Tag Archives: Family

Today…I wrote.

This surprising event has not occurred in over a year. And now, thanks to Jessica Conoley’s Co-Writing Zoom Meetings, I can officially call myself a writer again.

Here’s what I’m working on. It’s a first draft, but I will post as the story moves along. As a little game, tell me your hypothesis on which resident of Crazie Town the characters are based.

I don't have a picture of a dragon yet, so enjoy!I don't have a picture of a dragon yet, so enjoy!I don't have a picture of a dragon yet, so enjoy!I don't have a picture of a dragon yet, so enjoy!


Amy The Dragon eased her massive body into the overstuffed chair.  Choosing to ignore its whiny protest, she exhaled a smoky sigh. She opened her journal and slid a claw into the inkwell.  Just like the day before and the day before that, and so on for months, no words came to her. A thick red droplet rolled off her sharp talon and hit the page.  It rolled down the paper, fading to pastel pink before disappearing. 

Expelling another sigh with a little too much fire power, her journal burst into flames.  “Fiddlehead Ferns!” she cursed and hurled the book to the ground. She smothered the flames with her colossal foot, knocking the inkwell to the floor.  A pool of scarlet oozed across the granite floor.  Somewhat relieved to be finished with a bottle full of dullard’s blood, she lumbered over to her ink cupboard to get another.  But, as Old Mother Hubbard had forewarned when delivering Amy’s subscription of The Medieval Times, the cupboard was bare.

Amy blinked at the empty shelves.  Gone were the six bottles she’d harvested from the couple lost on a hike, as was the scrawny knight’s blood and the ink from those two handsome Mormon boys.  She slammed the door, cursing the judgmental Mother Hubbard and her mangy dog.  How was Amy to know that a tiny spark directed to quiet the obnoxious yapping would start the mutt’s tail on fire? Without ink she couldn’t write, and without writing, what would her life be?  A blue tear fell on her paw.  She watched with disinterest as it steamed, then boiled away. 

Amy plodded to the kitchen, broke a stalactite from the ceiling and sucked on it. “Maybe Aunt Sandra is right,” Amy addressed the nest of snakes in the corner.  “I can’t hang around here just waiting for Prince Charming to come along and drop dead, can I.”


Searching for Aunt Sandra’s Tar and Feathers Day gift, Amy tore through the catacombs. Crates and cases fell from the organized shelves, her only thought being — need more ink.  A sparkle of torchlight revealed the pink glitter words, TRAVEL DIVA! and Amy yanked the gaudy suitcase to the floor.  Mumbling the many things she had always wanted to say to Aunt Sandra, Amy carried the bag to her room and threw it on her obsidian bed. 

She tossed in her tooth sharpening stone, a couple of prairie dog protein bars and her fragrant homemade teas; Chamomile, mint and lavender.  Adding the charred journal last, which now smelled deliciously of fool’s flesh, her stomach rumbled.


Stepping outside her cave, Amy blinked against the harsh sunlight.  She turned left to follow the overgrown path to the mountaintop for takeoff, the ridiculous suitcase bouncing across the stones behind her. 

*Drawing of Mayor by Annie Raab.

Bailing Twine and Bubble Gum

Dad proudly announced at every opportunity, “Everything on this farm is held together with baling twine and bubble gum.”  I’m not sure if its a trait of all farmers or just Dad but he was a “good enough” kind of guy and that’s the way I learned things.

Getting the broken item fixed quickly (before Mom’s temper exploded) was Goal One. There wasn’t a second goal.  After the fix, any tool he used was left where it lay or if he was outside, tossed through the door of the ramshackle shed.

It came as a great shock to me when I moved in with Husband and he pointed out that the job was not complete until everything was put back where it came from.  Fast forward twenty years and although I’m not as meticulous as Husband, I’ve come to expect a certain standard of repair and order.

Yesterday I went to the hardware store to buy a five-foot closet rod.  When the salesclerk was unable to find what I wanted, he said, “Well…this will probably work.”  It was a hundred degrees outside and I really, really did not want to go to the big box store so I picked up the “good enough” and headed to the cash register.

A picture of my childhood bedroom flashed before my eyes.  Closet with no door, an unfinished plywood floor and  a rod that collapsed if more than three hanging items were attempted.

I did an about-face and returned the good-enough item and, after wandering the store for twenty minutes, found the exact thing I needed.

I could finish by saying Dad would be proud of me – but that would not true.  He’d be prouder to have walked into my closet and seen a pair of old shoes attached to the wall with twelve rusty nails supporting the handle of an old broom.