While I’d love to be her perfect child, my imperfections lead me down the road that erases Mother’s perfection from my memory. Understand I’m not her worse child. Others far exceed my lack of respect, but if I was one of her finest, I’d always practice what I preach.
My first discovery authenticated a sanity-survival technique self-taught during the early days of parenting—shut off what I don’t want to hear. That includes squawking voices. This lingering skill undermined my scientific study, however. Every time the commercial runs aired, my inside ears shut it off and I went about the business of chopping carrots, chatting with spouse, visiting the bathroom, or checking Facebook updates
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.
