I don't like 'em. Not one bit. No matter how much I think I get done at work on Fridays, it always seems like the pile on my desk multiplied over the weekend. Sucks.
Last week I used a coupon I got in an e-mail for Omaha Steaks. The coupon was for $15 off an order. Having never ordered from them before, I chose the least expensive item I could get away with and then found a coupon code for free shipping. I got 4 pounds of 8 oz hamburgers for $4.99. Pretty sweet deal.
We made the burgers last night and they were wonderful! I normally don't like any hamburgers but the thin, overcooked fast food ones. I can't finish a "homemade" hamburger. Usually. I finished the entire Omaha Steaks burger. It was packed very tightly, didn't shrink much, and had a ton of flavor. Definitely going to buy again!
Off to do some writing now. My Ashwood saga is finally taking off! Keep your fingers crossed!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Fate and Futility
Fate and Futility
When Annabeth Connolly is six, the dreams start.� At fourteen she tries to stop them.� At eighteen, she realizes it's impossible.
Annabeth Connolly is six when the dreams start. The first one starts off innocently enough: a day at the park with Mommy and her dog Baloo. They play on the swings and the slide in the bright sunshine. Annabeth can almost feel the sweat on her forehead and the springy grass underfoot.
It's a wonderful dream. She doesn't even mind being on the teeter-totter with meanie-beanie Tommy from down the street until he suddenly bounces up too fast and she slams down on the ground harder than ever before. Her legs and bottom hurt. She tells Tommy she wants to get off, but he pushes off again and she slams down. This time, however, she falls to the side and her legs crash into the metal support. Fire races through her left knee and brings tears to her eyes.
The pain wakes her up. Her frantic cries for Mommy bring Glenna Connolly dashing into the room. Glenna gathers Annabeth to her chest, kisses the top of her baby's blonde head, and promises that it was just a dream. A nightmare. She's not going to fall off the teeter-totter and break her knee.
Except she does. Three days later. In the same park with Tommy, Mommy, and Baloo. It happens exactly the way it did in her dream. It hurts exactly the same, too. On the way to the hospital, Annabeth desperately tries to make Glenna understand that her dream told her it was going to happen. Glenna, who knows that her daughter's going to have enough supernatural crap to deal with as it is, immediately puts a halt to any talk of special dreams.
Annabeth doesn't like the way her mother's face gets pinched and drawn whenever she starts to mention the dreams, so she keeps them to herself. Unfortunately, not talking abut the dreams doesn't make them go away. Some dreams aren't bad. She sees vocabulary tests before they're given. She sees her seventh birthday party and the color of Baloo's puppies. She also sees her mommy and daddy fighting. All the time. She hears it during the day and dreams about it at night. There's no escape.
Sometimes she tries to stop the bad things from happening. It's got to be the reason she has the dreams, right? She does her best to keep her parents from fighting but can't stop the divorce. That one doesn't bother her too much. Mommy seems happier away from Dad's pack and Daddy smiles more when it's just him and Annabeth.
Annabeth doesn't give up on thwarting the bad things she sees in her dreams. She learns to be sneaky when it comes to manipulating events so that some things don't happen. Not only does it keep Mommy from frowning, but it makes her feel a little like a spy on television. A spur-of-the-moment demand for ice cream saves Patrick Connolly from a fender-bender while driving Annabeth home from dance class. It also gets her in trouble with Mommy because she ruined her appetite for dinner. Apparently, interference comes with a price. At least it's a relatively small one.
Annabeth writes all her dreams down and keeps them in a pink journal under her pillow. She puts a check mark by the ones she successfully prevents, a star by those she doesn't, and a question mark by the dreams that haven't come true. Yet. She makes careful note of all the important details and memorizes them so that she'll be ready for those dreams.
They continue through elementary school and junior high. The dreams keep her from dating closet creep Joseph Martin, from failing Earth Science, and from getting bitten by a werewolf trying to kill her father. She prevents her best friend from moving across the country by talking her father into giving her friend's father a job with his company. The dreams help her accomplish so much and help the people closest to her so she doesn't mind the occasional nightmare or the relatively minor price she has to pay.
At least she doesn't mind the nightmares until late one night a fourteen-year-old Annabeth dreams about a funeral. She sees herself dressed in an incredibly ugly black dress, her father in a suit with tears in his eyes, and a polished mahogany casket. She tries to wake herself up even as she walks towards the front of the church. Her knees tremble and her hands shake as she leans forward to peer inside. She screams, both in the dream and in real life, when she sees her mother's pale, still face inside the casket.
When her mother, and thank goodness it's her weekend to be with her mother because Annabeth desperately needs some reassurance, races into the bedroom, Annabeth keeps the details about her nightmare vague and clings to her mother. She doesn't sleep for six nights afterwards. She also starts watching her mother closely. She talks Glenna into having her yearly physical two months early. She has one of her father's pack, a mechanic by trade, inspect Glenna's car. She makes up an excuse about tons of schoolwork so she can skip out on the next few weekends with her father.
Nothing happens for three long months. A question mark goes by that dream, and Annabeth starts to relax. Maybe this was just a regular nightmare and not a foreshadowing one. She resumes the visitation schedule with her father. Annabeth focuses once again on things a normal fourteen-year-old should focus on. Her mother breathes a sigh of relief Annabeth's grades pick back up. One Saturday night, Annabeth lets her father take her out for dinner and a movie even though it means she'll have to turn her phone off.
Dinner is great. Conversing with her father has always been easy for Annabeth. He doesn't try to shield her from the supernatural. He's encouraged her to sit in on pack meetings, and she knows more about pack hierarchy and rules than most newly turned lycanthropes. She has to keep from laughing from the silly girls at school who buy into the latest "were" books and romanticize werewolves. There's nothing romantic about boring old pack meetings or threats from other packs or terretorial lycanthropes who like to fight to the death with fangs and claws.
Halfway through the comedy Annabeth talked her father into, a small knot of pain forms in her stomach. She gasps softly and, when her father raises an eyebrow questioningly, blames it on the sinfully rich cheesecake she had for dessert. He hands her a roll of antacids. She chews four gritty tablets, but they do nothing to calm her stomach.
The pain steadily increases. In the car on the way home, Annabeth has her father pull over so she can throw up on the side of the road. She sips from a bottle of water afterwards as the pain moves from her stomach to her chest. It feels as if something is crushing her chest.
When they pull into the driveway of Patrick's house, Annabeth remembers to turn her phone on. There are six new messages. Patrick checks his phone while Annabeth starts listening to the messages. She's confused by the number of voicemails there are. All her friends knew she was going out with her dad.
Four messages are from her mother's boyfriend Frank. One is from the county hospital. One is from her mother's neighbor. Annabeth drops her phone to the floor and collapses into her father's arms. He calls for one of his pack members to drive them to the hospital then sits with her in the back seat on the ride there. She stays within the warm circle of his arms while Frank relays the tale of how Glenna swerved to avoid a drunk driver going the wrong way down a one-way street and ended up slamming into a tree. Glenna had been alive when the paramedics arrived on the scene but dead when the ambulance reached the hospital.
The next couple of days are a blur for Annabeth. She doesn't recall helping her father and Frank make plans for the funeral. She doesn't remember picking out an outfit for her mother to be buried in or greeting the family and pack members who stop by in a steady stream. Before she can fully process all that's happened, she's standing in the back of a church in a hideous black dress with her teary-eyed father.
Her knees shake and her hands tremble as she makes the long walk up the aisle towards the gleaming mahogany casket surrounded by hundreds of flowers. She stares down at her mother's pale, still face and screams. And screams. And screams. Then faints clean away.
When she wakes, Annabeth is in her bedroom at her father's house. She blinks rapidly then her eyes fall on the pink journal on her desk. Mouth set in a firm line, she grabs the journal and a pen and puts a star beside the dream she'd had of her mother's funeral. Dry-eyed, she stares down at the dreams written down. There were so many she prevented. So many stupid, little things she stopped from happening but this, this huge tragedy, she couldn't do anything about. What good are prophetic dreams if they're only going to help with the superficial stuff? Why couldn't she have dreamed about the accident and not the funeral? What's the point?
Annabeth locks her journal in the chest at the foot of her bed. She's been wrong about the dreams all along. They weren't a gift given to her by some higher power so that she could make a difference. If that had been the case, she should have seen the accident and saved her mother. What higher power would be so cruel as to have her dream about something so terrible that she had no way of preventing?
The dreams still come. She tries to ignore them but fails. Though she wants nothing to do with whatever mystical duty the big jerk on high has given her, her conscience compels her to keep from Lucy Simmons from falling down the stairs at school and her father's cook from burning his hand. Stupid conscience.
Six weeks after her mother's funeral, Annabeth sneaks out of the house and rides the bus to a town an hour away. She knocks on the door of her grandfather's house and makes up a story about a fight with her dad. He agrees to let her stay the night and to not call her father. Once Grandpa Evans is back in bed, Annabeth slips into his private library and steals three books on magic.
Three nights later, grounded for a month for sneaking out and lying, Annabeth finds the recipe for a potion that, if taken immediately upon waking, causes a person to forget their dreams. Fortunately the ingredients are all either in the kitchen or the herb garden. While waiting for the potion to finish, Annabeth flips through the oldest book. She stumbles upon a brew designed to stop the drinker from dreaming. It's tempting. Very, very tempting.
She resists, though. She can't risk missing out on a dream about her father. Even if she can't prevent anything from happening, she wants to be prepared. Once the forgetfulness potion is done, Annabeth bottles it up and hides it in a drawer in her nightstand. That night she dreams of one of her teammates spraining an ankle during volleyball practice. Awful? Yes. World ending? No. When she wakes, Annabeth takes three sips from the bottle and promptly forgets all about sprained ankles.
The routine of dream, drink, and forget becomes almost second nature. Her father, who had long ago figured out about her dreams, stares at her curiously when she fails a history pop quiz, gets stood up by Jason Eckland, and breaks her arm when she slips on the icy sidewalk all within the space of a few months. She pretends that she doesn't understand what he's talking about. Dreams? What dreams?
Annabeth does experience a flash or two of guilt when bad things happen to those around her. Though she can't remember the dreams, she figures she must have had one or two that would have prompted her to try and change the course of things. Since no one has died, though, she doesn't change her mind about the potion even though it's starting to take a higher dose to ensure complete forgetfulness.
Her senior year of high school, the potion stops working completely. Annabeth assumes she's built up a tolerance to it. After several nights of dreams and guilt over not acting on them, she looks up the recipe for the potion of dreamlessness. It's a huge step. One she's not certain she's ready for.
She brews up a weak version of the potion to test it out. She's nervous as she downs half a vial of the surprisingly tasty liquid. As soon as the potion hits her stomach, she's up off the bed and on her knees in front of the toilet. The potion, along with most of her dinner, ends up flushed away.
After brushing her teeth twice and changing pajamas, Annabeth goes over the recipe again. She did everything right. She's not allergic to any of the ingredients. Nausea isn't listed as one of the side effects. Why did it make her react that way?
She sets the book aside, determined to try it again the next evening, and snuggles in under her blankets. Her mind is still puzzled over the potion as she drifts off to sleep. That night, snuggled beneath her purple patterned quilt and clutching her raggedy stuffed wolf, Annabeth Connolly dreams of rivers of blood.
When Annabeth Connolly is six, the dreams start.� At fourteen she tries to stop them.� At eighteen, she realizes it's impossible.
Annabeth Connolly is six when the dreams start. The first one starts off innocently enough: a day at the park with Mommy and her dog Baloo. They play on the swings and the slide in the bright sunshine. Annabeth can almost feel the sweat on her forehead and the springy grass underfoot.
It's a wonderful dream. She doesn't even mind being on the teeter-totter with meanie-beanie Tommy from down the street until he suddenly bounces up too fast and she slams down on the ground harder than ever before. Her legs and bottom hurt. She tells Tommy she wants to get off, but he pushes off again and she slams down. This time, however, she falls to the side and her legs crash into the metal support. Fire races through her left knee and brings tears to her eyes.
The pain wakes her up. Her frantic cries for Mommy bring Glenna Connolly dashing into the room. Glenna gathers Annabeth to her chest, kisses the top of her baby's blonde head, and promises that it was just a dream. A nightmare. She's not going to fall off the teeter-totter and break her knee.
Except she does. Three days later. In the same park with Tommy, Mommy, and Baloo. It happens exactly the way it did in her dream. It hurts exactly the same, too. On the way to the hospital, Annabeth desperately tries to make Glenna understand that her dream told her it was going to happen. Glenna, who knows that her daughter's going to have enough supernatural crap to deal with as it is, immediately puts a halt to any talk of special dreams.
Annabeth doesn't like the way her mother's face gets pinched and drawn whenever she starts to mention the dreams, so she keeps them to herself. Unfortunately, not talking abut the dreams doesn't make them go away. Some dreams aren't bad. She sees vocabulary tests before they're given. She sees her seventh birthday party and the color of Baloo's puppies. She also sees her mommy and daddy fighting. All the time. She hears it during the day and dreams about it at night. There's no escape.
Sometimes she tries to stop the bad things from happening. It's got to be the reason she has the dreams, right? She does her best to keep her parents from fighting but can't stop the divorce. That one doesn't bother her too much. Mommy seems happier away from Dad's pack and Daddy smiles more when it's just him and Annabeth.
Annabeth doesn't give up on thwarting the bad things she sees in her dreams. She learns to be sneaky when it comes to manipulating events so that some things don't happen. Not only does it keep Mommy from frowning, but it makes her feel a little like a spy on television. A spur-of-the-moment demand for ice cream saves Patrick Connolly from a fender-bender while driving Annabeth home from dance class. It also gets her in trouble with Mommy because she ruined her appetite for dinner. Apparently, interference comes with a price. At least it's a relatively small one.
Annabeth writes all her dreams down and keeps them in a pink journal under her pillow. She puts a check mark by the ones she successfully prevents, a star by those she doesn't, and a question mark by the dreams that haven't come true. Yet. She makes careful note of all the important details and memorizes them so that she'll be ready for those dreams.
They continue through elementary school and junior high. The dreams keep her from dating closet creep Joseph Martin, from failing Earth Science, and from getting bitten by a werewolf trying to kill her father. She prevents her best friend from moving across the country by talking her father into giving her friend's father a job with his company. The dreams help her accomplish so much and help the people closest to her so she doesn't mind the occasional nightmare or the relatively minor price she has to pay.
At least she doesn't mind the nightmares until late one night a fourteen-year-old Annabeth dreams about a funeral. She sees herself dressed in an incredibly ugly black dress, her father in a suit with tears in his eyes, and a polished mahogany casket. She tries to wake herself up even as she walks towards the front of the church. Her knees tremble and her hands shake as she leans forward to peer inside. She screams, both in the dream and in real life, when she sees her mother's pale, still face inside the casket.
When her mother, and thank goodness it's her weekend to be with her mother because Annabeth desperately needs some reassurance, races into the bedroom, Annabeth keeps the details about her nightmare vague and clings to her mother. She doesn't sleep for six nights afterwards. She also starts watching her mother closely. She talks Glenna into having her yearly physical two months early. She has one of her father's pack, a mechanic by trade, inspect Glenna's car. She makes up an excuse about tons of schoolwork so she can skip out on the next few weekends with her father.
Nothing happens for three long months. A question mark goes by that dream, and Annabeth starts to relax. Maybe this was just a regular nightmare and not a foreshadowing one. She resumes the visitation schedule with her father. Annabeth focuses once again on things a normal fourteen-year-old should focus on. Her mother breathes a sigh of relief Annabeth's grades pick back up. One Saturday night, Annabeth lets her father take her out for dinner and a movie even though it means she'll have to turn her phone off.
Dinner is great. Conversing with her father has always been easy for Annabeth. He doesn't try to shield her from the supernatural. He's encouraged her to sit in on pack meetings, and she knows more about pack hierarchy and rules than most newly turned lycanthropes. She has to keep from laughing from the silly girls at school who buy into the latest "were" books and romanticize werewolves. There's nothing romantic about boring old pack meetings or threats from other packs or terretorial lycanthropes who like to fight to the death with fangs and claws.
Halfway through the comedy Annabeth talked her father into, a small knot of pain forms in her stomach. She gasps softly and, when her father raises an eyebrow questioningly, blames it on the sinfully rich cheesecake she had for dessert. He hands her a roll of antacids. She chews four gritty tablets, but they do nothing to calm her stomach.
The pain steadily increases. In the car on the way home, Annabeth has her father pull over so she can throw up on the side of the road. She sips from a bottle of water afterwards as the pain moves from her stomach to her chest. It feels as if something is crushing her chest.
When they pull into the driveway of Patrick's house, Annabeth remembers to turn her phone on. There are six new messages. Patrick checks his phone while Annabeth starts listening to the messages. She's confused by the number of voicemails there are. All her friends knew she was going out with her dad.
Four messages are from her mother's boyfriend Frank. One is from the county hospital. One is from her mother's neighbor. Annabeth drops her phone to the floor and collapses into her father's arms. He calls for one of his pack members to drive them to the hospital then sits with her in the back seat on the ride there. She stays within the warm circle of his arms while Frank relays the tale of how Glenna swerved to avoid a drunk driver going the wrong way down a one-way street and ended up slamming into a tree. Glenna had been alive when the paramedics arrived on the scene but dead when the ambulance reached the hospital.
The next couple of days are a blur for Annabeth. She doesn't recall helping her father and Frank make plans for the funeral. She doesn't remember picking out an outfit for her mother to be buried in or greeting the family and pack members who stop by in a steady stream. Before she can fully process all that's happened, she's standing in the back of a church in a hideous black dress with her teary-eyed father.
Her knees shake and her hands tremble as she makes the long walk up the aisle towards the gleaming mahogany casket surrounded by hundreds of flowers. She stares down at her mother's pale, still face and screams. And screams. And screams. Then faints clean away.
When she wakes, Annabeth is in her bedroom at her father's house. She blinks rapidly then her eyes fall on the pink journal on her desk. Mouth set in a firm line, she grabs the journal and a pen and puts a star beside the dream she'd had of her mother's funeral. Dry-eyed, she stares down at the dreams written down. There were so many she prevented. So many stupid, little things she stopped from happening but this, this huge tragedy, she couldn't do anything about. What good are prophetic dreams if they're only going to help with the superficial stuff? Why couldn't she have dreamed about the accident and not the funeral? What's the point?
Annabeth locks her journal in the chest at the foot of her bed. She's been wrong about the dreams all along. They weren't a gift given to her by some higher power so that she could make a difference. If that had been the case, she should have seen the accident and saved her mother. What higher power would be so cruel as to have her dream about something so terrible that she had no way of preventing?
The dreams still come. She tries to ignore them but fails. Though she wants nothing to do with whatever mystical duty the big jerk on high has given her, her conscience compels her to keep from Lucy Simmons from falling down the stairs at school and her father's cook from burning his hand. Stupid conscience.
Six weeks after her mother's funeral, Annabeth sneaks out of the house and rides the bus to a town an hour away. She knocks on the door of her grandfather's house and makes up a story about a fight with her dad. He agrees to let her stay the night and to not call her father. Once Grandpa Evans is back in bed, Annabeth slips into his private library and steals three books on magic.
Three nights later, grounded for a month for sneaking out and lying, Annabeth finds the recipe for a potion that, if taken immediately upon waking, causes a person to forget their dreams. Fortunately the ingredients are all either in the kitchen or the herb garden. While waiting for the potion to finish, Annabeth flips through the oldest book. She stumbles upon a brew designed to stop the drinker from dreaming. It's tempting. Very, very tempting.
She resists, though. She can't risk missing out on a dream about her father. Even if she can't prevent anything from happening, she wants to be prepared. Once the forgetfulness potion is done, Annabeth bottles it up and hides it in a drawer in her nightstand. That night she dreams of one of her teammates spraining an ankle during volleyball practice. Awful? Yes. World ending? No. When she wakes, Annabeth takes three sips from the bottle and promptly forgets all about sprained ankles.
The routine of dream, drink, and forget becomes almost second nature. Her father, who had long ago figured out about her dreams, stares at her curiously when she fails a history pop quiz, gets stood up by Jason Eckland, and breaks her arm when she slips on the icy sidewalk all within the space of a few months. She pretends that she doesn't understand what he's talking about. Dreams? What dreams?
Annabeth does experience a flash or two of guilt when bad things happen to those around her. Though she can't remember the dreams, she figures she must have had one or two that would have prompted her to try and change the course of things. Since no one has died, though, she doesn't change her mind about the potion even though it's starting to take a higher dose to ensure complete forgetfulness.
Her senior year of high school, the potion stops working completely. Annabeth assumes she's built up a tolerance to it. After several nights of dreams and guilt over not acting on them, she looks up the recipe for the potion of dreamlessness. It's a huge step. One she's not certain she's ready for.
She brews up a weak version of the potion to test it out. She's nervous as she downs half a vial of the surprisingly tasty liquid. As soon as the potion hits her stomach, she's up off the bed and on her knees in front of the toilet. The potion, along with most of her dinner, ends up flushed away.
After brushing her teeth twice and changing pajamas, Annabeth goes over the recipe again. She did everything right. She's not allergic to any of the ingredients. Nausea isn't listed as one of the side effects. Why did it make her react that way?
She sets the book aside, determined to try it again the next evening, and snuggles in under her blankets. Her mind is still puzzled over the potion as she drifts off to sleep. That night, snuggled beneath her purple patterned quilt and clutching her raggedy stuffed wolf, Annabeth Connolly dreams of rivers of blood.
Priorities
Priorities
For the first time in his forty-two years, Clayton Baker is scared silly. There’s no gun in his face – been there, done that, have the scar. After years of working with just about every national intelligence agency, he’s finally found the one thing that gives him nightmares.
Alzheimer’s. Again.
He’s been through it with his father. Watching his strong, solid father reduced to a confused child had been agonizing. Heart-breaking but not terrifying. Not like watching his mother is. Not like listening to a panel of doctors debate the odds and possibilities of heredity.
When his father was diagnosed, Clayton told himself that it would be all right. He only had half his dad’s DNA, therefore he only had half the risk. Now his mother’s ill and the doctors are calling it extraordinary. Clayton calls it a death sentence.
He knows he’s driving his wife crazy with the plethora of vitamins and daily mental exercises. Mondays and Thursdays he does a crossword puzzle. Tuesdays and Saturdays are for word searches. Soduku is on Wednesdays and Fridays. Sunday afternoons are spent playing chess or Trivial Pursuit. He’s not sure if it’s going to any good, but it helps to be doing something.
He never was the popular one. Not athletic or outgoing or the class clown. But boy did he have a big brain, a near photographic memory, and a knack for solving puzzles. His brain got him through high school and college and then right into the CIA. He’s been passed around from agency to agency where he’s treated like a prized piece of equipment. On the rare occasion he’s let out into the field, he has a protection detail that rivals that of a few dignitaries.
He has to keep his mind sharp. He owes it everything. Without his brain, he never would have spent six weeks with the NSA and met his darling Audrey. She’s taken his new quirks in stride and even helps with the crossword or offers to beat him at Trivial Pursuit. She sets his vitamins out on the counter with his coffee mug and tries to hide the concern in her eyes.
There are two habits she hasn’t picked up on. If she ever does, there will certainly be hell to pay. He’ll spend more nights on the couch than he did the time she discovered the real reason she’d been taken off of active duty.
He watches her. All the time. He spends long hours committing every curve, line, and inch of pale skin to memory. He catches the expressions that flicker across her face and files them away in his big old brain.
The second habit involves a bit of deceit. On the nights she thinks he’s locked in his study catching up on paperwork, he’s really watching every home movie they own. He watches their wedding video twice a week. There’s that summer trip to Cancun, Christmases with her family, birthday parties, and anniversaries. He makes a point of watching at least twenty minutes of film every day. There are so many moments with Audrey he doesn’t want to lose.
He doesn’t care if in twenty years he can’t remember the capital of Lower Uzwhocaresistan or if he can’t get the answer to thirty-two across. He doesn’t care if he never finishes another Soduku puzzle or is forced to retire. He just never, ever wants to forget his wife.
For the first time in his forty-two years, Clayton Baker is scared silly. There’s no gun in his face – been there, done that, have the scar. After years of working with just about every national intelligence agency, he’s finally found the one thing that gives him nightmares.
Alzheimer’s. Again.
He’s been through it with his father. Watching his strong, solid father reduced to a confused child had been agonizing. Heart-breaking but not terrifying. Not like watching his mother is. Not like listening to a panel of doctors debate the odds and possibilities of heredity.
When his father was diagnosed, Clayton told himself that it would be all right. He only had half his dad’s DNA, therefore he only had half the risk. Now his mother’s ill and the doctors are calling it extraordinary. Clayton calls it a death sentence.
He knows he’s driving his wife crazy with the plethora of vitamins and daily mental exercises. Mondays and Thursdays he does a crossword puzzle. Tuesdays and Saturdays are for word searches. Soduku is on Wednesdays and Fridays. Sunday afternoons are spent playing chess or Trivial Pursuit. He’s not sure if it’s going to any good, but it helps to be doing something.
He never was the popular one. Not athletic or outgoing or the class clown. But boy did he have a big brain, a near photographic memory, and a knack for solving puzzles. His brain got him through high school and college and then right into the CIA. He’s been passed around from agency to agency where he’s treated like a prized piece of equipment. On the rare occasion he’s let out into the field, he has a protection detail that rivals that of a few dignitaries.
He has to keep his mind sharp. He owes it everything. Without his brain, he never would have spent six weeks with the NSA and met his darling Audrey. She’s taken his new quirks in stride and even helps with the crossword or offers to beat him at Trivial Pursuit. She sets his vitamins out on the counter with his coffee mug and tries to hide the concern in her eyes.
There are two habits she hasn’t picked up on. If she ever does, there will certainly be hell to pay. He’ll spend more nights on the couch than he did the time she discovered the real reason she’d been taken off of active duty.
He watches her. All the time. He spends long hours committing every curve, line, and inch of pale skin to memory. He catches the expressions that flicker across her face and files them away in his big old brain.
The second habit involves a bit of deceit. On the nights she thinks he’s locked in his study catching up on paperwork, he’s really watching every home movie they own. He watches their wedding video twice a week. There’s that summer trip to Cancun, Christmases with her family, birthday parties, and anniversaries. He makes a point of watching at least twenty minutes of film every day. There are so many moments with Audrey he doesn’t want to lose.
He doesn’t care if in twenty years he can’t remember the capital of Lower Uzwhocaresistan or if he can’t get the answer to thirty-two across. He doesn’t care if he never finishes another Soduku puzzle or is forced to retire. He just never, ever wants to forget his wife.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wine Review - Yellow Tail Riesling
I bought a bottle of white wine yesterday because it was an absolutely beautiful day, and sitting out on the patio with a nice glass of wine sounded like a good idea. I prefer white wines because they are crisp and light. Feeling somewhat adventerous, I picked up a bottle I'd never purchased before.
Yellow Tail Riesling.
I'm not a wine conniseur. My palate just isn't refined enough. I've been to wine tastings and heard about what other people pick up in wines. To me, it's just wine, but I know what I like and what I think things should taste like. Other riesling's I've tried have been crisp with a bit of a floral or fruity flavor.
The Yellow Tail had none of those. It was flat on my tongue and the flavor was muddy. Not that it tasted of mud, but that there wasn't any definable flavor. It was like drinking flat cola.
I've got a nearly full bottle of white wine now in my fridge. Any suggestions on what to do with it?
Yellow Tail Riesling.
I'm not a wine conniseur. My palate just isn't refined enough. I've been to wine tastings and heard about what other people pick up in wines. To me, it's just wine, but I know what I like and what I think things should taste like. Other riesling's I've tried have been crisp with a bit of a floral or fruity flavor.
The Yellow Tail had none of those. It was flat on my tongue and the flavor was muddy. Not that it tasted of mud, but that there wasn't any definable flavor. It was like drinking flat cola.
I've got a nearly full bottle of white wine now in my fridge. Any suggestions on what to do with it?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Product Review - Quaker True Delights
I got a sample of the Dark Chocolate Raspberry Almond True Delights from Quaker in the mail and held out for a couple of days before giving into temptation and eating it. My opinion is... mixed.
1) It had nice chocolate chunks on the top which are definitely a plus. I hate products that claim to have chocolate but my tastebuds say otherwise.
2) It was chewy without being too hard or sticking to my teeth.
3) There were a couple of almond pieces which added a nice crunch. I wish there had been a couple of more, but all in all, not bad.
4) There was cinnamon in it, which I didn't like one bit. Maybe my tastebuds are too sensitive, but it really took something away from how the bar should have tasted. I don't think cinnamon has a place in a bar like that. It overpowered the raspberry flavor - in fact, I didn't taste much raspberry at all.
So... will I buy a box of those bars? Probably not. Am I willing to try another flavor? You betcha.
:)
1) It had nice chocolate chunks on the top which are definitely a plus. I hate products that claim to have chocolate but my tastebuds say otherwise.
2) It was chewy without being too hard or sticking to my teeth.
3) There were a couple of almond pieces which added a nice crunch. I wish there had been a couple of more, but all in all, not bad.
4) There was cinnamon in it, which I didn't like one bit. Maybe my tastebuds are too sensitive, but it really took something away from how the bar should have tasted. I don't think cinnamon has a place in a bar like that. It overpowered the raspberry flavor - in fact, I didn't taste much raspberry at all.
So... will I buy a box of those bars? Probably not. Am I willing to try another flavor? You betcha.
:)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Happiness
I've learned that you have to find happiness where ever you can. It's the small things that matter.
It's finding a cherry cordial Hershey's kiss from last week in the bottom of your lunch bag.
That was my moment of perfect happiness today. May sound pathetic to some of you, but hey, I can live with that.
Good night.
It's finding a cherry cordial Hershey's kiss from last week in the bottom of your lunch bag.
That was my moment of perfect happiness today. May sound pathetic to some of you, but hey, I can live with that.
Good night.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Cold and Strawberry Breakfast Crepes
Living in Southeast Texas, I enjoy cold fronts. Especially in February/March. It means the a/c doesn't run which means not-so-astronomic electricity bills! Too bad it won't last past tomorrow.
While doing research for Love's Old Song, I found a yummy easy strawberry breakfast crepe recipe. They're good and, if you don't want to make crepes (which you can make ahead of time and store in the freezer) you can use flour tortillas instead.
Ingredients:
8 crepes (or flour tortillas)
10 oz frozen strawberries
2 cups cottage cheese
1 cup sliced fresh strawberries
1 cup chopped frozen peaches
Sliced strawberries or kiwis for garnish
Directions:
Use blender to turn frozen strawberries into a sauce
Warm crepes (or tortillas) in microwave
Spread 1/4 cup cottage cheese on each crepe (or tortilla). Put 2 tablespoons each of fresh strawberries and frozen peaches on top of the cottage cheese. Spoon 1 tablespoon of strawberry sauce over cottage cheese and fruit. Roll up crepe (or tortilla) and place seam-side down on the plate. Spoon additional strawberry sauce over the rolled up crepe.
Voila!
While doing research for Love's Old Song, I found a yummy easy strawberry breakfast crepe recipe. They're good and, if you don't want to make crepes (which you can make ahead of time and store in the freezer) you can use flour tortillas instead.
Ingredients:
8 crepes (or flour tortillas)
10 oz frozen strawberries
2 cups cottage cheese
1 cup sliced fresh strawberries
1 cup chopped frozen peaches
Sliced strawberries or kiwis for garnish
Directions:
Use blender to turn frozen strawberries into a sauce
Warm crepes (or tortillas) in microwave
Spread 1/4 cup cottage cheese on each crepe (or tortilla). Put 2 tablespoons each of fresh strawberries and frozen peaches on top of the cottage cheese. Spoon 1 tablespoon of strawberry sauce over cottage cheese and fruit. Roll up crepe (or tortilla) and place seam-side down on the plate. Spoon additional strawberry sauce over the rolled up crepe.
Voila!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Oops
So... I've been a little lazy when it comes to updating.
Sorry 'bout that.
Life has, as I'm sure it has for millions of other people, become a lot more stressful lately.
The problem with working in a business that deals with new construction is that when new construction declines, so does your business. Let's just say it's not pretty.
JT and I are both doing as okay as we can, though, so that's a good thing.
Belle's still her bratty self.
Chit, unfortunately, gave in to old age last month. I really miss my little mouse.
I've been writing some - gave my self a break from NaCl and started a newer series - Love's Old Song. It's written in a style similar to NaCl but focuses more on a romantic relationship rather than just a friendship - okay, let's be honest, it's my way of getting out all those lovey-dovey scenes that popped into my head while writing NaCl. I'll post info on Love's Old Song once I get it somewhere easily accessible.
I've even finished two chapters of the main story along with 2 drabbles for the Companion-verse.
Last weekend we went down to Alice to see my grandparents - it was Grandpa Misenhimer's 80th birthday. ALL of Dad's family was there. It was nice for JT to meet them and for me to see them again. I really like my cousin's wife and, let me just say that after spending a weekend with them, I feel so very short. What do they feed those boys up in Indiana? Miracle-Gro?
Made the best white chocolate-chip/macadamia nut cookies and chocolate-cherry bars. JT printed the recipe for me from where ever he found it online but it was on the back of the cake mix box! I followed the instructions but didn't frost the bars with chocolate icing - I was afraid that it would make them too sweet and they turned out just fine without it. Had a minor scare when I didn't have enough Crisco for the cookies, but I mixed in a little extra butter and it all worked out.
Quiet weekend planned now - a few errands and then it's relaxation for as long as possible.
Sorry 'bout that.
Life has, as I'm sure it has for millions of other people, become a lot more stressful lately.
The problem with working in a business that deals with new construction is that when new construction declines, so does your business. Let's just say it's not pretty.
JT and I are both doing as okay as we can, though, so that's a good thing.
Belle's still her bratty self.
Chit, unfortunately, gave in to old age last month. I really miss my little mouse.
I've been writing some - gave my self a break from NaCl and started a newer series - Love's Old Song. It's written in a style similar to NaCl but focuses more on a romantic relationship rather than just a friendship - okay, let's be honest, it's my way of getting out all those lovey-dovey scenes that popped into my head while writing NaCl. I'll post info on Love's Old Song once I get it somewhere easily accessible.
I've even finished two chapters of the main story along with 2 drabbles for the Companion-verse.
Last weekend we went down to Alice to see my grandparents - it was Grandpa Misenhimer's 80th birthday. ALL of Dad's family was there. It was nice for JT to meet them and for me to see them again. I really like my cousin's wife and, let me just say that after spending a weekend with them, I feel so very short. What do they feed those boys up in Indiana? Miracle-Gro?
Made the best white chocolate-chip/macadamia nut cookies and chocolate-cherry bars. JT printed the recipe for me from where ever he found it online but it was on the back of the cake mix box! I followed the instructions but didn't frost the bars with chocolate icing - I was afraid that it would make them too sweet and they turned out just fine without it. Had a minor scare when I didn't have enough Crisco for the cookies, but I mixed in a little extra butter and it all worked out.
Quiet weekend planned now - a few errands and then it's relaxation for as long as possible.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursdays and Sneak Peak
I like Thursdays. Sorta. It's pay day. Plus, Fridays are usually easier days at work. It's just that with half the company off, there's a big push to get stuff done that gives me a migraine.
I've been on this diet-but-not-really thing for a couple of weeks now and hadn't seen any results and was starting to geta little disappointed. Until... I tried on a pair of pants that I couldn't button or zip and, while still snug, they button and zipped. Let's just say I was a little giddy. :)
Halloween is tomorrow but I'm not dressing up like some of the weirdos I work with. I'll probably do my Evil t-shirt and the devil horns headband thing. It's worked for the past two years.
On the Christmas present front: still only have Avery's done. Plan on ordering Grandma BJ's and two of little brother's next Friday and then doing the rest of the shopping when I get to Harlingen. Ken wants to go halves on a present for Mom and Mom has ideas for both Dad and Grandpa Harvey so I figure I can just pick up something for Grandpa Richard while I'm doing all that shopping!
As far as reading goes: JT's started the other In Death book before I had a chance. Quadratic equations are fun but vector's kick my butt.
On the writing front: 3 chapters of Ashwood rough draft done but that muse is on vacation this week, it seems. I need to rewrite my Keeper chapters, but I'm too lazy. Ghost of a Girl is almost done.
For an early Halloween treat, I'm posting a short holiday story that's part of my NaCl series.
October 2001
San Diego, CA
"Please?"
"No."
"Pretty please?"
"No."
"Pretty, pretty please with a package of Oreos on top?"
A pause, a hum, a chin scratch. "No."
Joss tilts her head to the side and produces the pout responsible for the convertible on her sixteenth birthday and the trip to Hawaii after graduation. It's gotten her out of arguments with Nate before but doesn't seem to be working this time. When it's obvious that he's not going to budge, she huffs and stomps her foot. "You're no fun."
"Yes, because you scaring yourself stupid and then having nightmares until Christmas is my idea of fun." Nate crosses his arms over his chest and glares. It's a pointless argument because there's no way he's going to cave. "We'll do the Rocky Horror midnight showing, we'll do the round of parties, and we'll hand out candy, but we are not doing Haunted Manor."
Two weeks later
Joss glances over at a brooding Nate. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are turning white. She's got the urge to say something, anything, to break the silence but isn't sure she can come up with anything that won't piss him off any more. Or any less. She slumps further in her seat and fiddles with the zipper on her jacket as they drive in nearly unbearable silence towards their apartment.
Nate knows she's watching him. He can feel her eyes boring holes into his skull but he can't look at her. Not yet. His heart is still racing, his head aches and his hands hurt. He probably won't have full use of his right hand for a few days. His left arm is sore and he's sure that when the bruises form, they'll be in the shape of Joss' fingers. He's still trying to figure out how in the hell he got talked into something so incredibly stupid.
"I'm really sorry."
Nate purses his lips and presses down on the accelerator. "Don't Joss. Just... don't"
He hears her sigh and the soft rustle of fabric as she sifts to stare out the window. Guilt creeps in to slowly replace his anger. He tries to hold on to it, but he's never been able to stay angry with her for long. He reaches out with his right hand to squeeze her shoulder. "You can sleep in my room, tonight."
She turns her head and flashes a grateful smile. Thank God! She was afraid she'd have to beg or spend the night huddled outside his door because there's no way she'll be able to sleep by herself for a good long while. Not after everything she's seen.
Nate pulls into his parking space and kills the engine but doesn't unlock the door. He cups Joss' chin so that she has no choice but to look him straight in the eyes. "Next time I say no haunted houses, I mean absolutely no haunted houses. You got it?"
She nods as best she can with his hand on her chin. Satisfied, he releases her and unlocks the door. The tension that made the drive home nearly unbearable is absent as they walk to their apartment. Rather than entering first, Joss lets Nate go in and turn all the lights on. She hangs her coat on a nearby hook and peers up at the clock. "Wanna watch The Great Pumpkin?"
"Sure. I'll pop the corn while you change."
Joss pauses at the doorway to her bedroom, a small smile curving her lips. This may cost her some groveling when bedtime comes around, but it's too good to pass up. She makes sure she's inside with the doorknob firmly in hand before leaning out. "It's okay to admit you were scared, too." The door shuts seconds before a pair of muddy boots smash against it.
I've been on this diet-but-not-really thing for a couple of weeks now and hadn't seen any results and was starting to geta little disappointed. Until... I tried on a pair of pants that I couldn't button or zip and, while still snug, they button and zipped. Let's just say I was a little giddy. :)
Halloween is tomorrow but I'm not dressing up like some of the weirdos I work with. I'll probably do my Evil t-shirt and the devil horns headband thing. It's worked for the past two years.
On the Christmas present front: still only have Avery's done. Plan on ordering Grandma BJ's and two of little brother's next Friday and then doing the rest of the shopping when I get to Harlingen. Ken wants to go halves on a present for Mom and Mom has ideas for both Dad and Grandpa Harvey so I figure I can just pick up something for Grandpa Richard while I'm doing all that shopping!
As far as reading goes: JT's started the other In Death book before I had a chance. Quadratic equations are fun but vector's kick my butt.
On the writing front: 3 chapters of Ashwood rough draft done but that muse is on vacation this week, it seems. I need to rewrite my Keeper chapters, but I'm too lazy. Ghost of a Girl is almost done.
For an early Halloween treat, I'm posting a short holiday story that's part of my NaCl series.
October 2001
San Diego, CA
"Please?"
"No."
"Pretty please?"
"No."
"Pretty, pretty please with a package of Oreos on top?"
A pause, a hum, a chin scratch. "No."
Joss tilts her head to the side and produces the pout responsible for the convertible on her sixteenth birthday and the trip to Hawaii after graduation. It's gotten her out of arguments with Nate before but doesn't seem to be working this time. When it's obvious that he's not going to budge, she huffs and stomps her foot. "You're no fun."
"Yes, because you scaring yourself stupid and then having nightmares until Christmas is my idea of fun." Nate crosses his arms over his chest and glares. It's a pointless argument because there's no way he's going to cave. "We'll do the Rocky Horror midnight showing, we'll do the round of parties, and we'll hand out candy, but we are not doing Haunted Manor."
Two weeks later
Joss glances over at a brooding Nate. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are turning white. She's got the urge to say something, anything, to break the silence but isn't sure she can come up with anything that won't piss him off any more. Or any less. She slumps further in her seat and fiddles with the zipper on her jacket as they drive in nearly unbearable silence towards their apartment.
Nate knows she's watching him. He can feel her eyes boring holes into his skull but he can't look at her. Not yet. His heart is still racing, his head aches and his hands hurt. He probably won't have full use of his right hand for a few days. His left arm is sore and he's sure that when the bruises form, they'll be in the shape of Joss' fingers. He's still trying to figure out how in the hell he got talked into something so incredibly stupid.
"I'm really sorry."
Nate purses his lips and presses down on the accelerator. "Don't Joss. Just... don't"
He hears her sigh and the soft rustle of fabric as she sifts to stare out the window. Guilt creeps in to slowly replace his anger. He tries to hold on to it, but he's never been able to stay angry with her for long. He reaches out with his right hand to squeeze her shoulder. "You can sleep in my room, tonight."
She turns her head and flashes a grateful smile. Thank God! She was afraid she'd have to beg or spend the night huddled outside his door because there's no way she'll be able to sleep by herself for a good long while. Not after everything she's seen.
Nate pulls into his parking space and kills the engine but doesn't unlock the door. He cups Joss' chin so that she has no choice but to look him straight in the eyes. "Next time I say no haunted houses, I mean absolutely no haunted houses. You got it?"
She nods as best she can with his hand on her chin. Satisfied, he releases her and unlocks the door. The tension that made the drive home nearly unbearable is absent as they walk to their apartment. Rather than entering first, Joss lets Nate go in and turn all the lights on. She hangs her coat on a nearby hook and peers up at the clock. "Wanna watch The Great Pumpkin?"
"Sure. I'll pop the corn while you change."
Joss pauses at the doorway to her bedroom, a small smile curving her lips. This may cost her some groveling when bedtime comes around, but it's too good to pass up. She makes sure she's inside with the doorknob firmly in hand before leaning out. "It's okay to admit you were scared, too." The door shuts seconds before a pair of muddy boots smash against it.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
What's in a name
What’s in a Name
I was never too fond of my name. Kara itself wasn’t bad. Unique enough so that I only knew three other people with the same name and never had any of them in my classes. Simple to spell and in the middle of the alphabet.
It’s the Helen middle name I objected to. It didn’t get used very often, but when it did it was never in a positive way. Usually when I was in trouble. Mostly when I, I hate to admit this, would pout after losing a game. Still confused? I’ll explain.
Helen was my grandmother’s middle name, the one she was known by. If your first name were Bertha, you’d choose Helen, too. Grandma loved to play games: board, card, or just about any other type you can think of. She also hated to lose. I mean really hated it. I’m talking family-members-purposely-losing-to-avoid-a-scene hated it. It seems I inherited that trait so when I pulled out my Grandma-pout, family members would pull out the dreaded middle name.
For most of my life, I was able to avoid Helen. It was just an H. on forms and the only person who ever called me by it was an aunt who delighted in calling me by my full – first, middle, maiden, and married – name. That all changed this past August.
My grandmother died the last week in August. She’d been sick for many years but the death itself was sudden. I live over three hundred miles from where she did. We were close when I was growing up and she was only a short ride (or long walk) away. I hadn’t seen her in over a year.
It wasn’t just the physical distance that pushed us apart. The age and generational gap did most of the work. She’d been a farmer’s wife all her life. She cooked my grandfather’s meals and had them ready at a certain time. She’d raised five children and kept a very tidy house. I moved to a big city and started working, married a man who does all the cooking, my apartment is rarely tidy, and the thought of one child frightens me right now. I never understood her fascination with watching golf on television and she never could understand my mystery-and-crime obsessions.
While she was alive, I assumed I understood the woman I was named after. She was a wife, a cook, a mother, a grandmother, a game player, and an avid fisher. I never tried to dig any deeper than that. When she died, I naively thought that the majority of mourners would be family members and a few close friends.
I was wrong.
I was stunned to see a roomful of flowers and plants at the funeral home. They lined walls and we even found a few hidden behind tables. They were from business the family farm worked with, friends she’d made over the years, and people associated with her children and grandchildren. I was even more shocked by the number of people who stopped by the house or sent cards.
My grandmother’s funeral was standing room only. I had no idea that my grandmother had touched that many lives. After the service and at the viewing, people would come up to me to share an anecdote and tell me how wonderful my grandmother was. Once I got home and back into the swing of every day life, I started thinking about her.
How amazing must she have been to not only raise five well-adjusted, successful children, keep her family dressed and fed, and still maintain such lasting, deep friendships? Even in her later years, she took care of my grandfather and spent time with her family but she had time to make new friends though Bible study. Women my grandmother had known since before I was born were there to mourn her passing. What kind of heart does it take to build those kinds of ties?
The floral arrangements sent by people who’d never met my grandmother make sense now because they have, indirectly, met her. In one way or another she helped shape the lives of her kids and the grandkids she adored. Part of who I am today is thanks to her. I only wish it was a bigger part.
I’m fonder of my name these days. I’m the only grandchild to bear it. It doesn’t feel like a curse but more like something I need to live up to. I would like to be more like my grandmother. Not the children-raising, meal-cooking one because I plan on adopting and the fire department doesn’t like it when I cook, but the one who held on to friendships for decades, touched lives, and left a legacy of family and friends. I want standing room only.
By:
Kara Helen Thorpe
I was never too fond of my name. Kara itself wasn’t bad. Unique enough so that I only knew three other people with the same name and never had any of them in my classes. Simple to spell and in the middle of the alphabet.
It’s the Helen middle name I objected to. It didn’t get used very often, but when it did it was never in a positive way. Usually when I was in trouble. Mostly when I, I hate to admit this, would pout after losing a game. Still confused? I’ll explain.
Helen was my grandmother’s middle name, the one she was known by. If your first name were Bertha, you’d choose Helen, too. Grandma loved to play games: board, card, or just about any other type you can think of. She also hated to lose. I mean really hated it. I’m talking family-members-purposely-losing-to-avoid-a-scene hated it. It seems I inherited that trait so when I pulled out my Grandma-pout, family members would pull out the dreaded middle name.
For most of my life, I was able to avoid Helen. It was just an H. on forms and the only person who ever called me by it was an aunt who delighted in calling me by my full – first, middle, maiden, and married – name. That all changed this past August.
My grandmother died the last week in August. She’d been sick for many years but the death itself was sudden. I live over three hundred miles from where she did. We were close when I was growing up and she was only a short ride (or long walk) away. I hadn’t seen her in over a year.
It wasn’t just the physical distance that pushed us apart. The age and generational gap did most of the work. She’d been a farmer’s wife all her life. She cooked my grandfather’s meals and had them ready at a certain time. She’d raised five children and kept a very tidy house. I moved to a big city and started working, married a man who does all the cooking, my apartment is rarely tidy, and the thought of one child frightens me right now. I never understood her fascination with watching golf on television and she never could understand my mystery-and-crime obsessions.
While she was alive, I assumed I understood the woman I was named after. She was a wife, a cook, a mother, a grandmother, a game player, and an avid fisher. I never tried to dig any deeper than that. When she died, I naively thought that the majority of mourners would be family members and a few close friends.
I was wrong.
I was stunned to see a roomful of flowers and plants at the funeral home. They lined walls and we even found a few hidden behind tables. They were from business the family farm worked with, friends she’d made over the years, and people associated with her children and grandchildren. I was even more shocked by the number of people who stopped by the house or sent cards.
My grandmother’s funeral was standing room only. I had no idea that my grandmother had touched that many lives. After the service and at the viewing, people would come up to me to share an anecdote and tell me how wonderful my grandmother was. Once I got home and back into the swing of every day life, I started thinking about her.
How amazing must she have been to not only raise five well-adjusted, successful children, keep her family dressed and fed, and still maintain such lasting, deep friendships? Even in her later years, she took care of my grandfather and spent time with her family but she had time to make new friends though Bible study. Women my grandmother had known since before I was born were there to mourn her passing. What kind of heart does it take to build those kinds of ties?
The floral arrangements sent by people who’d never met my grandmother make sense now because they have, indirectly, met her. In one way or another she helped shape the lives of her kids and the grandkids she adored. Part of who I am today is thanks to her. I only wish it was a bigger part.
I’m fonder of my name these days. I’m the only grandchild to bear it. It doesn’t feel like a curse but more like something I need to live up to. I would like to be more like my grandmother. Not the children-raising, meal-cooking one because I plan on adopting and the fire department doesn’t like it when I cook, but the one who held on to friendships for decades, touched lives, and left a legacy of family and friends. I want standing room only.
By:
Kara Helen Thorpe
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