Professionally I've been an engineer. It's provided me with travel to many places and stories of people I've met. That, combined with my passion for history, have given me many, many stories to write. And I do love to tell stories!
I’d been climbing that damned hill nearly every day for two years. Sometimes I found things to eat along the way, but usually getting to the top was the best I could do. I had tried to climb in the morning in order to avoid the rain, but not too early else all I would see would be mist.
I only caught a glimpse of it that first time, in the cafe. When I’d handed him that latte, he had turned away to go to the front door, and there it was, on his right shoulder. A beautiful sailing ship, crashing through waves, indomitably exploring the ocean’s unknown reaches.
"There are too many of them! I don't know what to do!" My psyche was crying out, screaming, clamoring inside my skull. "Make 'em stop! I can't deal with any more labels!"
“Hibernation? You call this ‘hiberation’?” My sister was visiting from the frozen north. She used the term as if it should be in all caps. Or maybe even a country of its own. She had come down here to central Texas for a bit of relief. Lucky for both of us that she didn’t come down last month. Her eye-rolling was about the limit of what I could deal with whenever the topic of Texas and cold came up.
In the Can
It was a mess. I hadn’t realized how much of a mess until I turned on the lights. I’d been there all night, working straight through until the sun started to bleach the horizon. But of course I couldn’t know that: the room had no windows.
Books of Color
George sat on the park bench next to Harold. It was the same bench they occupied almost every day. The days they skipped were used for church, or to keep out of the weather.
John had worked at the Federal Mint for twenty years. He’d started sweeping floors as a teenager, then moved up to helping the electricians, mechanics and carpenters repair the machines. Those latter years brought him all over the printing plant, to every machine and every trade. The old timers were uniformly pleasant, greeting him as he lugged two heavy toolboxes, walking behind whoever he was assisting that day. They enjoyed seeing a young man with energy and ambition – a hard worker.
The Worst Campouts
Even though I’m thinking back 30 years or more, the ones that come to mind the quickest are always the worst ones. It’s a lot harder to dredge up the sunny-day-swim-in-the-pond campouts than it is to fend off the memories of rain and bugs and cold and heat. Maybe that’s because we catalog the victories in a bigger drawer than the ordinary times.