In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now approaching my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
Last Thursday, I shared with you, dear readers, the beginning of my 30 years as a writer and editor. That was the upside of 30 years ago. The downside was the death of the Daddy, two weeks after I started my new job. The last time I saw him was the weekend before I started work. The parents were both happy—the Daddy, in particular—that I finally got a job. One, especially, that I was excited about. On the last evening of my visit, I was rummaging through my old bedroom closet for some stuff. I don't know how long the Daddy had stood at the bedroom door watching me before I realized he was there. "Do you want something?" I asked. He smiled. "No," he said. I returned to my quest. He stood there for a few more seconds, then left. It was such a odd thing for him to do. When I was a small kid, every now and then I would wake to find the Daddy and the Mama looking at me. I always pretended I was asleep. "She's okay," the Daddy used to say,
On Saturday, the Husband, the Mama, and I took the plunge and adopted Missy Molly by Golly. She's about one-and-a-half years old, more or less. A mix of tortoiseshell and tabby, says the Husband. He told me why, but it went right through the ears. She definitely has a coat of many colors. That's good luck, according to the Mama. For the cat or for us, I don't know. Molly had lived in a foster home most of her life, so she already knows all the tricks about using the litter box. Yaay! She also has her shots and is spayed, defleaed, microchipped, and whatever else cats need to have done to them today. The foster mother told us that Molly is quite independent. That she prefers to hang around people than with cats and dogs, and that she can do well without other four-legged companions. All reasons for her to come home with us. Today is the third day of being with the highness, the Cat. She already greets each of us when she sees us, and is slowly becoming comfortable roa
Some of the first books I wrote and edited at Janus Book Publishers . Thirty years ago, I began my first day at work in the publishing industry. It was actually my second day of employment, but the first day was a holiday. I still think that was (and is) definitely a great way to start a new job—and a new career. I had not planned to enter the publishing world . Back then, my goal was to get at least five years of teaching under my belt so I could eventually become a high school counselor or a curriculum developer in a school district. So, what happened? Simple. By the time I earned my teaching credential in social science, there were few teaching jobs. I was in another bout of unemployment when I saw the newspaper ad for an assistant editor position at a small educational publishing house. I figured it was a long chance, but heck, what did I have to lose. Throughout the whole job selection process, I had a good feeling about the job. I had to do a writing sample, and as I work
Yesterday was like Christmas. After eight-and-a-half years, I finally opened some boxes marked KITCHEN that belong to the Husband and me. There was stuff I forgot we had. When we moved in with the Mama, most of our belongings stayed in storage. Last month, we consolidated two lockers into one and I decided to bring home some of the KITCHEN boxes. Until late yesterday afternoon, they'd been sitting in the garage. They would probably still be there if we didn't move boxes around to try to find a mouse carcass. Shudder . We did not find any mouse remains, but we did discover that something ate through the cat carrier—which we had bought to eventually take Mr. L. Gatto Cat to the veterinarian (and it's a good thing we didn't)—to get at the bag of cat litter that we'd stored in the carrier. Was the mouse disappointed when he finally reached the sand? "Do mice hibernate?" the Husband asked. "I don't know," I replied, watching him poke a
It's not that I don't have something in mind to write about. I do. Lots. But, work words must be written first. So, for today, I give you photos of a pink sky on the last evening of 2011. Until Monday, dear readers. The Husband and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. As we wandered we wondered if we would come across Mr. L. Gatto Cat in one of his favorite hang outs. We were quite surprised to see him hanging out on the fence when we got home. (This was two nights before he left our lives forever .) Such an amazing sky, don't you think? Hollister, California, that's where we live. Nope. I'm not talking about that silly store.
It happens. A loved one gets too old to cut her (or his) toenails. That same elderly loved one who can still drag a nine-foot ladder across the backyard and prune a lemon tree, when no one is looking. In my case, that is the Mama. I could take the Mama down to a nail salon. But, the idea of a stranger touching one's toesies is creepy. And, you never know if the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money really changes her gloves after each customer. That protection is more for the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money than for the customers. Forget about trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there is the matter of the strong smell of chemicals. I've walked passed open doors of nail salons and been hit with a big wham of oppressive odors. The stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money also wears a face mask, which makes me wonder why customers don't wear them either. Heaven knows what breathing in the toxins for even one minute does to your health. Of course, there is the
A strange thing happened on Monday afternoon. For a second day in a row, the Husband and I decided to go outside and get our bodies moving and make some sweat happen. But, that's not the strange thing that happened. The day before we pedaled our bicycles up and down. My choice. Monday was his choice. Walking. Sigh. I realized, again, on Monday that I don't really like walking long distances unless it's on a beach, in a park or wilderness, or on city streets lined with shop windows. I like to be distracted as I walk. Plod. plod. plod. The Husband is much taller than me, which means he has a long stride to my short plod. We both walk at our own pace. So, the husband is almost always ahead of me, but circles back when he gets to a corner. He gets more walking in that way, and I get a chance to be alone to think or not to think about things. Okay, now this is when the strange thing happened. As I got to the second block, a wonder took hold of me. I wonder if I c