Cowing’s 2009 Jackrabbit Highways juts along paths of loss, wonder, anger, self-revelation and discovery. Like a quick-moving jackrabbit, Cowing’s precise word movement is as pleasant juicy to read as the first bite into a September-ripened tomato as noted in her poem “Tomato.”
Route 66 traverses my American life. My father bought a canvas radiator water bag for the blue and white 1955 Chevy wagon. We packed fried chicken, buttered white bread, hard-boiled eggs and Oreo cookies in a basket, and left California behind to see the USA in our Chevrolet eastbound on Route 66. When school returned each September, the iconic “What I did Last Summer” essays by classmates told tales about live lions, snake pits, dancing Indians, and buffalo burgers all experienced along the […]
I love shoes about as much as I love chocolate. Ever since ever the hunt for the darling shoe in the perfect color that coordinates with my outfit de’jour rates high in my top ten agenda. Once my peds took heel, this soleful passion kicked off when my grandmother said, “You need red tennis shoes for your new jeans and red shirt.” Red cowboy boots followed, along with black patent leather Mary Janes , white patent leather flats, orange sandals, rainbow-hued flip-flops […]
And while all these hippies were free loving each other, “they begat the Credit Card Generation.” (I’m still thinking this had to have been a parody.)
“Ca Girls” is a memoir in progress, that isn’t so much about me, as it is about a generation–My Generation. I can only show the story through my experience. My aging generation teeters
The only noise now, at 3 a.m. PST, is my stupid cell phone beeping every 15 minutes. It’s hidden deep inside my monstrous purse. I don’t wish to ruffle thru the purse to find the phone that will sing it’s Verizon lullaby and then wake up spouse. So I let it beep.
There you go again politicizing and “religious-cizing” the natural disaster in Haiti. From here on out I will not purchase anything advertised on the broadcast/print media that help fund these old idiotic white men.
Rahm’s face was a regular at our Santa Fe home. Sometimes things got bumpy for him, and I wanted to take that kid, and hug him until I squeezed those adolescent uglies away.
Welcome Tiger Woods to The Cockamamie Club.
I just put on my MBTs so I could stand and bake the rest of the day. Running through my mental holiday check list, I could not peg what was bringing me down as opposed to my usual excitement. “Fresh cranberries. Check. Emotional swell. Cornmeal for stuffing. Check. Emotional swell. Roasting pan from garage. Check. Emotional swell. WTF is going on?”