Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
Semicolon savior II
It was a busy lunch already and it was just after 11:00, 11:11 to be exact. The space was all a mix of locals, lawyers and defendants. Some were talking over the people in line now extending past the door entrance. Others were checking in with family or passing time on social media. And the rest were eagerly waiting to make eye contact with me to place their order and to find a nearby table or park bench. Robert was busy outside talking with potential buyers and seemed to really be enjoying all this new exposure. His current piece was morphing into a restaurant at the edge of a galaxy, and almost every passerby stopped to admirer the hourly changes. The sun was shining and we were jumpin’. These days were the new norm now that Custer Coffee had been in business for over 5 years and had become the local “spot.” Consignment art pieces ranging from painted skateboards to homemade jewelry lined the walls and shelves, while the music ranged daily to whatever Pandora radio station we picked. It was a family owned spot where the owners kids were strung about the tables mingling with their regulars, or helping with dishes in the back. How far had it come in such a short time. Everyone seemed to know each other and if you were new to the area, you wouldn’t stay “new” for long.
1. n A mental deviation or perversity. Claire was listlessly channel-hopping when her mum’s odd behaviour caught her attention. Mal, a septuagenarian, had climbed onto her feet, perched at the edge of her orthopaedic-armchair, thrown her shawl over her head and was fidgeting erratically with a box of felt-tips.
Inbox (5) "New Challenge: $1,000 Prize - Mad About Memoirs" Macey Lang clicks the email. - Hi Macey, We are "mad" about the intimate stories that unfold within a memoir. Have you ever experienced anything super life-changing? How did it make you feel? Do you have an exciting story brewing inside, waiting to be expressed? We want to know. Memoirs give readers a chance to step inside the mind of a writer in a personal way. It's amazing how deeply people can sometimes connect with someone else's experiences. This week, enter the Mad About Memoirs Challenge and tell your story. You may write about any topic, as long as it's a memoir. Have fun!
The frame of your front door is ajar and it’s not the first time. You open it and look outside. There sitting conspicuously on your door mat is an old beaten up suitcase with a small black book. A note inside, “For you and your mom.”
A Warning from the Past
“I can not believe your grandmother is allowing us to have the house all to ourselves for the weekend” Ally said while stepping through the front door.
My mum had died just over six months ago and I had been more than reluctant to start going through her stuff. Ever since she had bought the big house, I had been dreading the moment. I knew that one day she would die and that I would be left having to sort out the mess. To say that mum had been a hoarder would be an understatement. Well, she wasn’t a hoarder in the clinical sense of the word. She wasn’t like one of those people you sometimes see on TV who have to clamber over mountains of tied up old newspapers and huge balls of plastic bags, stuffed with nothing but more plastic bags. No, she wasn’t like that, she didn’t hoard rubbish, it was all valuable stuff, well, trinkets, really: little Bavarian porcelain dolls with chubby cheeks and cocked green hats, pairs of lead crystal swans with elongated necks entwined, drawers and drawers full of mismatched antique silverware - you name it, it was there, in this house. Mum had always jokingly quipped: “You’ll have to get a skip when I die.” She thought that was hilarious. I never found it very funny at all, as I always knew it wouldn’t be just the one skip that would be required. It would be more like a dozen skips and weeks, if not months, of tedious sifting through it all, piece by piece in order to determine which bits to chuck and which ones to sell. “Did I not want any of it for myself?” my friends keep asking me. Well, the answer is no, not really, I have everything I want and more in my own place, and mine and mum’s tastes have always been diametrically opposite. She loved chintz and tat, expensive tat, but tat nonetheless. Every surface in her home had always been covered in stuff, every sofa overloaded with hand-embroidered cushions and doilies. Opulent Persian rugs now covered the stone and parquet floors in this country house that she had bought 15 years ago. But even before then, even before the money, before the short lived fame and the well invested fortune, when we lived in a two bedroom flat without central heating, even back then, she would fill every empty space by cramming more stuff into it. Just stuff, and I had been sick of it for a long, long time.
The girl on the ground
1985 I am 5 years old. I am an awfully timid insecure little girl even at this age. I feel the awkwardness of my entire being deeply in my bones, and not just my bones do I feel, I feel the bones of every one else in my mum’s weekly G.I.R.S. group. Here they meet, misfit adults talking amongst each other for hours sharing their broken lives.
The Birthday Gift
It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It wasn’t supposed to start this way either… Born and raised in the Carolina backwoods county of Oconee, my family lived crammed in a clapboard shanty for most of my childhood. Six kids, one bathroom, and a septic system that had a propensity for flooding the side yard with shit. We were the poorest people I knew.
And The Angels Shall Sing
He looked nervously around. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable situation, no matter how wonderful the gesture was. He was the only male in the car, and most likely, the only male that would be at their destination. But, he knew he needed to be there. He knew it deep in his soul. No matter how uncomfortable he was, this is where he was supposed to be.
It's All In My Little Black Book
I bought a new diary. It’s a little black book. This is where I keep my very thoughts for that day at that very moment. My every dream that I have ever dreamed and my dreams to come. My life story all rolled into one little black book.
As dawn broke outside the hospital in the small Pacific Northwest town of Fairhaven, Washington, Dylan placed his stethoscope in his locker, left the nurses’ lounge, and walked out of the emergency department through the ambulance entrance. When he greeted the crisp Fall morning air, he let out a long heavy sigh, releasing the tension that had built up over another stressful graveyard shift.
You Will Never Change My Mind
You Will Never Change My Mind Damn kids. Damn Grandkids. Damn every damn kid. You will never change my mind. I don’t know why they want to make my life so difficult. I’ve worked hard. I just want to rest. Somehow I roped into hauling Peter (they think it is so flattering they named him after me, what’s it do for me?) down to the museum for his homework. Like that’s my job. I didn’t choose to have him. His mom should take him, not me. Isn’t that why my son got married to her? To take care of his kids?