I am a former news editor and currently a freelance writer/blogger. I live on a small farm along the coast of the Monterey Bay area. As the single mom of four they made great subjects to write about.
The Year of El Diablo
Some stories need to be told. They become legendary and passed from generation to generation. It's how we learn about our ancestors, our family before us, and we pass those stories to our children and grandchildren, and these stories get told to the generations after them. Growing up, I had uncles with nicknames like Killer Quintero and Big Al from Alisal. Even I was blessed with a handle, Paula Mae, for my Ellie Mae Clampett ways.
As a writer, I often get asked to retell a story because it's a favorite of someone. It's nice knowing that what I wrote could become that one that someone would remember me for in the years to come. Many good stories start with "remember when" or "remember the time." I had good subjects to write about; they were easy prey, I could count on them, they never failed me. My children, like circus clowns, were the victims of some classics; I'm a Blind Date Magnet, The Fight Between the Donkey & the Pig, A Horse in the House, Who Ate My Pizza, and My Ass Is Going Down the Road. I have my favorites too. What would usually be Big Week here in our neck of the woods, I noticed son Monroe had rodeo withdraws with the pandemic shutting everything down. It reminded me of the time of a young cowboy who made the trip of a lifetime on the back of a horse.
Blind Date Magnate
Dating over 60. At this age, it seems like it takes a lot of work. You look at things differently when you are older. We are a little more set in our ways and unwilling to give up that space to just anyone. At least for me, it is. Dating as a single mom of four was a challenge. My children were a little rough on the guys I dated. I'm not sure how far down the road some of my dates got when they figured out one or two tires were a bit low, but it wasn't hard for me to figure out how it happened. Four "it wasn't me" answers are how I figured we had a ghost kid who got the blame for everything that mysteriously happened. There were the guys who would call, and my daughter would answer and tell them I was busy, "my mom's not available right now, she's raising her kids; call back," she looks over at my youngest son, "in about ten years."