One Year Later

In honor of the first birthday of the Wondergrandson, I offer this repost:

No Ketchup

One waits, the waiting accompanied by a pulsing of anticipation/excitement/worry.

Seven months ago I waited for this to be done:

Once the snow melted, I began to wait for these:

Today I waited for my grandson to be born.

This was different than when my granddaughter was born. Sixteen years have passed and life has changed, of course. On that day I was an active participant in the birth and while the pulsing was certainly there, my attention was on my daughter, my focus was keenly on her and the incredible ordinary magic of the process.

Today I waited. I sat on the couch in my living room working while the dog and cats slept nearby, the historic heat pressed its estimable weight on the world and, a few short miles away, my daughter once again labored through the incredible ordinary magic of giving birth. The pulsing this time was nearly deafening, pulling my mind and heart away from the work at hand. When the pulsing overwhelmed, I called friends and talked until it was just a hum in the background.

In the evening family assembled—my daughter's sister and aunt, my husband, Florida Freddy. We ate pizza, we laughed, we talked. We waited together. Then a point came when I knew I had to go to the hospital—worry had overwhelmed all the other elements of waiting. I drove the few miles, walked in to the labor/delivery room, checked out what was going on and, after a little while, came home again.

Two hours later my phone buzzed. "Baby's here. Shannon says Wendy's, please."

We all piled into one car and headed for the drive through. I spoke into the intercom, gave the order. "A #1 with cheese and no onions."

"No ketchup?"

"No. No onions."

Shannon's aunt said, "Where did she get 'no ketchup?'" 

We all laughed, releasing the swirl of anticipation and excitement (no more worry). We laughed again when the two giant cups of soda were passed out of the drive through window. We laughed again when we saw the sign proclaiming that ketchup and salt were available by request. We even laughed when we got stuck behind a man on a motorcycle following the white line on the right side of the road at 10 mph in a 35 zone—though our laughter was once again tinged with worry.

In the vestibule we had to wait to be allowed in—a group of five giddy adults carrying tubs of soda and a paper sack redolent of grease and salt, surrounded by a pulsing halo of excitement and anticipation that was surely visible.

Down the hall, the nurses calling congratulations from their station and then the waiting was over and there was this:

Look at those eyes. Look at the old soul peering out from inside.


When I held him for the first time, I felt a pulsing made of wonder and gratitude and the incredible ordinary magic of love.

Oh, Joy

I've been a little blue lately—a convergence of situations, the alignment of the stars, some physical challenges—which has, of course, made writing hard so I've had no energy left for blogging. The last three days, however, have been a tonic.

Sunday The Total Package and I went with friends to one of my favorite restaurants (Skappo) before going to hear two of my favorite musicians in the world—Cory Chisel and Ade Denae—play in a very  small club in New Haven, followed by the second course with some wonderful wine and incredible, deep, soul-nourishing conversation (at 116 Crown).

Monday I taught then drove to Mystic for dinner with one of my favorite people in the world, Baron Wormser, and a new friend, Thom Bassett. Both Thom and I were lucky enough to have had Baron as our mentor (at different times and at different MFA programs)—now I'm lucky to have found another friend who is deeply engaged with writing who's willing to share work, insights and advice, and who has a wicked good sense of humor. Every time I have a chance to talk with Baron his wisdom, generosity and writing makes me want to try harder to be a better writer and a better person. (Of course there's a link to follow to learn more about Baron's extraordinary work; check it out and you'll see what I mean.) The conversation ranged from Faulkner and Hawthorne through country music and Emerson; more nourishment for the soul, plus a side order of inspiration—all three of us teach and Baron reminded me about what a privilege it is to be able to do so.

Today was all about connections—with The Total Package, with friends, with Nature her own self. I went to teach my class and found the gift of a former student visiting—a reminder that teaching is another form of connection.

The WonderDaughter and the WonderGrandchildren are returning from a week away and I can't wait to see them, so I was excited to be done with class. The drive home along back roads felt like an adventure—the way driving at night felt when I first took my place behind the wheel. "Yes," I thought. "Yes, I am lucky."

When I pulled in the driveway The Total Package came out to greet me.

"I think we have to go to the grocery store," he said. "The dog got skunked."

One vinegar-infused bath and countless sprays of various aerosols later, the dog is in his crate (in the garage, poor lamb). The house stinks beyond description. The "kids" are on their way from the airport. And I am beyond lucky, I am blessed.

Live Psychic Live!

I just checked a website that one of my students used for a research paper and found an ad for live psychics—on camera, waiting for my call, drinking off-brand colas, hollering over a shoulder to someone in another room, surrounded by statuettes proclaiming someone The World's Best Mom.

All I had to do was click on the image and I could have signed in, gotten news from the Universe.

The thing is, I don't think I want to know.

Flash Something XII—Not really a flash at all

Lee Bessette has called for today to be the Day for Higher Ed and asked for academics "to actually record, in minutia, what we do as professors from the moment we wake up to the minute we fall asleep. All the work we do that contributes to our job as educators."

So, here goes: I am an adjunct professor, teaching part time at three different schools—I teach different courses at each school and have approximately 20 students in each of my four classes. I have no benefits, no paid vacations, no paid sick days, no certainty that I will be rehired at any of these schools next semester.

6:15 a.m.: Wake up. On Mondays, I teach only one class at 8:30 a.m. While I drink my first cup of coffee I check the bag I've dedicated to this school (I teach at three so let's call this School #1) to make sure I have everything I'll need packed and ready to go. That means I do an inventory of whiteboard pens, extra assignment sheets (all of them, from the beginning of the semester), the portfolio a student from two semesters ago has asked me to return to her. I have no office at this school so I have to store student portfolios (a semester's worth of work) in my home office for a full year because that's policy.

6:30 a.m.: Second cup of coffee. Log on to email for School #1—it's a contractual requirement that I check this email at least once a day but I always check it three times a day because when students send emails they usually need a timely response—no new emails. Log on to email for School #2; there are eight new emails from students since I logged on last night before bed. Answer the questions, one student can't find a book he needs for his big project so I agree to lend him my copy (which I agree to drop of later in the day) and, since I'm delivering that book, arrange to meet with students later in the day (though I don't have office hours on days when I don't teach at School #2). Check email for School #3; no new emails from students but some administrative tasks to handle. Look for book and realize that I loaned my copy to a friend; log on to School #2 bookstore site to see if they have book in stock.

7:35 a.m.: Shower, dress, grab a bottle of water and my class bag, drive to School #1.

8:05 a.m.: Unlock classroom door, boot up computer and write notes on white board to supplement projected notes on the day's lesson. Because I have no office here, I try to get to class early enough to meet with students; few of them email to arrange for this so I simply make myself available.

8:30 a.m.: Lots of questions about the projects that are due next week. Because only two students have read assignment I alter teaching plan for the day—while they read the shortest of the stories assigned and journal their responses, I return previous assignments. There are 24 students enrolled in this class; I spent approximately six hours responding to the assignments I am returning now. I spent an additional two-three hours preparing my lesson plan.

10:15 a.m.: Some after-class discussions with students (always awkward since there is no privacy) and a visit from a former student who wants to advice about where to transfer. We walk and talk so I can put the portfolio from two semesters ago on a shelf in faculty services (where its rightful owner can retrieve it), then walk and talk some more.

10:30 a.m.: Drive to the appointment I made for 11 thinking I'd have time to pick up a smoothie or something en route—the drive takes 25 minutes so no smoothie for me. Get a text asking if I can meet with a colleague at School #2; feel lucky to be able to say I can meet because our schedules do not overlap and it has been months since we talked.

1 p.m.: Go to bookstore to pick up book, pick up lunch which I hope to be able to eat in the office I share with two other adjuncts at School #2 before the first student I'm meeting with arrives for our meeting at 1:15. Drop book in my mailbox with a note for student. Back in office, log on to email—there are six new emails from students that I answer while I eat. Print out submissions for writing contest I'm helping judge.

1:45: Student never showed. I meet with colleague.

3:00: Back in office; have email from 1:15-meeting student apologizing for forgetting our meeting and asking if we can reschedule for 1:45. The email is time-stamped 2:30. Answer four more emails from students.

4:00: Pack up writing contest submissions, drive home. Check emails for Schools #1 and 3. Check bag dedicated to School #2 to make sure I have all the papers I've graded/commented on, handouts, and other necessary materials for classes tomorrow.

5:00: Read book that is assigned for class at School #3, make notes for lesson plan.

6:00: Realize I have made no plans for dinner. Family decides diner is best option.

8:15: Back from dinner, log on to School #2 email, answer two new student emails. Log on to School #1 email, answer one student email; log on to School #3 email, answer one student email.

8:30: Realize I have not written anything today. Read Sonya Huber's terrific blog about her day of Higher Ed and figure this is as good a thing to write about as any.

10:00: Begin writing this blog entry.

11:30: Finish writing this blog entry.

Missing in Action

No new posts for days because Mr. Handsome Man, my beloved cat, had a health emergency and there is no writing in that circumstance.

He is better, for which I am grateful, but this is going to be a "thing."

Flash XI—In Memorium

Because there's nothing I could write that comes close to this:

What Kind of Times Are These

By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

Thank you, Ms. Rich.

Flash X—Fairy Tale

Julia Roberts is playing the Wicked Stepmother. So is Charlize Theron. There are two prime time TV shows "inspired" by fairy tales—a wellspring, it seems, of great ideas for entertainment.

I get it. I was, as a child, an enormous believer in fairy tales. There was no doubt in my mind that I would bravely overcome obstacles, there would be a Prince Charming arriving once I'd emerged (triumphant!) from the dark wood, and I would live happily ever after in a well-staffed castle.

One out of three ain't bad (thank you, every day, Neil). Here's what I still can't figure out, however: why was I so certain about those obstacles, that dark wood? I devoted hours to inventing spectacularly grim scenarios in which I matched wits with trolls and wicked witches and wizards who looked nothing like Harry Potter. Prince Charming was able to take care of himself, apparently; I never got much beyond the idea that he would show and be...charming. The castle? I never got inside the front door. "Happily ever after" was such a given the idea that it wouldn't happen was unimaginable.

Was it a response to the way things were when I was a child—when, in my world, women had their adventures (such as they were) before marriage? Of course it was. There was more to it than that, certainly—there were a few Big Bad Wolves in that world of mine—but I'll save that for another post (or a book).

Flash Fiction IX—Mug Shot

She is smiling for the camera. A reflex? A habit born of countless imploring commands? You could think she’s been caught by surprise as she steps into the kitchen during a party or as she turns at just the right moment so we can see the joy of company, the wake of a good laugh making her eyes dance, the anticipation of more fun to follow.

Perhaps it is a relief, this tapering in her life. Look at his picture and it is easy to imagine his hard edges; what must it be like to navigate those every day?

Still, she is smiling for the camera. There is no fear in her eyes and no shame and you can’t help but think she looks like someone you would probably like to have coffee with.

Flash Fiction VIII—Anonymous Donor

They bring you into a windowless room for this. You sit at a table with the surgeon you've never met, the social worker who was waiting for you in the ER, some other doctor. You're waiting to hear how long it's going to take for her to recover from this because that's the best thing you can imagine. You fold your hands, feel the smooth cool table begin to slick with your sweat as you begin to understand what they are asking of you.

Your own heart shatters yet keeps on beating.

This is when you understand the lack of windows: no prying eyes, but also no world beyond this room, no way to place this moment in any kind of natural context. The social worker sits beside you and you realize you should have known when she touched the back of your chair—she was measuring the distance.

After you say this you will never be able to speak again. What more will there be to say?

The paperwork is stunning. The other doctor is the lawyer, of course; he flips pages, points to tagged signature lines. The surgeon is a fidgeter; her chair arcs as she waits for the last crossed “t,” dotted “i,” and she does not watch.

When you are done, the social worker asks if you want the hospital chaplain.

Flash Fiction VII—That Damned Dog

The worst calls are the neighbor disputes. You've got two kings (or queens) of the castle, you've got boundary issues both literal and figurative, you've got long-simmering resentment. But what's a small-town cop to do? We get the crimes we hope for; I am usually grateful.

The temperature was running 20 degrees above normal so you have figure there was an epidemic of spring fever and that dance Venus and Jupiter have been doing for the past month has been pulling out the crazy in everyone. We’d had calls about the usual stuff: vandalized mailboxes, missing booze, youths gathering in the library parking lot. I had 10 minutes left on my shift.

“Report of a menacing dog over on Willow, on Will-ow. Do you read?” Brenda likes to add drama to her dispatches.

“Menacing?”

“The dog is allegedly menacing. Do you copy?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Copy that.”

She was one of those tall women who haven't finished a full meal in 25 years, silver gray hair pulled into a ferocious bun my wife calls “a poor woman’s facelift,” but the clothes proved she could afford to go under the knife the way most of us can afford to go for coffee. The shotgun looked like a prop. “That dog is a menace. I’ve been warning him for months.”

“Ma’am, I need you to hand over the firearm.”

“This? Don’t be absurd; this is an heirloom.”

“Regardless, until this gets resolved I need you to hand over the firearm.” She made a little noise at the top of her throat but she gave it to me. “Now, the dog?”

She pointed and I thought I’d have to get the body bag out of the trunk (which adds at least half an hour to the call). But the dog was alive. So was the owner, though I’m pretty sure he could have died of embarrassment. Crouching behind a decoratively decrepit pony cart is never good for the self-esteem.

“She tried to kill me!”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m simply making a point,” she told him. “This is what it takes,” she told me.

I had to arrest them both. That’s going to be at least two hours overtime.

Flash Fiction VI(a)—The Bicycle Thief

(this entry is the actual post for March 22 for some complex reason related to the cascading effect of having missed March 20)

My mother’s bicycle was pretty basic: seat covered in brown leatherette; handlebars sporting grips that complemented the faded candy blue frame; three gears, the thumb-drive shifter mounted so there was no need to move a hand off the right grip; pedal brakes. She had added a wire basket that perched above the front wheel, though the rear pannier rack was standard; the basket was needed for the padlock’s thick chain and the Tour de France U-lock. “Toouurrr de Frahncsh,” she’d brag, though the longest she’d ever ridden was 40 hill-less blocks. To her credit, she did it in heels, but still.

She called me after she’d locked it to the U-shaped bike rack outside the museum. “U-shaped! Don’t you love the synchronicity?”

“That’s great, Mom.”

The Tour de France always secured the front wheel, the chain went on the back. She took a photo with her smartphone and sent it to her sister, my sister and me. I texted back that her tires looked a little soft. “Nxt, bk shp 4 new.” My mother understood texting much earlier than I did; I still use punctuation.

She was devastated, of course, when she discovered her bike had been stolen. She didn’t get angry until she logged on to the Times website—my mother gave up the paper edition as soon as it was feasible—and clicked on the Style section home page.

The subject line of the emails she sent to her sister, my sister and me was “My BIKE!” We dutifully clicked on the link, started the slideshow (http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2012/03/22/garden/20120322-MAKE-2.html). The first photo was nearly identical to the one she’d sent before the theft.

My sister replied all: “Do you think they’ll give you the lamp? If they do, can I have it?”

Flash Fiction VI—Cruise

They had wanted to go to somewhere, had needed to get away because the winter had been rugged, and while no one would say they were in trouble, a change would do them good. When Steven suggested one of those Cruises-to-Nowhere, Benni balked. “Did you just flinch?”

“No.”

“You did. It’s three days; completely manageable. My sister will watch the cat.”

She packed bathing suits though that much warmth was unimaginable. How far could one get in three days? No shopping for this; she wouldn’t ever see these people again, after all. One bag for each of them because he folds and she rolls and sharing just doesn’t work out.

The stateroom had a porch (is that right?) where they had breakfast that first day, fleeced, with socks and scarves, watching the steel sea churn by. Steven wore his watch cap. “There are indoor pools.”

They went to the gym. The sweat, a turnoff at home, was an inspiration (though maybe it was just the sea air or the envelope of complete anonymity they’d folded themselves into). A fruity cocktail for her, beer for him. “Incredible food.” Another round, then another, then a nap. Because they were on vacation, right?

When they woke up the sun was shining, the water the green of a sour apple jelly bean.

It was her idea to have sex on the porch (that can’t be right); they were on the eastern side of the ship and she suddenly craved that warmth on her skin. “I love this.”

How do you get a body off a ship? The crew handles the details; the ship doctor arriving, stewards wrapping a blanket around you because your teeth will not stop chattering and there’s a wax museum Steve and there’s the proof that death is a kind of release and then Steve is gone and the captain escorts you to a different stateroom (interior, no porch) and since it is a Cruise-to-Nowhere all you can do is lie on this king-size bed and wait for the ship to return to port where what had been Steve is rolled down the cargo gangway on a gurney just before the recycling.

Flash Fiction V—The Late Edition

March 20. It was the first day of Spring. That’s when I ought to have posted this entry, but things happen. “Things” being, in this case, a combination of the sudden onset of Spring Fever and a mass of papers to comment upon (and grade). I was overtaken by a desire to sit in the sun making daisy chains—in spite of the lack of daisies to link together and, I must confess, in spite of possessing no practical knowledge of how to make a daisy chain. This made the grading of papers that much more challenging, as if that was necessary or even possible.

“So take the papers outside and grade them.” This is a reasonable suggestion. It doesn’t work, though; I’m not the kind of person who can focus in that way. I get distracted by the snippets of conversations of passersby, and cloud formations, and the seduction of the sun’s warmth, the tickle of the breeze, the aroma of all that burgeoning green. Does. Not. Work. Much more efficient to stay in my office—windowless, airless, sterile (in the sense of lacking visual interest)—and get the job done.

I know myself that well, at least. I am a woman who does not know how to make daisy chains. I am a woman who remains childishly distractible. I am a woman who works best in a closed environment.

None of this is news. The news in this post begins and ends with this statement: It was the first day of Spring.

Flash Nonfiction IV—The Good News!

Everyone loves food; even those pinch-faced (and they are always pinch-faced) ascetics who claim they “eat to live” hold dear some dish that they favor above all others. I know that I take my love of food to the extreme. I know that there is something outright dysfunctional going on in this relationship. I know that this is a story too-often told. This same-old-same-old does, however, explain why the “news” that inspired today’s post is not based in journalism. It is, rather, news that gets delivered to my inbox Thursdays through Mondays of each week.

It is, always, good news.

It is the daily dinner menu for Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc.

I won’t be having dinner at Ad Hoc tonight because I’m in Connecticut, it’s in Yountville, California and Spring Break is over so I have classes. But I welcome the arrival of the dinner menu every time it appears; the idea that food this good is happening in the world seems like good news to me, even if the price of dinner is a solid and non-negotiable $52—and they charge extra if you want the (+) item. More good news: although I don’t have access to the same ingredients used at the restaurant, I do have the recipes for a lot of these dishes so I can make them at home at a substantial savings (though I won’t because the fried chicken needs a lot of pre-prep and I would have had to start yesterday).

I’m pretty certain that even those ascetics could find something to enjoy on this menu; if not today’s, then some other day’s. So, enjoy (and please note that any typos in the menu are not mine).

Dinner Menu for Monday, March 19th

Broccolini & Crescenza Salad
black olives, marinated mushrooms
fried chickpeas, red endive
lemon-honey vinaigrette

~

Buttermilk Fried Chicken
rancho gordo red beans and rice with sausage
sauteed romaine, english peas and carrots
chive oil

(+)

Prosciutto and Melted Onion Bruschetta
palladin toast, goat gouda
red radishes, rocket arugula

$12

~

San Joaquin Gold
pickled rhubarb
california strawberry and pear sald
piced mixed nuts

~

Pineapple Floats
vanilla ice cream, pineapple sorbet
huckleberry soda

Flash Fiction III—Gawd!

Yes, I did buy tickets for the midnight showing of “The Hunger Games” on Friday. I bought four for Saturday, too.

Mother, that’s ridiculous. Britney and I are going with Ali and Stef and I said I’d order the tickets online because I’m the only one who has an iPhone.

You need the iPhone because it has the app for buying tickets.

I don’t know why their phones don’t have the app; I don’t invent these things.

Gawd! I don’t have an attitude.

Daddy said he’d drive us.

Yes, I assume that means both ways.

I have no idea. Can’t you bring us?

I swear, you never once mentioned a half-marathon. I would have remembered that.

I totally would have remembered. Why isn’t it on the family calendar?

In red? You wrote it in red? No one can read red pen.

I don’t have an attitude. Gawd!

Well, what time will you be done do you think?

What? I was just asking!

Never mind; maybe Jen’s mom can drive us.

That’s because she’s not coming with us on Friday night; she’s going with other people on Friday night.

I don’t know what other people. Other people, that’s all.

There’s no way that was “a tone.” I don’t even know what “a tone” means.

I don’t know, it just wasn’t, that’s all.

Have you ever even run a half-marathon before?

Really? When have you been doing that?

Isn’t it cold out that early? And dark? Aren’t you afraid to go out in the dark? What if you, like, broke your ankle or something and no one could see you because the sun wasn’t even up?

Mom, I don’t think you should go out running in the middle of the night like that.

No, it’s completely different than going to the midnight showing of “The Hunger Games.” There’ll be a million people there; you go out all by yourself. You need to be careful in this world.

No, really, I mean it, Mommy. Things could happen and that would be tragic.

I’m not crying. I just had a little chill, that’s all, and so my eyes are watering.

I don’t need a hug. Gawd, you’re so weird!

Flash Fiction II—Money In The Bank

She always works a double on St. Patrick’s Day. “You’d be an idiot not to,” she says to Meghan.

“I’m an idiot, then.”

“I don’t mean you,” though she does. Meghan barely leaves the house on St. Paddy’s, another idiot thing.

The key thing is to have two pairs of shoes; one for each shift. Oh, and don’t forget the spare in the car. She’d learned this the hard way the year it snowed and she had to dump her puke-spattered sneakers in the trunk before driving home. Even with the heat blasting she felt the frostbite ruining her toes.

They come in just after her uncle turns on the sound system and unlocks the door. Five of them, with rugby shirts, striped green and white. Five Jameson shots ($6 each), three green beers ($2.50) and two Guinness drafts ($4); they look good for three rounds, minimum. “This one’s mine,” the smallest of them gives her $60, says to keep the change.

“You’re a sweet colleen,” he says later. “What’s your name?”

“Colleen.”

The ones who can hear over the Pogues or the Chieftains “hooooooahhh” as if she’s gotten over on him. She does not move away from his hand on her ass. When the next chorus of “Danny Boy” breaks out she sings along with them all the other St. Patrick’s Day Irish.

She has over $4K in her pocket (always in her front pocket, never the purse). Eddie the bouncer walks her to the car. There will be more tomorrow after the credit cards get run. When she gets home she and Meghan share a Guinness while Meghan rubs her feet. “It’s the red hair,” she says.

“It’s the name.”

“Money in the bank.”

“Maybe I’ll work next year.”

“You’d be an idiot not to.”

Flash Fiction 1—Trespass

I don’t know what’s going on over there in that church and I certainly don’t know what’s going on over there in that apartment. The newspaper says she was walking around at that power plant naked, trailing my grandbabies behind her and calling up to the sky for forgiveness. The girls were naked, too.

She’s just had bad luck. All her life, bad luck. Bad luck before she was even born. But I don’t blame myself and I surely don’t blame her. She isn’t bad. Maybe I do blame that preacher. Maybe I do blame that girl who brung her to that church the first time; spent just as many hours in that place praying and singing and waving her hands in the air but she didn’t have the kinds of troubles my daughter had and she should have known troubles like that are not helped with prayers and songs and walking home with no shoes on your feet with your girls who are just 4 and just 11 following you and it was after midnight. That girl should have known. That girl should have gotten someone to drive my Greta and those babies home. That girl should have called me when Greta grabbed her children’s hands and pulled them out the door with her into the dark, into the cold.

I don’t know what Greta needs to be forgiven for; maybe for making those children take off all their clothes outside, maybe for making them follow her through that marshy grass, no shoes on their feet, on a night when mittens needed mittens. That girl should have noticed the coats left behind, and the shoes kicked off by the folding chair that Greta knocked over when she jumped up to praise Jesus. I don’t know what was in that girl’s mind. She was on the local news talking about how she knew Greta was taking comfort in the Lord. I don’t know why they even showed that nonsense on the television. And where are my grandbabies now?

This Ought To Do Something

I decided that since I don't have hours to write I ought to try writing short things. So here's a challenge I developed for myself:

Write a piece of flash writing (fiction or nonfiction) every day for a month—-March 16 to April 16, 2012—-either based on a specific event in the news or in response to a writing prompt.

Each piece must be a maximum of 365 words.

I'll post today's piece separately.