Bigmama was there, because I used the dessert plates she gave me. Washing up afterwards, I turned them over and there on the tape on the back was her cursive: “Ellen.”
Hers, too, were the ice cream dishes that held cranberry sauce, pickles, and jam; we had jam because Bigmama always had jelly or jam for any formal meal.
I was upset, because my friend had been admitted—not his idea—to a mental health facility for evaluation. I was nervous because I’d never been to a mental hospital before. (Yes, I’d painted the lobby at Whitfield for the Junior League, but this was a whole different ballgame.) Finally, I was frightened because it was two days after Halloween...
Anyone who thinks loving the earth is beautiful has never kept a compost bucket.
Squishy pumpkin guts. Black coffee grounds. Gobs of gooey matter whose origin as food is no longer discernible.
We load the bucket into the back of the pickup truck and ride to Binghampton where we lift the lid of this paint bucket that we’ve fancied-up by calling...
I went for the mummies hanging in the trees. What I found were the ginkgos.
The yard had won “Best Overall” for its eerie bodies wrapped in spidery cocoons swaying from tree branches. I wanted my husband to see it, simply because it was spectacular. I’m more a fool for Halloween than he is, but those upside-down bodies!
When we turned and left...
Someone I care for dearly is caught in an unjust situation. Yesterday, I railed at “the system” that threatens to open its gaping maw and swallow him whole. Today, I am overwhelmed by our lack of forgiveness.
We excoriate each other over perceived injustices which often are, in fact, injustices. If we knew that fact so firmly and...
I am now doing an exercise I can’t spell.
Pilates, I think, which sounds so exotic (another word I can’t spell). No big deal, except, as a writer, I’d like to know the word for what I’m doing.
“As a writer”—same reason it galls me when I end up pawing through my pocketbook searching for the nonexistent pen....