Throw a sash around my neck,
I’ll parade across the stage
As the crowd cheers frantically
I’ll smile brilliantly and wave
My speech will thank the people
Who’ve made me who I am today
All the ones within my care
Who’ve caused my hair to gray
I know I’m not the fun one
Keeping order is my chore
The Queen of Worry ‘til my death
And then I’ll worry no more
Once I was the new dress, swirls of dark blue on pure white cotton, crisp and suited for summer soirées.
The favorite, I found delight in being washed by hand and then pinned to the clothesline to dry under the warm sun.
I drew compliments from strangers and friends, alike, and I relaxed in the pleasure of being worn, washed, and dried,
Until the day my colors faded and the white no longer looked sharp. I was assessed and found wanting before being
Packed away and relegated to a cardboard box marked for donation. My hopes now lie in resurrection from a thrift bin.
For your edification! Read more at 1xpad.com.
I understand the infield fly rule, though I doubt my knowledge will ever come into play at a cocktail hour or any other
Social event. Hey, I’d say, Did you know that if there are fewer than two outs, and runners on first and second, or first,
Second, and third, and a fly ball is hit that can easily be fielded by any member of the infield, the batter is out even
If the ball is not caught? What kind of nonsense is that? My partner in conversation will ask. Exactly, I’ll say!
Furthermore, runners advance at their own risk! With age I’ve come to realize that the rule protects the team on offense,
Even though it results in one out. What genius devised the infield fly rule? Surely he deserves a statue or a drink in his honor.
Try as I might I cannot figure a way to make this rule pertinent to my life, as I swing and miss one more time.
The things she recalled
His eyes, kind smile, gentle touch,
But never his voice
With scant reminder
She remembered his cologne
She’d give anything
To hear him speak one more time
Though words might wound her
I’m flying to Chicago out of Panama City Beach on Friday afternoon. Once in the Windy City I’ll meet up with my daughter and our middle granddaughter for a weekend of shopping, dining, and Les Misérables-ing.
In preparation for the trip I’ve been listening to the Les Misérables soundtrack, because one never knows when they’ll need someone to fill in for a cast member. I probably don’t look much like Jean Valjean, but I could sing his part in a pinch. And Cosette’s role? I’m ready to don her dress and belt out her lyrics. Just in case.
My tastebuds are already anticipating a Chicago-style pizza, as I recall the ghosts of pizzas past. There’s simply nothing better than a deep dish pepperoni. Mmmmm. Can you smell it? I can. Now all I have to do is convince my daughter and her daughter that we need to head downtown for dinner Friday night!
Of course, Friday will be my daughter’s thirty-somethingth birthday. I’ll let her choose dinner on Friday, but Saturday is pizza for sure. Am I excited? Duh!!! And the best part? Getting to see my family! I’m packed and ready. Let the party begin.
I grew up in a Fina gas station owned by my granddaddy. My days smelled of petroleum and cigars,
No wonder I’m a little on edge all of my days. When the world is combustible with the errant flick of an ash,
Everything becomes precious to a precocious five year old. Grandaddy kept candy and red fuses in a glass counter display.
I had the run of the place, but was cautioned about dashing about and around the old pumps, lest someone
Run me over. Pretty heady stuff for a little girl who only wanted to ask, “Premium or Ethyl?” as she washed grimy windshields.
My heart is all tied up in that place. Bound by diligence and the smell of Grandaddy’s Old Spice. The strength of his hugs.
The cat in question,
Snuggling, purring on my lap,
She finds her warm place
Never questions life,
Not a care in her safe world
Relaxed, yet still poised
The cat in question
A lady of advanced age
My boon companion
She still remembers
Walking through shame and cold fear
Whoee, doll, come here
Should she not react,
Or turn, and face the whistlers
Walk a bit faster
That stretch of hallway
Where sly boys formed a gauntlet
Eager eyes taunted