Before and After

Nora popped the leftovers into the microwave, entered the time, and pushed start.  Her mom was working late and she’d have the apartment to herself tonight.  Without the commotion usually caused by her mom and Joseph, the new boyfriend, who was decidedly wrong, Nora would be free to do as she pleased, which in tonight’s case, would be to dye her hair.  She couldn’t wait.

She’d spent three afternoons casing the drug store, learning where the cameras were and how to avoid them. In her room she’d practiced again and again dropping a hair dye box into her overcoat pocket.  She’d found the box and bottle in her mother’s wastepaper basket, had reassembled everything, filling the bottle with water so that it would match the real thing’s weight.  She practiced until she could drop it into her pocket perfectly while pretending to scan the shelves.

She’d grown her thumb nail long to peel off the anti-theft device attached to the bottom of the box. The heist, as she liked to call it, had gone off without a hitch.  And tonight, finally, she would dye her mousy brown hair “Midnight Blue.”  Oh, how she hoped it would truly have some blue in it. Her mother would be floored – seeing her reaction in the morning might be the best part of it all, honestly.

The microwave beeped, signaling a job done.  Nora brought the food to the table and took a too-hot bite of a tuna casserole. Inhaling to cool it off, she ceremoniously opened the box of Midnight Blue.  Extracting each item from the box, she laid them carefully on the table, took a swig of milk, and then flattened the instructions next to her plate.  She read them through three times while eating, making certain she understood the steps and times.  She did not want to mess this up, like Cindy Armstrong had done.

Cindy’s hair was fine blonde hair to begin with, but after a botched dye job, it had turned a strange shade of orange, became brittle and broke off.  Cindy looked like a prisoner whose crew cut was growing out awkwardly. There were even strange blistered bald spots where the dye had burned her skin.  Obviously, Cindy hadn’t followed the instructions well, and her mother had been so livid that she refused to allow Cindy to wear a hat or wig, telling her she’d have to live with it.  That seemed a little cruel, but it was also kind of funny because Cindy never followed directions.

Nora intended to avoid those pitfalls.  Again, she read through the instructions, this time, highlighting the times for each step. Nora popped the last bite in her mouth, chugged the remaining milk, and stood up.  She took one last selfie with her hair the way it would never be again, not if she could help it.  She would do a before-and-after post.

Stepping to the sink, she arranged all the items she’d need around her, including the instructions. She pulled the rubber gloves onto her hands and began.  

Job Hunting

Prompt:  The Robbery | Word Count:  1493 | Genre:  Fiction

Dustin pulled up to the curb at Donnie’s and honked twice.  It was almost dark.  He fiddled with the knobs on the AM radio, then pushed the cigarette lighter in wondering if Donnie would emerge before the lighter popped out, red hot.  

This was supposed to be a solo job, breaking into the back office of the Duffy Butcher Shop, where everyone knew Easy Joe O’Halleran received the weekly pay offs.  Rumor was they were left overnight in the deep freeze, wrapped and bundled in ten piles, a thousand smackers each.

Dustin had been riding along on jobs for a while now, sometimes helping to smash a lock or even kneecaps, more often standing guard or driving the car.

A solo hit on Duffy’s would definitely move him up in the ranks.  

And with Christiana knocked up, he needed money.  A lot more money if she decided to keep it this time.

Pop!  The lighter clicked out and still no Donnie.  Dustin thought about honking again, but felt too antsy to sit any longer.  Exiting the Chevelle, he noticed the bad Bondo job again.  Maybe with his cut, he could also afford to fix it up and paint it. This Chevelle could be a thing of beauty.  All it took was money.  

Dustin rang the bell, and then knocked.  Donnie was supposed to have a gun for him.  A small pistol, numbers filed off and untraceable.  Just in case.  He could ditch it if he had to, but if he needed it, it was easy to conceal.

No answer.  It wasn’t like Donnie to leave him hanging.  Maybe he was over at Yvette’s?  Easy enough to check.  And if Donnie wasn’t there, Yvette would probably know where he was. She kept him on a short leash.

Back in the car and on the way to Yvette’s, Dustin went through the steps of the break-in.  At each one, he paused, considering all the possibilities or obstacles potentially created.  At each, he broke down the subsequent choices and the ramifications of each.  He’d never had to do this on his own, but he’d sat with Donnie playing out scenarios like this.

“Visualization,” Donnie had said, a dreamy look in his eyes.  “The difference between the champion and all those losers.”  At the word “losers” he’d elbowed Dustin in the sternum, almost knocking him over.  Dustin wasn’t a loser.  Duffy’s would prove it.

Almost to Yvette’s, a police cruiser going the opposite way on Spruce Avenue flipped a U-turn and switched on the lights and siren.

“Crap,” Dustin shouted. Perhaps too abruptly he pulled into a gas station.  He realized how grateful he was that he didn’t have Donnie’s gun on him and tried to calm his breathing.  Dustin could see the officer emerging from the vehicle to approach him.

“Do you know why I’ve pulled you over this evening?”

“No sir, uh, why, sir?”

The officer leaned in close, beefy forearms folded on the bottom of the window opening.  He sniffed, then stuck his head inside sniffing more.

Dustin kept his eyes facing forward, trying to hold his breath to keep from smelling the officer’s rancid exhales.

“Turn your damn lights on, son!”  And with that, the officer slapped Dustin’s shoulder and laughed, walking back to his vehicle.  

Dustin watched in the rearview as the fat policeman pulled up his pants, still laughing.  He could feel himself quaking, a thousand thoughts racing through his head.  First of all, he couldn’t afford a single mistake, like not having his lights on. Dustin knew he needed the gun, second. It wasn’t like Donnie not to be home at a scheduled time.  Getting pulled over was bad luck, definitely.  Dustin hated superstition, didn’t believe in it, finding it a lame and ridiculous excuse for poor planning.  But he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t feeling uneasy because of these two events, Donnie not being home, and the cop pulling him over.

Hands sweaty and shaky, he restarted the Chevelle, pulled the knob to turn on the lights and put the car in gear.  At Yvette’s he didn’t even bother to stop.  All the lights were out and no cars in the driveway.  He continued on his way.  Without the gun, what were his chances?  How likely was it that he’d need it?  Again he played out the scenarios, but this time without the pistol.

Twenty minutes later, he was parked a block from Duffy’s.  He’d driven down the alley – a calculated risk, he knew, but he wanted to check if lights were on inside the building, and they were.  It was less of a risk than walking down the alley and having someone able to identify his face.  The Chevelle was ugly enough to be unnoticed.  Not so ugly that it would stand out.  

Dustin drummed the steering wheel, wondering what he was doing and knowing there was no way he could pull this off.  He sat with this weight in his belly, the lights on the street glowing against the overcast night sky.  What did it mean to not do a job?  How would he be viewed? Could he explain that he’d let his level-headedness rule?  That his thoughtful calculations of the situation might lead him toward a different kind of role in the organization?

The decision made not to hit Duffy’s, Dustin felt the adrenaline leaving his body.  He was exhausted and worried.  Rolling down the window, he gulped the cool night air. Instantly he felt better.  He opened the door and stepped out into the evening.  Walking up the block, he turned the corner and broke into a slow jog.  After a few blocks he stopped in front of an ice cream shop.  There were no customers.  One girl worked inside.  She looked bored, sitting behind the counter, her head propped on her hand, a dark hair braid cascading over her shoulder.  

He pushed the door open. It buzzed and the girl snapped to attention.  Silently, she stood and waited for his order.  He scanned the choices of ice cream.  The display freezers were empty except for vanilla and chocolate.  

“Pretty slim pickings,” he joked.  She didn’t react.  “Chocolate milkshake, please.”

She made the milkshake without comment, adding the ingredients and blending them in an old machine that whined and then sighed as it was turned off.  She was pretty but not much on customer service, he thought.

She handed it to him and turned away.

“How much?”  Dustin asked.

She scanned him. “Oh.  You’re not with…”  her voice trailed off.  Then she cleared her throat.  “Three fifty.”

He gave her a ten and couldn’t help but ask, “Who did you think I was?”

“Nevermind, I was wrong.” She blushed and handed him his change, which he dropped in the empty tip bucket.  She was suddenly busy, sweeping the floor and turning away from him, her braid swinging across her back.

“Is it the O’Halleran’s? Do you think I work for them?”

She turned.  “Do you?”

He shook his head.  

“Are you a cop?”

Again he shook his head. “What makes you think that?”

She looked around, nervous. “We don’t actually get many customers here,” she whispered.  She gestured at the shop.  “This isn’t really an ice cream shop anymore.  I hate it.”  

Now Dustin turned on the charm.  He pulled a stool over to the counter and leaned in.  “Are you talking, like real gangsters?”  he whispered, taking a pull on the straw.  He made his eyes big, as if in surprise.  

“I’ve worked here for a year.  It used to be fun.  But they’ve chased away all the customers.  My boss never comes in anymore because she’s afraid of them. She pays themand theyuse heroffice.  It’s so unfair.”

“Wow.”  Dustin didn’t know what to say.

She went back to her sweeping.  Dustin sat quietly, thinking over his milkshake, hatching a new plan.  The O’Hallerans must have become nervous about Duffy’s getting hit – somehow they must have heard rumors – and moved their operations here.  

“You really thought I was a cop?”  Dustin asked.

“Not really.  But I hoped so.”  She kept sweeping, not looking at him.

“Why don’t you call the cops?”  

She shrugged.  

Dustin smiled.  He wasn’t sure he could trust this girl. “You want to bust the O’Hallerans?  On a school night?”  

How she took that joke would tell him what he needed to know.  She stopped sweeping.

“It’s not funny.”  She turned and he could see the color rising in her cheeks.  She was furious, not with him.  

Dustin raised his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.”  He smiled.

She leaned on the broom and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re not a cop and you’re not with the O’Hallerans, then what are you doing in this neighborhood?”  She leaned on the broom.

He raised the milkshake as if making a toast.

“Fair question.  What if I told you I was looking for a job around here?”

Josie and the Pussycats

Josie latched the kennel door. “See you later, Muffin.”

She stepped to the next one, reading the card on the door. “Hello, Schmoopie. Can I pet you?”

Schmoopie retreated as far back as she could, folding her ears down.

“How about if we just talk instead?”

Josie whispered words of encouragement through the grated door. A moment later, she lifted the latch. Perhaps Schmoopie would be more comfortable now. Gently, she eased open the door, keeping her voice low and steady. Schmoopie’s ears stayed alert, but folded Josie reached inside.

“Ok. If you don’t want any petting, this is not a problem.”

Josie thought about the six months since she began volunteering at Benny’s Animal Shelter. Her life was in disarray: in January, her dad had died. Her son had totaled his pickup due to black ice. He was fine but couldn’t afford to replace it, even with the insurance. And Louis had left her in March. His bass boat was still in the carport but everything else was gone.

But these moments with the cats at the shelter: when she didn’t need to interact with anyone or try to make small talk. The cats needed her. Not her specifically, but someone. And she needed them, both the ones that purred easily and were adopted before she returned, and the tough ones like Schmoopie, going through a rough patch. Mirroring her own self, she thought. They asked nothing from her.

Angie, her best friend since seventh grade, had warned her against volunteering. “It’ll be depressing – all those caged cats!” But it was not depressing. It was very centering, allowing Josie to focus only on that moment and that purpose. She looked forward to it, even, especially with cats like Shmoopie, who would be there a while, and who needed time to build up trust.

Happy Birthday to Me

Prompt:  A Celebration  |  Word count:  2501 words  |  Genre:  Fiction

Julie dropped the invitations in the blue postal box.  It was gratifying to hear the low groan of metal as she released the handle of the little door.  Twenty invitations would find their way to the homes of people she used to work with, used to live with, or once knew.  Briefly, she wondered if they’d remember her, and then she felt a moment of panic:  what if no one showed up at the requested time and date?  But she shoved those doubts aside.  This was the time for action, not mulling.

In exactly twenty-eight days her party would take place.  Now, today, she had an appointment with the caterer, she needed to return the DJ’s call, and she needed to decide on decorations.  Did people still use twisted crepe paper ribbons?  She’d bought a few strands of battery-powered lights and some vases to make centerpieces like she’d seen on Pinterest.  This would definitely be her greatest triumph, if she could pull it off.

***

A couple of days later, Rob unlocked and opened his door, picking up the small pile of mail that had been dropped through the slot.  A couple fliers, a water bill, and a small handwritten envelope.  Tossing the others aside on the kitchen counter, he loosened his collar and tore open the invitation.  Julie’s fortieth?  Julie?  He scanned the envelope for a return address and last name.  Nothing.  Julie… Wait.  Julie?  The intern?  The one he’d dated briefly?  Two or three months, tops, it had lasted. But jeez, that had to have been twenty years ago.  Twenty at least.  Why was she resurfacing in his life?  Why now? 

Rob let a pleasant memory surface.  It must have been their second or third date, before he’d realized how bat shit crazy she was.  They’d cooked dinner together, a complicated Italian dish that another, previous intern had taught him.  For a moment, he let himself be distracted by that other intern, Maria-Theresa, who had the slightest accent from growing up in a Rome suburb, luscious, wavy hair, and the repressed fury of a devout Catholic.  Oh, how fun it had been to seduce her!  It had taken months and months, but the challenge had made him feel like a man, a real, virile man.

But Julie, not Maria-Theresa, had sent this invitation, requesting his presence at her birthday party.  It had been more than a decade and a half since he’d last had contact with her, a job recommendation of some sort.  Strange to receive this invitation now.  He surmised that she’d Googled his current address.

***

Julie continued making plans.  The caterer was a dream to work with, ready to listen to every idea and then somehow upgrade it so that it was a notch above Julie’s expectations.  Sure, it was going to be expensive, but she was worth it.  It had taken her decades to realize that:  her worth.  That she had inherent value, even.

The meal, though, would be exquisite.  Three courses.  The first, figs stuffed with brie and wrapped in prosciutto, then the purest, lightest consommé with a dollop of crème fraîche and butternut squash tortellini.  And then dessert:  a lemon bar drizzled with lavender-infused honey.  All accompanied by some special wines from Paso Robles.  And everything tiny and nearly bite-sized, but so lovely on the plates.  It made her mouth water just thinking of it.

Still, though, a sense of unease lingered.  What was the point?  How was she going to pull this off?

***

Elisa, even though she was running a bit late, re-opened the envelope, her curiosity again unable to stop positing theories. 

Her husband, Jack, hearing the paper slide out of the envelope, folded the newspaper down and looked at her over his new reading glasses.  “Really, Elisa?”  He looked so annoyed.

“I just don’t get it,”  her brow wrinkling.  “She was my roommate seventeen years ago.  We got along great at first, but then when I got promoted and then got the corner office, well… She gave me the cold shoulder.  We were barely speaking when I moved out.  And I even let her keep the couch.  The couch that I bought!”  She shook her head.

“So don’t go,” Jack said, disappearing again behind the newspaper.

“But it’s all so curious.”  Elisa slid the invitation back inside the envelope.  “I can hardly stand the mystery of it all.”

Jack rustled the newspaper as if in response.

“I’m going,” Elisa said.  “You don’t have to.  I mean, I guess, technically, you aren’t even invited.”

***

Julie’s last task before the party was to figure out what she was going to wear.  She didn’t really like to shop; she never had.  It was always a challenge and nothing ever fit right.  But she armed herself with confidence and drove to the department store.

A dress, she thought.  Perhaps even a little black dress.  She’d never bought one before but it seemed the perfect attire for a fortieth birthday.  At the store there were more options than she’d thought would be available.  Oh, how she hated shopping.  How much easier this might be if she had a friend to offer advice.  Maybe one of the shop clerks could fill that role today.

Yet, as she scanned the racks, it seemed they were all busy behind the cash register.  No one seemed to care if she took even a dozen dresses to try on to the fitting room. 

Under the hum of the fluorescent lights, Julie undressed and began trying on the dresses.  As she expected, some issue claimed each one and the pile of discards grew.  One was too tight in the hips, another gaped at the bust.  A third had confusing cut-outs near the armholes.  Just where did her appendages go?  The strapless one was just too strange and slinky, more like lingerie than a dress.

And then, with only two to go, one fit.  It flattered.  It emphasized all her assets without drawing attention to her deficits.  She looked pretty, or perhaps even classy.  It was perfect.

Shoes, evening bag, a bracelet that was probably too expensive, given the total of everything else she was spending on the party.  But it was all going according to plan.  Everything was falling into place.

***

The invitation perplexed Celia.  Tenderly, she rubbed the barely visible scar on her cheek.  She hadn’t spoken with Julie since the dog bite incident, and shortly after that her family had moved back to New Jersey.  She couldn’t recall all the details because it had all happened so long ago.  How old had they been, eleven?  They supposed themselves friends, but as Celia looked back at that time, she recognized that they’d had little in common but their age, gender, and the street they’d lived on.

On the afternoon in question, Celia had been at Julie’s house.  They’d been teasing the dog all afternoon, holding their snacks up high and encouraging Bruce to jump for it.  How he’d jump and land so awkwardly!  They’d laugh and Celia remembered how her cat Annabelle seemed the exact opposite of Bruce.  Julie and Celia didn’t tire of this activity.  It was one they did regularly because Bruce was just an old, dumb dog, and never seemed to learn.  It was always hilarious.

This part, though, Celia recalled with a clarity that eluded most other childhood memories.  Julie tossed Celia a cube of cheese.  Celia caught it and held it up, not as high as usual, just near her face.  She was certain that Bruce wouldn’t get it.  He was too old and growing tired of this game.  And then suddenly, Bruce’s hot, smelly breath was in her face, his jaws clamping not only her hand with the cheese, but also her cheek.  Impaled by a jagged canine, probably one that had chipped last week when they’d thrown rocks for dumb Bruce to catch and fetch.  When Celia pushed Bruce away, the tooth pulled, ripping a ragged gap just below her cheekbone that would later require plastic surgery to hide.  Celia and Julie had both been so shocked by the amount of blood that neither could explain to the adults what had happened.

Later, in the emergency room, Celia’s parents forbid her from ever associating with Julie again.  On the phone in the hospital, Celia overheard her father calling Animal Control and insisting that Bruce be put down.  He had a contact at the mayor’s office, damn it.  After her face had been stitched, her cheeks and mouth numb, the nurse insisted on cleaning the superficial wounds on her hand.  Celia opened her palm, and there was the cheese, soft and grimy.

But now, she looked at the invitation and knew she would attend Julie’s party.  Everything had ended so abruptly.  Celia owed it to her old friend to help celebrate this milestone.

***

The day of the event arrived.  Julie made phone calls, finalizing the details and confirming the particulars.  When she arrived at the venue a few hours early, the caterer’s team was finishing the table decorations.  It was all so beautiful that she gasped.  She went from table to table, noting the layout, the flowers, the lights.  It all seemed such a waste.

In a small alcove off the main room, a table was ready to be wheeled into the party on Julie’s command.  Atop it, in matching gift-wrapped boxes, were identical party favors, each addressed to a guest and meant to be opened upon their return home.  Julie touched each box, her fingers tracing the names that had brought her such grief.  Soon, she told herself.  Soon.  She had anticipated for so long the release that would come with each of her guests learning the many ways in which they’d each disappointed her.  It wasn’t so much that she wanted revenge; it was more like justice.

She left to have her hair and nails done, confident that it would all be ready for her entrance after the guests arrived.

***

After the spa treatments, Julie considered stopping by once more, just to check that all was in place.  But that was silly.  There was no need; everything had been going so well and she would just appear neurotic if she stopped by again.  And this new decade, this new leaf she was turning – she was saying goodbye to that neurotic Julie and hello to the self-confidence she’d always sought.

Although she’d planned for it, she was still surprised that she had so much time to kill before her grand entrance at the party.  She needed to get dressed, but everything else was ready.  And yet, here she had more than an hour to kill.  And so she did drive back to the venue, popping in to double, triple check.  No one suspected anything; no one noticed. 

Finally, back at home, it was time to get dressed.  She did so slowly, with intention, reveling in the look she’d managed to capture on this important day.  Sliding her feet into the beautiful shoes she’d found, she was ready. 

Driving to the party, she had to pull over twice to let fire engines to fly past her.  It was happening.  Her heart leapt to see those same fire trucks blocking the entrance and smoke billowing from the roof.  There wasn’t even anyone directing traffic yet.  The events were still unfolding.  Carefully, slowly, she drove around the block, searching for a parking space while keeping her eyes on the black smoke.  Ash began raining down as she slid into a space and parked the car.

She exited the vehicle, unaware that flakes of ash were settling on her hair and shoulders, disarming the sense of put-together style she’d worked so hard to achieve.  In her teetering manner, she wandered to the front of the building where she cut between the manicured and pruned elements of the landscaping.  A police officer was now directing traffic, his car blocking two lanes of traffic to keep the onlookers further away from the scene.

Julie walked near the entrance, where at least a half-dozen firefighters stood, some having recently emerged from the building.  They all gazed at the flaming roof, some leaning toward one another to communicate. 

Extracting a handkerchief from her matching clutch, Julie unfurled it, holding it over her mouth to help filter the smoke from her lungs.  The firefighters hadn’t noticed her.  No one had.  Her ability to fade into the background, she finally realized, was an asset.  An ambulance whizzed behind her, leaving the premises, its lights flashing silently.  She watched it reach the road and the police officer held the traffic with his arms outstretched in both directions.  Only when the ambulance had zipped by him did the siren begin to wail. 

Aside from the crackle of the firefighter radios and the fire, there was no other sound.  Julie held her breath as a firefighter emerged from the building, leading the caterer who had been so kind and creative.  Another firefighter appeared, helping the woman to the ground and administering oxygen.  Another uniformed person appeared.  He spoke words that Julie could not hear.  The caterer shook her head several times, then the man led the caterer away.

The firefighters began to move closer to the building, spreading out along the perimeter, and now Julie noticed that another group of firefighters was pulling a large hose from behind a fire truck.  The man at the front adjusted something and a powerful spray of water shot out while those behind him struggled to maintain control of the hose.  Later, the roof collapsed, the firefighters pulled back, and still Julie watched, unable to turn away.  The smoke was thick, now mixed with dust.  A layer of ash coated everything, then the brusk wind would shift, lifting it and laying it down elsewhere.  Gradually, imperceptibly, the urgency of the situation, too, lifted.  Those working the fire did so with less speed.  The sirens moaned into the distance and quieted.

By now she’d forgotten her party, forgotten the cost of it all.  Her make up was melting and the ash in her hair gave her the air of a woman twice her age.  Her fancy shoes were drenched with the grey water sheeting across the cement. 

A firefighter appeared, holding a two-way radio up to his overly large helmet.  Lowering it, he approached where Julie stood. 

“Excuse me,” she asked, her voice higher than she intended.  “Was anyone hurt?” 

He shook his head, leaning in and removing the helmet.  “What’s that?”

“Was anyone hurt?  In the fire?”

“No, not badly.  A few were taken to the hospital as precaution.  Everyone was evacuated – some kind of party,” he sized her up a moment.  “You a reporter?”

“No, no.  It’s just,” she stuttered.  “It’s my birthday.”

“Well, then.  Happy birthday!”  He strode off and Julie was left alone. 

She surveyed the ruined building before her.  She’d done it.  And the next one would be even better.  Yes, she thought, smiling broadly.  Happy birthday.  Happy birthday to me.

Story Time

We had a white Christmas this year, which has not happened in quite some time.  According to the local meteorology professor, there’s only a 10% chance of a white Christmas in any given year in our mountain town.  It was also the most snowfall we’ve had in many years, which delayed my parents’ arrival to celebrate at our house by a few hours.  One of the gifts they brought for us was a set of “books,” copied and bound pages, really.  These books are their life stories, which they began writing earlier this year after my oldest brother gave them each a journal and asked them to write their stories.

Surprisingly, my mom’s story was the shorter of the two.  She’s the talker of the two of them, so I guess I expected her story to be longer.  Many of her stories were familiar to me, in part because she is a talker but also because we spent a lot of time with her family when I was growing up.  Family legends always came up as we sat around the dinner table or a campfire.  It was interesting to read regardless of its familiarity, and I enjoyed getting a sense of her as a little girl and of my grandparents and uncles when they were younger.

My father’s book spanned many pages and chapters and much of it was new to me.  I knew a few sound bites from his youth, like he and his sister sometimes rode their horses to and from school, that he’d signed up for the Army and gone to Korea when he lost direction in college, and that his father had been murdered by ranch hands after a dispute when my father was a little boy.  I also knew that he and my mom had a whirlwind romance and that they were married less than a year after meeting one another.  What a treat, though, to learn of his extended trip to England as a boy, filled with interesting details about the school he attended, relatives they stayed with, and how frequently he had to clean his muddy shoes – a chore uncommon to an Arizona boy.

He described many life events in a considerable amount of detail, like his time as an Army clerk in Korea, or how he settled on a career as a wildlife biologist, and important projects that he worked on in that capacity.  He’s kept a short account of his days, beginning in his youth, and so was able to recall specifics that may have otherwise been forgotten. 

Mostly, though, I was struck by how deeply he loves my mom.  I suppose that I knew on some level their connection – they’ve been married nearly sixty years and that doesn’t just happen without a serious investment in one’s partner.  But it was so evident throughout his writing.  I recognize how rare and singular it is for me not only to have both of my parents living and healthy at this stage in my life, but also for them to be so generous with their stories.  Perhaps there is some desire for a degree of immortality in writing their stories like they’ve done, but why not?  They lived in a time that bridged some groundbreaking inventions, global events of great significance, not to mention life in rural Arizona in the first half of the 20^th Century.  I have friends and cousins who will never know the stories of their parents, as much as they wish they could. 

The stories were entertaining, sometimes poignant, and always interesting.  It’s often that we offspring think they knew their parents having known them our entire lives.  But we forget the lives and childhoods they had before we came along and changed everything for them.  We don’t really know our parents; we only know them as parents. 

I’ve read letters from a great-uncle I’d never met who wrote home of his work rebuilding bridges and roads in France after World War I.  There’s a story in our family history about a wedding dress that was shared by several of my female ancestors.  My husband’s grandparents recorded stories that my mother-in-law transcribed:  the grandmother’s terrible bout with scarlet fever as a child and the burning of the church where the grandfather’s father was preacher.

And so I urge you, write down some memories, funny anecdotes, adventures you took.  What was life like before smart phones, personal computers, and cable TV?  It might feel strange to think your story is worth writing, but if you add enough detail and put your heart in it, it will be appreciated.    Start with one story.  Something unusual, tragic, or funny.  And that will lead to another.  Write it down for someone.  It will be read.