A Blank Piece Of Paper

A blank piece of paper can be an opportunity to express one's self or it can be a deterent to that very experience.  I stare at the white square with a look of horror, aware that today it is my nemesis.

So I read for awile waiting for inspiration to strike.  No luck.  Okay, I'll watch some TV and see if words don't come.  Again nothing.  Now I'm really getting desperate.

So I sit in my favorite chair zoning out and watching the wildlife outside.  Did I mention it's only fourteen degrees?  Granted most of it is chickadees and titmouse but I find myself mesmorized.  Then I become aware of how many types of woodpeckers there are.  Downeys, Ladderbacks, Hairy and Yellow Bellied. Then I see it.  A Pileated that is gripping a deer carcass that my bettet half put up.  I laughed when he hung it thinking how bizzare it looked but he was right and I was wrong.

You always read how prehistoric they look and it is so true.  Watching that red and white stripped head and that big gray body is awe inspiring.  They rear back their head and drive it forward to get the fat left hanging on the rib cage.  Then they fly off to the nearest ttee and hop out of sight.  Pretty soon they appear back on the carcass and start the process again.

It's a world unto its self and one that I am lucky to see.

G is for Grave Stones

                                                


                                                                    








It was a mellow spring day, blue skies, just the right amount of heat, soft white clouds and the wonderful smell of moist dirt after a long, frozen, winter.  I quietly threaded my way around the grave stones, admiring the old wrought iron fence that protected the perimeters of this cemetery

At the back of the grave yard where periwinkle grew wild some of the head stones were so old that the writing once etched on their faces could no longer be read.  But others had survived the elements and I carefully read the words that described the people buried here for eternity.  "Here lies David B. Mier, loving husband and father.  He will be missed" RIP 1876 - 1930 .    Next to him was  Shirly D, Mier, 1880 - 1928 "Sleep on, sweet mother and wife,  And take thy rest, God called thee home, He thought it best.

As I continued my meanderings the epitaphs I was reading took on new meaning as the realization that when a loved one has been laid to rest it is here that we are given one final occasion to communicate to the world the significance that person held in our life. 

Epitaphs take on many forms and are derived from many sources.  Bereaved family members often chose a biblical verse as an epitaph as it may exhibit some virtuous quality that was a characteristic of the decedent's life.
Some chose to write a tombstone epitaph detailing the accomplishments of the decedent's life. Maybe the person was a great doctor who selflessly gave his time tending to the sick, or one who was known for their philanthropy or community service.
Some chose a humorous verse which I found spoke volumes about the dear departed.  For example,   Here lies Ezekial Aikle,  Age 102,  Only the good die young .

When a loved one has been laid to rest the final stage of closure involves the placement of a tombstone or grave marker identifying their grave. It is here that we are given one final occasion to communicate to the world the significance of our loved one.  Don't blow it, make it count, because a hundred years from now someone like me will come tiptoeing through and wonder what the person who lies here was like and what kind of story your life had to tell. 

F is for Flower Beds

It's winter. Even with global warming, that still means six solid months of nothing blooming in the flower beds. Four months in which the most exhilarating of all forms of exercise—digging—is impossible because the ground is frozen as hard as a cast-iron pan. An entire season in which there is no happily wandering the aisles of a good nursery.

Winter is tough for gardeners in northern Michigan to endure.   While you'll never catch me saying that I like winter, I do respect it.  I even consider it necessary.  Here's what a winter break does;  It keeps us from getting jaded. Erases from memory the excesses and failures of the year before. Allows us to believe that next year, for sure, it's all going to work—there will be no weeds, no drought, no dead-as-doornails $29 plants.

Winter is part of what makes gardening so addictive—it's a dreamy season of absurd longing and unreasonable hope. Since we can't plant real plants, we gardeners tend to read plant catalogs obsessively, getting a weird vicarious boost from their lush photographs of greenery and blooms.  We make unrealistic plans for the yard, unfettered by the limits of the space  or its soil conditions.
 By replacing reality with a make-believe canvas onto which we can project our own vision of paradise, winter keeps us from becoming too practical. That's important, because gardening is not a practical pursuit. Sure, it will allow us to keep the yard neat or grow a nice salad for dinner, but that isn't why we grub in the dirt on grimy knees swatting mosquitos and black flies.  We do it because we are chasing the mystery and miracle of life, and when we see our crocuses and lettuces and roses spring forth it brings us closer to it.

Winter keeps the gardener reaching for that mystery. And when all those plants we ordered in fits of winter madness actually do show up in the spring, demanding to be planted, the garden really does become more beautiful (or at least more crowded) every year.  In gardening, it's the off-season that makes the game.

E is for Exorcisim

She managed to convey a deep distain with just a casual shrug of her slim shoulder.  Glittering golden eyes fringed with too long lashes slowly swept the crowd, red lips slightly parted to show perfectly aligned white teeth.  The slight sneer on her face showed no trace of fear as the crowd before her moved rhythmically to the beat of the drums.

As if on cue she raised both arms outstretched to the mob in front of her.  Instantly all went quiet.  Slowly the people parted to make way for the misshapen figure who stumped his way through the crowd toward the figure on the dais.  His gnarled gray hair fell in tangled rope braids around his squat body as he walked forward with the aid of a cane.   Those closest slunk back unwilling to look upon those unseeing milky white eyes. 

 But Yawara was not scared  though she had every reason to be.  Every year one village girl was selected to appease Gojan, the spirit who dwelt in the forest, thereby assuring the well being of the tribe.  She had always known it was to be her and she was prepared.   As the shaman approached, Yawara rose to her full height and stared down at the grotesque priest who approached her.

Blind though he may be he had the inner sight his occupation required.  He had performed this ritual many, many, time but this time was different and his pace faltered as he neared the platform.  Yawara smiled slightly as she saw his hesitation.   Yes revered one, you can feel it too can't you?  The forest spirit has changed and we must adapt if we are to survive.  Without hesitation she lowered herself to the ground and slowly approached the priest who stood waiting as though it was he, not she who was about to be sacrificed.

Spellbound the crowd watched as Yawara pulled a small wooden cross from under her tunic.  "I exorcise Gojan," she cried to the crowd raising the cross over her head, "behold the new spirit of the forest and from henceforth his name shall be God.   

D is for Dwarf

 

 

 As a little girl I was captivated by the tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  Cut out figures of the Walt Disney characters decorated the walls of my bedroom and at night, once the lights were out, they became my guardians helping to keep the boogey man at bay.  I can still hear Snow White singing, "Some day my prince will come."

Disney may have capitalized on the characters Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, and Doc, but he certainly didn't invent these magical creatures.  Ultimately Snow White's protectors were portrayed as benevolent and helpful, but not so the case in Scandinavian mythology where dwarfs are more commonly depicted as unpleasant, stubborn, and distrustful small humanlike creatures. They generally look like old men with long beards and are often ugly or misshapen.

In Norse mythology, dwarfs are usually male and often live in forests, in mountains, or in out-of-the-way places. Dwarfs who dwell in the mountains are highly skilled metalworkers and artisans who have supernatural powers and make special gifts for the gods, such as a magic spear for Odin, the king of the gods and a hammer for Thor, the god of thunder.  Dwarfs also appear in Germanic history, Central American mythology, North American legends, and even Hawaiian lore.

These stories are ancient but still they persist and I can't help but admire the brilliance of the storytellers who created these fanciful beings that are still relevant today.  How about you, do you believe in fairies, elves, and other magical or supernatural creatures?



 

C is for Christian Louboutin

Like 99.9% of all women I am a serious shoe freak..  I have a closet full of shoes and it's a running joke with my grandkids who is going to inherit my shoe collection.  Unfortunately my budget is more Steve Madden than Christian Louboutin but a girl can dream can't she? 

 

So for those of you with inquiring minds, here are a few facts about the famous 47 year old French sole man who is behind the sexy, sky-high, signature red-soled shoes, which have been seen on the feet of superstars including Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johannson and Jennifer Lopez (who has a song about the shoes called "Louboutins"). Even Barbie dolls have their own custom mini-sized Louboutins.

 

Mr. Louboutin practices the trapeze and rides around Paris on a bright red Vespa scooter, can often be found at his atelier, where his famed shoes are designed and handmade.  Louboutins can sell from $495 and up, with crystal-encrusted pair costing $6,000.  While fashion overrides comfort (many of his shoes are seven-inch high heels), the designer says that his obsession with high-heeled shoes started on a visit to a Paris museum in 1976. While inside, Louboutin said he saw a sign that had a picture of a high-heeled shoe with an X over it, indicating women were not allowed to wear them in the museum. "It was crossed...like, forbidden, in red," he said. "It was a forbidden sketch."

 

From then on, the young designer started sketching shoes any chance he got, including during his studies. He was expelled from school at age 16.  He left home, studying design by day and spending his nights as a freelance shoe designer in Paris, making shoes for burlesque show girls before starting his own company in 1989.  The story behind the red sole is that he had a girl working with him, trying on the shoes. So when she was not trying on shoes, she sort of had nothing to do, so she was sort of waiting, and doing her nails, and he thought, why, this shoe has to have a black sole?  So he grabbed her nail polish, and painted the soles. It was then that his signature red sole was born and he claims that his red soles attract men, the way a bull is attracted to a red cape.

 

I will probably never own a pair of his famous shoes but the next time I see them on the feet of some famous actress I'll bet I am more informed, and now so are you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

B is for Boredom

When you pay attention to boredom it gets unbelievably interesting.  What is it and why do we experience it?  Do animals get bored?  Do new born babies get bored?   Are goldfish bored swimming around in their little goldfish bowls?

I remember as a kid whining to my mom, "I'm bored, there's nothing to do," and her standard reply was always, "Then go outside and play."  She was smart enough not to 'fix' my boredom, rather she let me find my own inner resources.  Whether she was consciously teaching me a lesson or just getting me out of her hair, the result was the same.  I learned to entertainment myself. 

I recently read that, "boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity that nothing is."  I totally buy in to this theory.  When you live in the moment, you pay attention and appreciate what you are doing.  Even the most mundane task becomes less boring if you practice this.  For example, if you are washing dishes enjoy the feel of the hot, soapy water, hold the glass up to see it sparkle, enjoy the scent of whatever dish detergent you use and when the job is done relish that your kitchen is once again neat and tidy.  Keep your mind focused on what you are doing in the present and don't  let it race ahead to the next thing on your agenda.  Remember, boredom is a state of mind not a state of being.

A is for Absence

A is for Absence
I  intended to write this piece about the absence of happiness and well being.  You see in February I learned that I had lung cancer which I must say came as a huge shock to me, a non-smoker.  And unfortunately this is not my first experience with cancer.  In 2010 I was successfully treated for breast cancer.

Facing two life threatening illnesses in less than four years would knock the wind out of anyone's  sails, right?  I can't help but feel betrayed by my own body and in very weak moments I wonder why me God?  To add insult to injury, at the time of my diagnosis I was suppose to be leaving for a once in a life time trip to Hawaii with my best friend.  Yup, sometimes life just doesn't seem fair but then whoever said it was?

I changed my ticket destination from Honolulu, Hawaii to Rochester, Minnesota and instead of packing bathing suits and sandals I filled my luggage with sweaters and warm socks (yes, I shed a few tears) and headed to Mayo Brothers Clinic.  I'm currently undergoing six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy and living in Hope Lodge which is a wonderful place that provides housing for in-treatment cancer patients at no charge.

I've been here three weeks now and this is the first time in my adult life that I have been totally alone without family and friends close by.  As I said earlier, I planned this piece to be about the absence of well being because that is how I was feeling but as I began to write I started to view this experience in a new light.

They say there are no such thing as coincidences and I believe that.  I think "coincidences" are our guardian angels guiding us but if you are a skeptic you be the judge:

Coincidence #1 - It was a fluke that my lung cancer was even discovered as I had no symptoms.   I caught a particularly nasty flu virus that was going around at work, went to the walk-in-clinic and a chest x-ray showed something "suspicious".

Coincidence #2 -  A girlfriend of mine arranged for me to meet a friend of hers who previously had lung cancer.  He gave me some very good advice.  Do not waste time with local doctors and small town hospitals.  Go to Mayo Clinic.   It is not something I would have even considered but after talking to him I immediately made plans to do just that.

Coincidence #3 - Because I had been saving money for my Hawaiian vacation I had the funds needed to make two separate trips to Mayo Brothers for additional testing.   

Coincidence #4 - The exact day I began treatment at Mayo Brothers a room became available at Hope Lodge.  They tell me that never happens, it is usually a seven to ten day wait.  I would have had to stay at a hotel until there was an opening which would have been extremely hard financialy.

Coincidence #5 - Well this isn't really a coincidence.  All the love, support, well wishes and prayers from my family, friends, coworkers and acquaintances has totally lifted my spirit.  Never underestimate how much a kind word or deed means to someone who is struggling.

Mayo Clinic is an eye opener.  When I came here I was feeling very sorry for myself but everywhere I look there are people struggling with serious illness and disease.  My problems seem small in comparison when I see a young mother who's child just had a bone marrow transplant or the  newly wed who had a brain tumor removed and is going through radiation.

I saved the best for last.  The other eye opener is how many wonderful, caring people donate their time and services to complete strangers.  Volunteers who walk through the chemo wards offering cold drinks and snacks, the lady who mans the desk at Hope Lodge every Saturday afternoon to "give back" because her husband once stayed there, folks who drop off homemade goodies or hand knitted hats for the residents, and many more.

So what started out as a blog on the absence of happiness and well being has morphed in to a reminder to count your blessings. They are always there, sometimes we just have to look a little harder to find them.

 



  

Girlfriends

Navigating through Friday rush hour traffic I was looking forward to meeting some girlfriends for happy hour at a local pub.  As I walked through the door a blast of warm air and the din of raised voices greeted me.  Threading my way through the closely packed tables, I spotted Kelly madly waving her arms (a dead give away she had been there for awhile) and as I sat down in my chair I thought, not for the first time, how lucky I was to have these girls in my life.

Growing up my family moved on average every three years.  If I was fortunate the relocation would happen in the summer, but more often than not I would find myself walking in to a new school smack in the middle of a school year.  Each time I anticipated with dread those first awkward days of not knowing any one.  Being shy and not very sure of myself I'd wait for someone to take pity on the new kid and make the first overture.  Slowly I'd build new friendships only to lose them when we once again moved on.  I'm sure those experiences have a lot to do with why I cherish the friendships I have now. 

I do have some women acquaintenances who don't seem to need the comraderie and support of other women and I wonder if they know what they are missing?  For me getting together with girlfriends is like being one slice of a nice warm apple pie.  I feel truly privileged to count so many strong, caring women as friends and if you are one of them and reading this I want you to know how much I value each and every one of you!    

Age is Just a Number

I'm on the cusp of leaving my 50's behind and I gotta say that I won't be sorry to see them in the rearview mirror.  It's ironic because I spent my 30's and 40's trying my best to ignore that fact that time waits for no man (or woman), and yes those really were wrinkles I was seeing and heaven forbid but my magical metabolism had deserted me.  It was about this time that I began to take seriously those little homilies like, "A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips" and "Time may be a great healer but it's a lousy beautician". 

Having recently broken my wrist, I'm currently slogging my way through physical therapy and it is abundantly apparent that I no longer bounce back as quick as I once did.  But there is always something to be thankful for if you take the time to look.  For example I'm sitting here thinking how nice it is that wrinkles don't hurt, well physically anyway.

These days I am absolutely enamored of oldsters who maintain their zest for life and I've come to the conclusion that the key to successful aging is to pay as little attention to it as possible.  So I'll embrace turning 60 and will remember the wise words of Oliver Wendell Holmes, "To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old."

The Game

1) Use the photo and the 5 words provided in your story
2) Keep your word count 500 words or less.
3) You have until next Tuesday to link up your post.
4) Link up with your blog hostess (Nicole, Carrie, Tena or Leanne) when you’re done via the inLinkz linky below.
5) Have fun, don’t stress, let those creative juices flow.

Your photo:

Your (randomly generated) mandatory words:

                                                                            prank
                                                                            printer
                                                                            profit
                                                                            capsicum
                                                                            goal


With the sun going down Allison reached in her backpack for a sweater. Spotting the can of pepper spray tucked on top she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.  She was only there because Jenny had cajoled her in to watching the game.  Recently relocated from her hometown in Tennessee the move had been an act of desperation with a goal of putting distance between her soon to be ex-husband and herself.  As usual, thoughts of Perry produced a pang of regret.  She missed him, missed being married and the security of knowing someone loved her.  "Knock it off," she chided herself, "if a man can cheat on Halley Berry what chance do the rest of us have?"  With a little shake she turned her attention back to the game.

"Come on Ali, it will be fun," Jenny wheedled, "we'll order pizza, make a pitcher of Margarita's, and have some good old fashion girl talk."  Ali had begged off explaining she had to finish preparing for an early meeting.  Now, driving home, she began to wish she had taken her friend up on the invite.  Navigating through dark streets her nervousness increased.  "Damn," she thought, "those prank calls are really getting to me."  Spotting her driveway, she used the remote to open the garage and was relieved to see the interior light come on.  Pulling in she quickly closed the door behind her and feeling a little foolish grabbed the can of pepper spray. "Better safe than sorry," she thought, "capsicum may not stop a maniac but used correctly it would slow him down." 

Keys in hand she hurried to the service door.  As she entered the house she paused, surveying the dim interior.  All was as she had left it, "See, no boogey-man here," she said loudly flicking on the kitchen overhead.  With some trepidation she walked over to the phone and was happy to see no new messages.  Recently someone had been calling and then hanging up when she answered.  She didn't know if they were trying to frighten her but if so they were succeeding.

 She kicked off her shoes, poured a glass of red wine and proceeded to the spare room that served as her home office.  With a sigh she sank on to an oversize chair and began to review Trans-Continental's profit and loss statement.

An insistent ringing penetrated her sleep addled brain and feebly she groped for the offending phone. She heard a click and then a dial tone. She had fallen asleep in the chair but was now wide awake and unsure what to do.  Peering at the clock she saw it was just after 3:00 a.m.  Suddenly the printer whirred to life as it spit out an incoming fax.  Shakily Angie reached for the single sheet of paper on which was a hand written note, "I'M COMING FOR YOU".  Unexpectedly she smiled.   The writing was Perry's.  He had been the one calling and he was coming to get her!



     

Hair Raising Tale

You would think by now I would give up on fairy tales and happy endings but being the eternal optimist I keep searching for that special stylist who can magically transform my hair from frumpy to fierce.

Granted they don't have much to work with.  My hair is fine and stick straight so I'm not expecting miracles but just once I'd like to walk out of a salon without thinking, "Oh God, what have I done?"

Unfortunately yesterday was one of those days.  I had taken in pictures of styles that I like and even some I didn't so there would be no misunderstanding.  After donning a smock and settling into the chair I proceeded to show her my carefully selected photos.  She took one quick glance and said, "Sure, no problem, we can get that look,"and she proceeded to go to town.

As she razor cut my strands my hopes grew.  Then came my favorite part, the hair washing/head massage with heavenly smelling shampoo.  That done we move back to the chair and she whips out her blow dryer faster than I whip out my credit card at Bloomingdales.  And that's where the dream died.  The pictures I had brought were all of textured dos, piecy and flipped back away from the face and she was using a round brush smoothing my hair forward. 

"Oh," she cooed, "So pretty, this looks so good on you."  "But," I sputtered, "this isn't what I want at all," pointing at the picture I brought.    By now she is getting the idea I'm not happy so she goops a punch of pommade on her hand and starts scrunching.  "See," she says, "you just have to work with it."   Now I'm in a catch-22.  Dig a deeper hole by asking her to try again or cut my losses (literally) and get the hell out of dodge.  I chose the later.  And then I went home, washed my hair and styled it myself.  But I refuse to accept defeat, next time I know I'll find The One

Queenie

1)Use the photo and the 5 words provided in your story

2) Keep your word count 500 words or less.

3) You have until next Tuesday to link up your post.

4) Link up with your blog hostess (Nicole, Carrie, Tena or Leanne) when you’re done via the inLinkz linky below.

5) Have fun, don’t stress, let those creative juices flow.

This week's photo:

The Words:  Carriage, Gym, Poster, North, Bar

Her carriage was that of a queen, head held high, shoulders thrust back, eyes straight ahead.  Long black hair and blunt cut bangs showed off high cheek bones.  Stephanie St. Clair was a poster child for black royalty.  Known through out Manhattan as Queenie, her Harlem neighbors respectfully called her Madame St. Claire.

Queenie was a rare breed of woman, a female gang leader in 1930's New York who ran her business with an iron fist.  Walking north on 5th Avenue, her heels making a sharp staccato in the night she passed a park that in daylight would be filled with kids playing on the jungle gym, the merry-go-round, and the monkey bars.  Now, devoid of people, it was a menacing dark hole but she gave it no notice.

 She had just left a meeting with a  mobster named Dutch Schultz.  His clumsy attempt to intimidate her was nothing short of insulting.  "Go to hell," was all she said before turning her back on the gangster.  She wasn't paying him, or anyone else for protection.  This was her territory and she'd damn well make sure they all understood who ran the neighborhood.   The walk would do her good, give her time to cool off.    "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," she muttered to herself.

Someone peered out their window but quickly retreated behind a curtain when they saw the lone figure.  Trouble was no stranger to Harlem.




   
    

Thoughts and Prayers

The clock reads 1:45 a.m. and I can't sleep.  I tried reading, I tried a glass of wine, I tried counting sheep, I tried concentrating on breathing in and out, I even took a Xanax.  I checked for a full moon but that wasn't the culprit.  The harder I tried to fall asleep the more agitated I became.  Finally, after two hours of tossing and turning I was forced to face what had me in a turmoil.  A delayed reaction to the the haunting images of the Oklahoma twister.

When I first saw the footage, the scope of the disaster registered but in a subdued way.  We are constantly bombarded by news coverage of horrific events, and as I watched yesterday's carnage on TV I felt somewhat detached, as though the cumulative viewing of these type of scenes have left me desensitized.  At least that's what I thought until I lay in bed, tossing and turning.  In reality my mind was trying to come to terms with what it had seen.  The images of the elementary school that was destroyed, the first responders sorting through demolished buildings, the total obliteration of houses that once lined city blocks.  Laying in the dark it was all to easy to imagine the panic as the tornado bore down, the desperation of parents searching for their children, the aftermath the survivors saw after the tornado had passed.  The numbness I had felt was an illusion, a protection mechanism to shield me from the horrors that fate can lay at any of our doors.

To the victims and their families please know that hundreds of thousands like me are sending you our thoughts and prayers.

Spring, Spring, Wherefore Art Thou?

Inertia has a hold of me and my mojo has deserted me!  Maybe it's because yesterday was sunny and 75 and today it snowed all over my beautiful daffodils.  How is that even possible?   They say to make hay while the sun shines but what is one supposed to do when it doesn't?  Last year's leaves are still waiting to be raked because we skipped fall and went right to winter.  It appears we are also going to skip spring.   You would probably like to ask me if I'd like a little cheese to go with that whine right about now.  Ooh, now there's a good idea ... wine!  Think I'll go pour a glass and hopefully lift my spirits.  Besides, anyone who lives in Michigan knows, if you don't like the weather wait five minutes and it will change.       

Lethal Library

This is the first time I've joined in this bloghop.

 

The rules are simple: there is a photo prompt and five randomly generated words

1) Use the photo and the 5 words provided in your story

2) Keep your word count 500 words or less.

3) You have until next Tuesday to link up your post.
4) Link up with your blog hostess (Nicole, Carrie, Tena or Leanne) when you’re done via the inLinkz linky below.

5) Have fun, don’t stress, let those creative juices flow.

 

(Randomly generated) Mandatory Words:

mole

napkin

poison

concert

neck

Come on Mickey, quite screwing around," Ben said in a raised whisper. He had searched the entire library for his younger brother and was now making a second round.

"Mom is going to wring my neck," he muttered to himself. Ben's mother was a concert pianist with the Minneapolis Symphony and she had rehearsal this afternoon. Her last words when she dropped them off were, "Be waiting out front at 3:00 p.m. sharp and don't make me have to come inside." It was now 2:45 and Mickey was no where to be seen.

Ben was walking down one of the aisles when a scrap of white paper caught his eye. It was sticking halfway out of a book and he could see writing on it. Curious, he pulled out the book and glanced at the cover; The World's Most Deadly Poisons." The white paper proved to be a McDonald's napkin and hand written in blue ink were the words "Mole Hole, full moon, die sinners." Underneath that someone had written "Kr"in big bold letters. Ben wasn't sure what he was looking at but it seemed vaguely ominous and he wondered if he should show somebody. Conscious that he only had a few minutes before his mom arrived he stuffed the napkin in his pocket and made a bee-line for the front desk arriving there just as his brother came around the corner. "Where have you been jerk, I've been looking all over for you?" Mickey started to protest but Ben gave him a shove and told him to go wait outside while he checked out the book that he'd found the napkin in.

After getting dropped off at home, Ben pulled the paper from his pocket. On a hunch he got out the phone book and looked up Mole Hole. Sure enough listed in the business section was Mole Hole along with a street address and phone number. Going to the internet he googled, Mole Hole - Minneapolis and then clicked on the link. A picture of a large building with no windows and a neon sign that said live dancers, adult entertainment came up. He then did a search for dates of full moons in 2013 and the closest one was Saturday, May 25th. Ben's uneasiness ratcheted up a notch. "Don't be stupid," he told himself, "killers don't go around writing their plans down and then leaving them in library books." Remembering he had brought the book home he started looking through the pages and he realized with a start that that the chemical symbols on each page were similar to the two letters on the napkin he'd found. Holding his breath he leafed through until he saw "Kr - Krypton". "Krypton a colourless, odourless, gas is classified as a simple asphyxiant. Inhalation in excessive amounts can result in dizziness, loss of consciousness and death, which may occur in seconds without warning ." He felt a chill run through him as he grabbed his cell phone to call his mom.

Time Travel

Junk shops, or as some more kindly call them antique stores, hold endless fascination for me.  Filled with objects from an earlier day and crammed to the  rafters with every conceivable gadget I'm captivated as soon as I walk in.

Perusing the cluttered aisles, I'm on a treasure hunt with no shovel required.  Castoff items patiently waiting to be rediscovered, their years of service evident in the small chips and missing paint.  They are tangible links to a past generation far removed from laptops, Ipods, and Smartphones.

These shops have their own unique odor, a combination of  disuse and mustiness that seems apropos.  I breath in deeply and wonder if my appliances will last long enough to attract future buyers?  We live in a disposable world so I have my doubts, but it's fun to imagine what items might fill these shelves long after I'm gone.

D-Day

Now that A to Z is over I needed a new challenge so in a stroke of genius I decided what a perfect time to start a new diet.  For me, dieting and going to the dentist have a lot in common.  They both start with the letter "D" and they are both at the top of my Procrastination List.

Being a modern, computer savy woman, I googled on-line diet plans and hit the mother load.  36,100,000 results!  Talk about over-kill.  Because I'm a huge AI (American Idol) fan I chose to go with Weight-Watchers.  If you are asking what one has to do with the other,  Jennifer Hudson, past AI winner is the current spokesperson for Weight Watchers.   I'm sure you've all heard her singing on their commerical, "It's a new way, It's a new day, and I'm feeling good!"

So yesterday I get all signed up and I'm truly inspired, I can do this!  On my way home I stop at the market to pick up a few diet friendly items.  Two hours later, I walk out $200 poorer and with a huge headache from reading all those nutritional labels.  By now I'm so hungry that when I get home I open a can of tuna and eat it right out of the can (only 6 points!)

It's Day 2 and my hunger button seems to be stuck in the on position.  All I can think about is food.  What can I eat, when can I eat it, how much of it can I eat?   I've read before that the mind wants what it can't have so maybe I'll try a little reverse psychology.  "Oh, don't eat broccoli it's really bad for you and loaded with calories."  Nope, that didn't work.

   

Z is for Zodiac

"Woo-hoo, we pulled it off," Dave grinned as he gave his brother a resounding hi-five.  "Incredible," Bruce agreed, dumping the contents of his back-pack on the bed.  They stared down at the pile of neatly wrapped hundred dollar bills.  "How much do you think is there?"

"I told you this was a sweet deal," Dave crowed after they had divvied up the loot.  "You thought I was on dope when I took that horoscope reading class, didn't you?"  His brother nodded in agreement, "Yup, I thought you had lost it for sure.  So explain it to me again, how do you know which horse to pick?"

"I take our date, time, month, year and place of birth and chart our horoscopes.  Then I get the same information for the race horses and I chart their horoscope.  When both our charts and the horse's chart are favorable it's a no brainer.  Quick trip to the track, pick out the horses that are long shots and we go home with a sack full of cash.  And the best part is it's legal!"

Bruce's face briefly clouded up.  "Hey Dave, if you can tell when things are going to be good can you also see when they'll be bad?"   "Yea, I suppose," Dave answered cautiously.  Bruce hesitated and then asked, "Could you even tell when we'll die?"  "Knock it off Bruce, I wouldn't tell you even if I knew."   Bruce let out a sigh of relief, that wasn't something he'd really want to know.

"So," Dave said, "wanna go grab a bite to eat?  I'll drive."  "Sure" Bruce replied, "I'll meet you out front."   He headed out the door and grabbed the mail out of the box while he waited from Dave to bring the car around.  Glancing through the envelopes he noticed one from  Sun City Life Insurance.  Curious he ripped open the flap and read, "Dear Mr. Stowe, please find enclosed the premium notice for Policy #63452, Total Death Benefit: $1,000,000.00, Person Insured:  Bruce Stowe, Beneficiary: David Stowe.



  

Y is for Yin and Yang

The little boy shrieked and wriggled as his mom tried to force him in to the childs seat of the grocery cart.  His orange T-shirt, two sizes to large, was obviously a hand-me-down as were the pair of green courderoy pants that most likely came from a second hand store. 

As for the woman, her thin dark hair hung lank around a pale face devoid of makeup.  Her ragged jeans, grubby sweatshirt and holey tennis shoes completed an unflattering picture of a young mother with too little money and too little patience.

"Noooo" wailed the boy, his crys escalating in volume.  As his mother grabbed his arm she gave him a quick shake and hissed in his ear to, "sit down and shut-up or else."   The decibal level of the boy's cry's subsided but he continued to sob as his mother used the already dirty T-shirt to wipe his runny nose.

Diane grimmaced as the pair disappeard down Aisle 1. She had been a cashier at Save-A-Lot long enough to see all kinds walk through those doors.   The sound of a screaming kid always pushed her buttons, it was like nails on a blackboard.  But it was the young mom she was angry with.  How dare she treat her little boy so mean and especially in public!  "I'd like to shove her in one of those carts," she thought to herself.

Just then an elderly gentleman shuffled up to the counter to pay for his groceries.  "Hi Diane, how are you today?"  "Hi Mr. Sottle, can't complain.  How about you?"   They made small talk as she rang up his purchase and when he turned to leave he handed her a $20 bill and asked if she would please use it to help, "that young lady with the crying baby. Always makes me sad to see a young family have such hard times."

Diane felt her face redden as she took the $20 offered by Mr. Sottle.  "That is might nice of you, and thanks for reminding me that sometimes those less fortunate need a little help."  Ashamed for her lack of insight she pulled a $20 out her purse to match Mr. Sottle's.