Dorothy Bromley Highsmith
On more than one occasion, a typical walk through our neighborhood would include the disapproving sideways glances of neighbors raking and shoveling their yards and the quick crossing of nervous mothers with their children (and even some fathers) to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road as we approached. Ratchet and I separated the ignorant and paranoid from the true dog lovers. Ratchet was my pit bull: my goofy, slobbery, people-loving, 80 pound wanna-be lap-dog who couldn’t resist an outstretched hand of a child for all the world. A favorite at his veterinarian’s office, Ratchet was a lover, not a fighter, but some people could only see the outside--the breed. But I saw personality oozing from every pore of that creature. How could they miss it?
Red Light, Green Light
I remember playing games on the school field in middle school. “Red light! Green light!” All of us kids would be lined up on one end of the field, anxiously waiting for the green light, then dash across the field toward the “leader” in a desperate attempt to get to the other side before he called “red light!” When “green light” was shouted, I wouldn’t hesitate, I ran as fast as I could. I ran like my life depended on it to get to the other side. But I remember waiting, waiting on that red light. Waiting for the green light…so I could run!
Little Black Book
The keys to the small, boarded up house hung limply in Diane’s hand. This stale cabin, long-ago forgotten by family members, looked sad, alone on the edge of town. “Well, come on, Diane, might as well get this over with.” The keys turned and the door hinges let out a tired groan as the daylight pierced the dusty living room of the cabin. Sheets covered simple furniture, hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs. This cabin had become the family’s dumping ground for unwanted furniture that never made it to the Goodwill. And now this was the only furniture Diane owned.