheel. You look in the rear view mirror
and pat a strand of white hair back into place, noting the network of
wrinkles making interesting patterns in your face, and you smile at
yourself....
More...
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Grandmother's
Roses
Leslie Soule
©
Copyright 2017 by Leslie Soule
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When
I think about my childhood, what I remember most fondly, is playing
in my grandmother’s backyard, along with my cousins. We’d
play around the rose bushes, and dig up insects. We’d catch
frogs, run around and play tag, or use the old wagon and pull each
other around. We had video games, but this was the age of regular
Nintendo, and when the weather got cold, we’d play Mario Bros.
for most of the day. My grandmother was an extraordinary woman, who’d
raised four kids, and knew all their tricks. . . .
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Odd Intruder: The Biography of Richard A.
Anderson
Leslie Soule
©
Copyright 2017 by Leslie Soule
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When
I set out to write my stepfather’s biography in the spring of
2011, I found myself standing at a metaphorical crossroad.
Truthfully, I felt inadequate to the task of becoming his biographer.
However, sometimes in life we are called upon to undertake tasks that
we never thought would fall to us. When my stepfather died in
November of 2002, ultimately due to complications from diabetes, I
was a month from turning nineteen years old. I felt like Frodo from
J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series, accepting a ring of
power and a dire quest at such a young and fragile age....
Pocket
Barry Carver
©
Copyright 2017 by Barry Carver
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Isn’t
it true of all of us that, as we age, we find more of our parents in
ourselves?
Sometimes
it is an unhappy realization, but good or bad, we recognize that
there is some weight to the argument that the apple never falls far
from the tree. For most of us, I hope, it is also true that those
everyday, throwaway memories with Mom and Dad – and probably
just because so many of them were that: thrown away – become
precious....
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Taking Out Citizenship In Neverland
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2017 by Emily Hart
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I
know that Neverland
is a real place. I have visited there often.
"Tag! You're it!"
"Who made up this stupid game?" I
thought,
as once again I was the first person tagged."
Being the shortest one in our
neighborhood group of
kids, except for the "babies" -- younger siblings ranging
from toddlers to kindergarten age -- I also had the shortest legs and
was invariably the first person tagged. This meant that I
would
chase the others around while they took turns resting and building up
their strength. I was at a disadvantage in any game involving
running, but tag was the worst....
More...
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Between
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2017 by Emily Hart
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The
imagination of a seventeen year old girl,
the crisp air of autumn and the scent of apples . . . what can they
conjure up?
It was the time of the changing of
the guard, the
season between seasons. The air undulated, warm as gold one
moment, crisp as the ripening apples the next. The scent of
chlorine perfumed bodies mingled with the odor of turning leaves and
soil getting ready to sleep. Shadows ate more and more with
increasingly sharper teeth. The pendulum movement of the
Earth's breath was as rhythmical as the pumping rise and fall of my
bike pedals....
More...
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The Liberation of France
Margie
Hofman
©
Copyright 2017 by Margie Hofman
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Yes,
I know we all know about it – but do we?
My
friend has a small apartment in the south of France, in Nice and she
made friends with a schoolteacher who is teaching French children
English. The teacher herself is English and started telling them the
war time story of the little boats that went out from England to
rescue our army at Dunkirk – the children laughed “How
was it possible to get 300,000 men away in small boats” The
teacher explained that they were ferried to the big boats .
The
children aged about 14 or 15, knew very little about war time France
and the teacher asked if she knew anybody who had written about war
time for children – as I have several stories on the internet,
she gave my name.
More...
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Charity
Mausumi Phukan Baruah
©
Copyright 2017 by Mausumi Phukan Baruah
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“Life
is a pendulum between a smile and a tear” Riki says
philosophically, as she makes her entrance to the Kitty Party
organised at Salma’s house while Malini, Meera, Seema and
others were waiting for her arrival to start the party.
“Hey
don’t start boring please, leave your damn philosophy with
yourself, for gods sake, don’t spoil our mood in this nice
party” Meera says sarcastically, always unable to bear Riki’s
works. Maybe she doesn’t understand them. Her motto of life is
to relax, eat lavishly, forget the tensions and enjoy life. Her body
and dress sense speaks nicely of it- a Body Mass Index of 30 + and
always on Designer clothes- Halter tops, Lee or Levis jeans....
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What
Can You Lasso With A Frayed Rope?
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2017 by Emily Hart
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Every year I watch the
story of a desperate man and an inept angel with the faith of a child
and wonder -- what comes next. So I got tired of wondering
and
wrote my own next chapter.
The
house was quiet, with that preternatural stillness that comes after a
party. The guests had all gone home, singing carols as they
drifted out. The children were in bed, if not asleep at least
trying to be in hopes of hastening Christmas morning. Mary
had
insisted that she could see to the tidying up without his
help.
George once again patted Zuzu's petals and thought of this singular
night. Already it seemed in danger of fading, just as a dream
fades in the morning. Did it truly happen? Perhaps
it was
just a dream or a delusion as he had first thought....
More...
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The Mirror
Mausumi Phukan Baruah
©
Copyright 2017 by Mausumi Phukan Baruah
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Shalini
reached the counter hurriedly. She was a little bit late in her
arrival. Mahesh was impatiently waiting to handover the
responsibilities to her and leave. He had a tough night. “Hey
Shalini, thank God that you have come! I thought that you might have
taken leave.”
Shalini
didn’t feel the need for an answer. She observed herself in her
pocket mirror. Those dark circles under her eyes have made her face
so dull. She got a little bit worried. Her beauty is her only asset.
And how well she knows it. She adjusted her dress, applied some
lipstick to bring in the fresh look and got ready for a new day....
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How
I Became a Writer of True Stories
(Instead
of a Famous Author of Fiction)
Richard
Franklin Bishop
©
Copyright 2017
by Richard Franklin Bishop
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Many
people set out early to be something special in life - some children
already know what they want to be at an very young age. . . saying:
“I want to be a Policeman when I grow up !” I had no such
aspirations and drifted along for years with my juvenile peers who
showed the same lack of career focus. For me, later in High School
and College, it was: “I’d like to become an airplane
Pilot.” But the eyes would not have it - not as a Profession.
And so, my career plan which had taken so long to articulate became a
little Zig-zag....
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Sis
Frances' Secret
John
McLaren McBrydes
Submitted
by Martha DiPalma, his granddaughter
©
Copyright 2017 by Martha DiPalma
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(I
found the following article in one of the drawers of my mother’s
old desk. It was penciled on folded, yellowed sheets, the four folds
practically breaking through with age. It was marked on the back “Sis
Frances.” Apparently the writer had planned to submit it for
publication, probably to the Readers’ Digest, as there were
superscripted numbers written every so often to count the number of
words accumulated. I surmised that he had written this in 1923.)...
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Little Johnny Beaman
A
Madison Plains Miracle
Aaron Davis
©
Copyright 2017 by Aaron Davis
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Way
back, back in the day there
was a little boy named Johnny Beaman, who was born to the proud
parents, Sarah and Mr. Johnny Beaman.
Coming
up Mr. and Mrs. Beaman were
the typical poor family, stricken with the harshness of poverty.
Mrs.
Beaman was a typical old
house wife with little education. She barely made it through grade
school.
On the
other hand, Mr. Beaman was
a retired steel worker who took care of his family the best way he
could. He had a nice garden beside the house, which sat on ten acres.
This was an inheritance given from Mr. Beaman parents a long while
ago....
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Halloween
1939 in Clay
County Arkansas
Paul
Marion Fleetwood
©
Copyright 2016 by Paul Marion Fleetwood
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Just in case the reader is not familiar with my stories; I am an old
guy writing true short stories of events that happened in my life for
the benefit of my great-great grandchildren. I want them to
have some knowledge of their heritage and of old Pawpaw Bob (that is
what my kids and grandkids call me). My real first name is
Paul
but I was nick-named Petey Bob growing up.
I
was born in Southern Missouri but my family moved to Arkansas when I
was six years old. We lived in the foothills of the Ozarks in
Missouri but when we moved to Northeast Arkansas we lived in
the mosquito infested swamps near Big Black river about 9 miles from
Corning....
More...
On
21 June 1957, after graduation from USAF Officer Candidate School
(O.C.S.), I was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant (a Gold Bar) in
the United States Air Force at the ripe old age of 26 ½. I had
been admitted to the program bumping hard against the upper age
limit.
Since
most newly Commissioned Air Force Officers came from College ROTC
Programs, they were usually in their early twenties. Now you have to
know that 2nd Lieutenants have it pretty tough while accumulating
experience and during that time are endowed with such sobriquets as
“greenhorns” and “wet behind the ears” by
both other Officer ranks and Enlisted personnel; not to their face,
of course! My Father, a Veteran of World War I, told me that back
then they were called “90-Day Wonders."...
More...
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How
15 Cents Saved Me From
A
Life of Crime
Circa
1942
Paul
Marion Fleetwood
©
Copyright 2016 by Paul Marion Fleetwood
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...I was in the ninth
grade in Gary High and my little brother Billy was three grades
behind. We walked to school everyday along with our best
buddy
Billy Ray McDaniel who was in the middle of us age wise. We
walked the road to town and then peeled off on the railroad track
which took us right by the school. Usually we came back the
same way but sometimes we would go back to town a different way.
Now here's the thing, as kids are wont to do; we had our
motto
and modus operandi. Our goal each day on the way home was to
somehow beg, borrow, or steal 15 cents so that we could each have a
nickel to buy a
big ole RC Cola. Our success depended on this to brighten up
our otherwise boring lives in this hot and dusty little town.
Remember, this was before I-Phones, internet and even before
TV.
We didn't even have a radio so we had to make our own
entertainment....
More
Dad
Barry Carver
©
Copyright 2016 by Barry Carver
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My
Dad finished his day’s work at Ford’s Livonia
Transmission Assembly Plant, hopped into the family station wagon and
made the drive from that Detroit suburb to the more distant one we
then called home.
My
Mom had gotten the five of us still at home, of six kids total, to
finally head off to bed. She turned on one of the silver,
built-in, two bay electric ovens and chose from the freezer my
Father’s evening meal. It must’ve been about just
after 11pm.
It’s
strange the things you think growing up. Dad’s evening
meal would consist of either a potpie or a Swanson’s TV
dinner. The fridge always had a stock of those foil-encased
delicacies and we kids thought it quite the treat when we got the
same thing for dinner that Dad would get when he came home....
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Betty
Dale
Fehringer
©
Copyright 2016 by Dale Fehringer
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The past
few months have been hard for all of us. A divisive election and
difficult times ahead will present challenges to all of us. If you
need some inspiration to help you carry on, Betty’s story might
provide it.
Betty said
she should have known it was time for new tennis balls on the feet of
her walker. The metal legs were scraping the sidewalks and the
neighborhood dogs were barking when she walked the streets. So she
asked a volunteer to replace the tennis balls, and now her walker
glides with barely a peep. Betty is happier and so are the
neighborhood dogs....
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Bea
Dale
Fehringer
©
Copyright 2016 by Dale Fehringer
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As
I get older, I see evidence that happiness isn’t necessarily
related to wealth. Sometimes, the people who have the least are the
happiest, or at least they are content. That was the case with my
friend, Bea. She found a way to get by and be happy with the cards
she was dealt.
I
used to drive Bea home to her apartment on Fridays after lunch at
Telegraph Hill Neighborhood Center. My friend, Ruby, who was in
charge of the senior program, got me started when she asked me to
drive Bea home one Friday. Bea had shown up that day for lunch with
a bad nosebleed and tissues stuffed up her nostrils. Ruby got the
nosebleed stopped and I drove her home. It turned into a regular
thing....
Money and Popsy in New Orleans
Martha
Yarborough DiPalma
©
Copyright 2015 by Martha Yarborough DiPalma
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This
writing is a description of some of my early life with my
grandparents and a few of my aunts and uncles and
cousins.
“Money”
and “Popsy” McBryde lived in a big old white house at
1537 Henry Clay Street in New Orleans. I remember visiting my
grandparents for a few weeks during several summers. Here is my
first attempt at using their typewriter in the summer of 1951 when I
composed a letter to my mom and dad: (In nine-year-old cursive, I had
added a P.S.: “Thanks for letting me stay.”)...
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Elephant Man
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2016 by Emily Hart
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The
snow crunched beneath
his boots as he walked. He had stood here by this swing set
in
blistering sun and wind driven rains needled with ice -- and in snow
like tonight, December 24th. The swings moved slightly in the
night breeze as if ghost children played on them.
What
a thought! He
cursed himself silently.
"Where
are you,
Peri?" he said. "Where are you? Little girls
are supposed to be safe at home eating gingerbread cookies and
listening for sleigh bells on Christmas Eve."...
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Gallows Flower
Emily Hart
© Copyright 2016 by Emily Hart
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Out on the prairie the
loveliest things can be the most deadly, as a man sometimes finds out
too late.
There's
nothing so lovely
as a flower on the prairie -- set against the harshness of a that
bleak, unforgiving landscape. It is like a bit of
grace.
That was Flora Grace Coronach -- as fair to look at as a
flower.
She looked like a day lily, bright and lithe. She moved like
water in a brook -- cool and laughing. When she spoke to you
it
was like songbirds come back in the spring. A woman like that
should be dressed in velvets and satins and fine laces and have no
work harder to do than lifting a teapot. She should be mated
to
man who has earned the respect of other men....
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Petey
Bob's Train Ride
A
True Story
Paul
Marion Fleetwood
©
Copyright 2016 by Paul Marion Fleetwood
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It
was during the
Great War. The year was 1944 and I was 13 years old, getting ready to
be 14 on July 23, 1944.
My
family lived in a
small town in East Texas not too far from Longview. We had moved to
Texas from Northeast Arkansas where my dad had a small farm. He had
gotten hurt and was unable to work the farm so we moved to Texas
where Dad's extended family lived so he could help out around their
sawmill.
My
mom's family lived
in Southern Missouri near the small town of Doniphan. I wanted to
visit my Grandma and Uncle Paul when school was out that Spring so
Dad drove me to Longview to catch the train....
What
Lies Ahead
Gayle
Thawley
©
Copyright 2016 by Gayle Thawley
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How
lucky we are that we do not know what lies ahead as nothing that
picture perfect September morning prepared me for the hours to come.
For that matter, nothing in my life prepared me for the hours to
come.
Standing
on the small wooden porch of the portable classroom I lovingly called
‘Math Heaven’ at Kilmer Middle School in Fairfax,
Virginia, I felt my first feeling of relaxation since my summer
vacation had ended just two short weeks before. The tedious attention
to the details of a new school year had dominated my life completely.
Class lists for 152 students, preparing lesson plans, meeting after
meeting, the list went on and on....
