- Tears silently crept down my cheeks as Dad, still holding the almost-transparent paper looked at me and said, "I am so very proud of you."
- Fifth grade was the year that changed my life.
- Disorganize Your Life - Okay, let's admit it, folks. Too much emphasis is placed upon organizing everything including the dust bunnies under your bed. Really, what is wrong with a bit of organized chaos?
- Why do I carry it? The memory of when the letter was ever so tentatively handed over to me, makes me smile.
- I see her face, but who is she? At once both unrecognizable and familiar...how did she come to be?
- It seems to me that childhood is not fair. Some people, like Ralph Fletcher, have what I would term a "normal childhood". Others like Naomi Shihab-Nye have a time of conflict. Perhaps the conflict is the normal piece.
- Often times when I peruse my baby album, I wonder who it is that I am looking at in those photos. Some memories float in and out of consciousness. Stories I have been told get another chance to share their perceptions. The skinny bleached blond smiles, eyes all a twinkle as if she is happy to see me. But is she? When I was born, she refused to hold me. People have said they heard her say, "She was supposed to be a boy." The funny thing about all those stories I have been told is that they can haunt you. Memories can, too.
- Despite the engaging discussion, my eyes wandered as I looked around the backseat of this 1986 Buick. The dusty blue -it was literally dusty- headliner bubbled over the passenger seats. I wondered if I pricked it with a pin, would it pop or just unceremoniously deflate. Below the front passenger seat lay a substantial buffet of crumbs. No wonder there was an almost moldy smell. Turned off by the crumbs, I chose to look straight ahead. The driver's copper hair, restrained in its black band, was so smooth, so full of amazing luminescence. Some strands were actually auburn while others were golden. What was her secret that made her hair behave like glass? Absentmindedly, I reached up and gingerly fingered a curl of my own. It was soft, but not smooth like hers. "So how would you do it?" and I was forced to look away from her hair and answer. I don't remember what I said in response, but I do remember the ashtray.
There is much more, but I procrastinated long enough. One day I will return to my writing. Maybe I will finally write that book that still eludes me. You know, the best seller. HA! In my dreams. Until then, back to tag sale preparation (and vacuuming, and dusting, and laundry, and....)