Show and Tell

“It’s a crown,” she boasted in front of a captive audience. “I found it in the ditch the other day after it rained. And you know the Nile flows through those waters and washes up stuff from the past. And on that day, it washed up none other than Cleopatra’s crown!”

As she began to pass it around the class, she cautioned, “Hold it gently! It’s old and priceless.”

The teacher interrupted in an authoritative voice, “Why that’s nothing but an old carburetor. It’s just junk!”

The children snickered.

Wounded, she tucked her crown back into her backpack. And forty years later, telling that story, she wonders what ever happened to her rare find and the great explorer who discovered it.

Mommas, Boys and Valentine’s Day

It was Valentines Day 2009. I was asleep in my bed but could hear whispers. I woke with the two of you standing beside me as I slept, smiling with pride and eager for me to notice the gift you had left on my pillow.

It was a plastic rose.

“We were playing cowboys and Indians, and we accidentally hit that wreath thing, and this rose fell out. It is just plastic, but it won’t die so you can have it forever.”

So to my dear friends and passing strangers – I wish you good days filled with plastic roses that will never die!

The Boots

They were a gift with rules, an ordinance to conform and convert. But the falling snow summoned me to come play. Restless and burdened with sure death, I pulled on my new boot straps ’til each heel was snuggly in place.

I didn’t have to look up to know you hovered over me, watching my every move. Your admonishments reached me loud and clear as every heavy breath of yours weighted down on my neck, condemning everything about me.

And I sat there shaking with defiance in my gut and fear embedded in my heart, knowing I would pay dearly for any act against the man who was determined to shape me into my better self and his better half.

But I surprised myself and wore those damn boots in the snow that day – and I’ve never looked back.


Picture of Oklahoma

Hell beckons me home where the promise of comfort soothes my restless feet and calms my aimless heart. The demons speak in familiar tones reminding me that I belong to this desolate, dying land where only the slightly insane can exist but never live. It is here that generations regenerate the myth that this is somehow  a reality worth preserving.

It’s a strange and difficult place that grips my throat and clinches down on my gut, a constant reminder that it is both my lifeline and my impending death.