Recently, a friend ran into an old classmate, who said she remembered me from school. I looked her up on Facebook, and although the recent profile shot rang a bell, I couldn’t place her. That sent me back to a much earlier facebook, the 1987 FHS (Fairport, NY) Hourglass.
He awoke in the dark, instantly alert. Curious, he sat up and listened. The pale glow from the bedside clock blinked 3:48 am. The house was still; the neighborhood was quiet except for the rustle and last drips of rain through the trees and on the roof. Nothing else moved, but anticipation sparked the edges of his consciousness. What had called him?
The Bible says, “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” I spent 48 years not seeing and yet believing. I’m done.
There’s good in most people, wisdom even in a ballsy weasel. My father said shit that I remember every day; his bon mots comprise a not-inconsiderable legacy that I’ve passed on to my own kids over the years.
Frodo Baggins was a ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with a bad eye, a bum shoulder and a heart so big it finally broke. He lived March 15, 2009 until October 22, 2016.
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Warning: This piece deals frankly with sexual topics, and might not be appropriate for all audiences.
On cue, I stepped onto the historic Stanley stage. Butterflies rose up…I could do this. I’d taped a few cheats to my handheld microphone – keywords for lines I tended to mix up. I never looked at them.
So many days this winter, I’d stare at my computer monitor without any motivation to be productive. I stopped running, writing, reading. Gradually, life returned. It took longer than a week. I kept wondering, “Do I feel normal yet?” and eventually realized this was the new normal.
Bob was the great romance of my mother’s life, a blessing she never expected. About ten years ago, I started calling her every other day or so. “How are you today?” “Pretty good. Bob and I had great sex last night.”