Category Archives: Writing, the Passion and the Pain

Thoughts on being a writer

Prompt: You, as a child, meets you now. X# of years have passed. What does the child ask? What does the adult tell the child?

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As a prelude to this story, my grandmother in Kansas once told me that buffalo were walking through the living room of her house. She said the past is alive even though we can’t see it, and the future is there also. We are prisoners of the present with blinders to the flow of time.  It was a concept that I, as a seven-year-old, couldn’t wrap my head around, but it stayed with me all these years. When I read this prompt, that old memory came to mind. I wrote about the intersection of time for a ten-year-old girl and her eighty-year-old self.

Looking a little lost, a ten-year-old girl, born and bred in Wichita, Kansas, wandered through an outdoor marketplace in Tucson, Arizona. She was supposed to meet with a woman who knew her in Kansas, but she couldn’t remember why or who.  A woman, old enough to be her grandmother or even great-grandmother, came up to her and took her hand.

Initially, the girl pulled away. “Who are you?” Her voice trembled.

“I am the future you,” the elderly woman said gently.

The girl’s heart picked up a rapid beat. Am I dreaming?  But when she looked into the woman’s eyes, she felt an unexplainable recognition. The woman was her, a stranger with gray hair and a wrinkled face, and yet she saw herself. How is this possible? The marketplace around them seemed to blur, sounds faded, and the people became indistinct.

The woman quietly walked the girl to an open park area where a picnic was set out on a wooden table. Chicken salad sandwiches on toasted bread, chocolate chip cookies, fresh orange slices, and chocolate milk – exactly what the girl loved.

“We only have a few minutes. Then the veil that separates our time will come between us again. Do you have any questions for me?” The woman asked.

The girl’s mind raced with questions. How could this be? She glanced around, hoping to find something that would make sense of the situation, but everything remained surreal. She wasn’t afraid, but she was uncomfortable.

“How can this happen?” The girl asked in a whisper.

“Time is a relevant thing. Time is not linear; it flows back and forth, in and out. Sometimes the past, present, and future intersect, and that is when you can meet yourself.”

“How old are you?  Or am I?”

“I am eighty.”

The girl appraised the woman, looking her over. She didn’t look feeble or sick. Eighty is sooo old.

“I can live to be eighty?” She queried.

“Indeed, and beyond. I caution you to take good care of yourself because it is not easy to be eighty, unless you are in good health.”

“Why do you, I mean, I live in Tucson? My whole family lives in Kansas. “

“You will live in many places and, after years of traveling, you come to Tucson. The mountains feel like home, so here you stay.”

“Do I become a great writer?”

“You already are undeniably a writer. Great is a subjective matter. Just continue your love affair with words. Keep your journals, poems, and short stories. They will mean more, and more as you get older.”

“Do I have a horse?”

“Not now, but you have had horses during your life, just as you wished. Be patient.”

“Do I get married?”

“Yes. You marry the love of your life who sticks with you through thick and thin.”

“Do I have a family?”

“Yes, you have three children, grown now, but they are close. And you have a grandson.”

The girl became skeptical. “How do I know you are me?”

“Remember when you were six and ran away from home after a snowstorm? You didn’t have your heavy coat or boots. The snow lay in a thin layer on the ground. You were mad at Mom. She wouldn’t let you go out to play in the new snow because the afternoon was getting darker. You walked out the door when your parents weren’t looking. You didn’t really have any place in mind to go, maybe to your friend, Lois’s house, or to Jimmy’s. But you knew they would call your parents and tell them, so you hunkered down next to the old brick grocery store around the corner at the end of your block and waited.”

“What was I waiting for?”

“A good idea to pop up. It took many years for you to learn to rein in your impulsive inclinations. Your “mad” began to go away though, when you started to feel the cold, especially in your feet, since you only had your slippers on. Then you heard your father’s voice calling.  He easily followed your footsteps in the snow.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I’m you, remember? Dad’s voice made you feel all warm again, and you rushed to him. He picked you up, wrapping you in a blanket he had with him, and carried you back home. Mom had cocoa ready for you.”

The tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. How did this old lady know those details?             

“There are many unexpected twists and turns throughout your years. That’s called life. Remember, you have the strength to overcome any obstacles. Be brave. Find ways to be useful to others. Trust yourself and live each day to the fullest with an open heart.”

“Thank you,” the girl said. She sensed the old woman was leaving. The scene around her faded, and she was back in her bedroom in Kansas.

A Writing Prompt for Point of View

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In a recent Oro Valley Writers’ Forum meeting, we were given a prompt to write for five minutes from the point of view of an object. Prompts are always fun challenges for me, so I put pencil to paper and began. This is my short short story from the POV of an object.

I’m always the last to know what was for dinner. I get the detritus of the meal. I can only surmise how good it tasted or sometimes I am really happy I missed it all altogether. Those goopey gravy-laden things are not my favorites. Hard to choke down. On the other hand, I really don’t appreciate the crusty stuff that I have to scrub, or else I hear Madame complain that she will have to replace me. I do my best. I welcome the well-rinsed pot and plate.

Then there are the glasses – don’t get me started. Young master drinks milk, then lets the glass sit without rinsing, and a hard ring forms at the bottom. How am I supposed to get that out?? I don’t have fingers, you know – nothing that can reach in and rub the ring away. Again, I get grief for my performance because the glass doesn’t sparkle in the sunshine. Oh my, it is a hard life.

I overheard one of Madame’s friends talk about how she has never used her appliance for washing dishes. Her husband has somewhat of a drinking problem, but she enjoys a tipple now and again. Her appliance holds all the liquor in her house, so her husband won’t find it. He would NEVER think of opening the dishwasher.

As it happened, the last thing I did before leaving the house that morning was to turn on our dishwasher. It was the first thing I thought of when given this prompt. Try it yourself. Write a short essay or poem from the point of view of an inanimate object and see what happens.

A Dilly of a Dilemma

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I love to write to prompts. Quick stories, handwritten in a limited amount of time, jump-start the right side of my brain. The windows to my imagination are flung open and words fly freely onto the page. They are untethered to logic, only conforming to the guidelines of the prompt. Often, I am taken by surprise at the words that leave my pencil and show up on the page. Most of the time, they are zany musings, sometimes the beginning of a story to develop later, and sometimes a dark force compels a tragedy. Occasionally, nonsense dribbles out, and I find it hard to follow the labyrinth of thoughts. I am always in awe of the process and its revelations. The following story popped up when given ten minutes to write a scene from three different points of view.

The Scene: A female hitchhiker is dropped off at an emergency room with a problem. Tell the scene from the POV of the nurse, the patient, and a hospital administrator.

Nurse POV:

A young miss came into the ER early this morning with a problem. One I haven’t seen in my twenty-four years of nursing. She had been hitchhiking along Highway I-10 from Mobile on her way to Jacksonville, Florida. Her thumb was the size and color of a pickle, not dill, more like a large sweet. She didn’t appear to be in pain, and the rest of her hand looked quite normal and pink, but she complained that since the weather had turned cold, it had been impossible to put on her gloves. I took her vitals, then sent for Dr. Shambala, who was on call. He came in and examined the majestic, inflated digit with no discernible dismay.

His only question to her was, “Is it easy to get rides with that thing?”

To which she replied, “Actually, it comes in handy.”

“Well then, no surgery,” he said. “I think the answer is to buy larger stretchy gloves. I wouldn’t want to inhibit your travels or your gardening.”

I discreetly took a photo of her thumb. I wanted to show it to Hiram, our hospital admin. We had a meeting just last week about the anomalies of the human body and how to address those issues.

Patient POV:

My thumb had been bothering me for several days. Snow and sleet had become an everyday occurrence, even though I had consciously chosen a southern route for my winter journeys. My gloves just didn’t fit anymore. My thumb was getting larger and was really, really cold. I hitched a ride on a pig wagon to the nearest ER. It was a twenty-mile ride, but the farmer was swell. He asked me about my thumb, and I told him it was the reason I needed to see a doctor.

“Going to have it cut off?” he asked.

“Heavens no,” I replied, “just wonder if it could be made a little smaller for my gloves.”

In the emergency room, the doctor asked the obvious question. “How did it happen?”

It’s not the first time that question has come up. I get tired of the same old answer, “I was born this way”, so I told him I was picking crops in Mexico and got a cut, and the juice from the pickles I was picking dripped in, and lo and behold, I woke up with a pickle-sized green thumb.

The nurse at the ER looked a little disconcerted, but kept her cool, and the doctor suggested I get larger gloves for my travels.

“We wouldn’t want to impede your traveling abilities. It clearly is a significant benefit to your lifestyle.

As I was leaving, a sour-looking gentleman, round as a wine keg, came up and asked that I go with him to his office. I did, thinking he might have a suggestion for my thumb. I found out he was a pervert with a title and a fancy office. He wanted to suck my pickle. I left without “goodbye.”

Hospital Administrator POV:

Nurse Nancy came to my office this morning with a photo she took of one of our ER patients. That’s strictly forbidden, but when I saw the photo, I understood her motivation. The girl had a thumb the size of a juicy green pickle. I had given a mini-seminar to the staff about physical anomalies and injuries they could encounter in a rural hospital; everything from nails in the head or hand, to animal parts embedded in human parts – enough said. The thumb picture triggered something in me, and I had to go down to see it in person. The young lady was just leaving the ER.  I asked her to come up to my office for a chat. She obliged, but when the door closed, a powerful urge overcame me. I just had to taste that thumb. I had been a thumb sucker up to the age of fifteen when the shame heaped upon me by my peers finally inhibited the craving, and I quit cold turkey. The girl was offended by my request to suck her thumb and left in a huff. I wished her well on her journey and hope she has a dilly of a life.

AI generated picture

Writing – It is Never Finished

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Writing IS rewriting and rewriting and rewriting…ad nauseum.  When I have put a story on paper, I put it away for a day or two, even a year or two, then go back to reread it to see if it makes sense.   I inevitably find a different word or phrase I think works better in a sentence, a description that can be sharpened. It is a never-ending process. I have spoken to real authors, writers of dozens of books, and they say the same thing.  At some point you have to STOP writing. It is hard to say it is finished because you know there is something that could be illustrated better or you change your mind on the purpose of the story, even the plot. A new character pops up and works their way into the story. On and on it goes.

I recently read a book, Writing with the Master, by Anthony Vanderwarker, in which he described how he wrote his novel under the gentle and not-so-gentle guidance of his friend John Grisham. He worked for years writing his novel, Sleeping Dogs. During that time, John Grisham pointed out the weaknesses and gave him tips to make the story better. It took a full year for him just to get his outline right. Then he outlined each chapter and finally started the novel. The process was arduous, and he never gave up. After writing five or six novels over a period of time and shoving them into the back drawers of file folders, he finally had a novel that was worthy of publication.

Not since I was thirty have I thought of writing a novel. I just don’t have the patience for a long storyline. I love writing short stories and poems. They may be shorter, but it does take the same kind of effort to make a story coherent and interesting – just not the same amount of time. I have too many stories to tell to spend that much time on just one.

Characters develop from people I know or hear about. Sometimes a character in my head wants to have their story told. Often, from observation, I see or hear something that catches my attention and wants to become a story. Inspiration is all around. I live in an inspiration stew.

Finding time to write is always the challenge. I can go to my writing room, sit in a chair with pencil and paper, or at my computer, and be lost in a different world, consumed by a character, for hours on end. At least until my husband comes in to see if I’m still breathing. The cats, Sadie and Oliver, find me to remind me when it is dinnertime. Thank heaven I have them. Without my family, I can imagine I’d be a shrunken mummy sitting in a chair, poised with pencil in hand after leaving this earth without notice. Time totally disappears. Ahhh – I just thought of a story. A woman starts to write and disappears into her story, never to be found again. Well, I’ll work on it. 

Have a nice day.

My Secret Life

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Standing on the brink of eighty, I have so much past and a diminished amount of future. I must keep reminding myself of that because I don’t feel a day over thirty-five, and my tomorrows still seem endless. I’m listening to friends and colleagues about all they are doing to prepare for their inevitable end. Things like clearing out closets and storage so their heirs are not overwhelmed with the detritus of their lives.


That’s a good idea even if you are not anticipating the Grim Reaper. It cleanses the mind to get rid of stuff instead of stuffing it in nooks and crannies. The same can be said of ideas and memories. They can be aired out, shared with the world, or discarded entirely.


I have so many wonderful remembrances to look back on, I don’t dwell on woes. Among my very happiest memories, besides my relationships, are my stories. I have written countless stories, character sketches, and poems over the years. Only in the last twenty years have I shared any of them. I wrote for myself. As a matter of fact, no one in my family even knew I was a writer. Of course, I didn’t call myself a writer then because to me that was an exalted status far above my humble reach. You know Hemingway, Huxley, du Maurier, Woolf, Rowling, Fitzgerald, Austin, Dickens, and so many more I admire. When I took my first writing class, I was told that if I write, even in secret, I AM a writer. Hallelujah! Now I can say it out loud.


When we moved from the Pacific Northwest to Southern Arizona, I tossed out volumes of diaries, journals, and notebooks of my writing. I figured I’d never have any reason to revisit them. It was my secret life. By chance, some were overlooked, so I have dribs and drabs of my early reflections on life, including my senior year of high school. I would love to look through all those old notebooks again to see how my perspective may have changed.


I started blogging as a marketing tool for a book I co-authored three years ago. It was fun. I was hooked. I started asking my husband to read stories I write for my critique group and blog. He was surprised that I wrote. Fortunately, he likes my writing. At least he says he does. He is not a literary critic, only a reader. He has never liked reading books, so my short essays or reminiscences are just the ticket. Longer projects I have written require an editorial type of review. For now, I’m enjoying the interaction I receive from readers at the Oro Valley Writers’ Forum, my critique group, and my online blog.


I encourage EVERYONE who likes to put pen to paper or tap away on a computer to consider themselves A WRITER. Find a writers’ group that agrees to read and critique your stories. It is a way of strengthening your skills and receiving feedback for your ideas. Writer groups are formed in writing classes given through Pima or the U. of A. The Oro Valley Writers’ Forum at the Oro Valley Library is another place to meet writers and share ideas. It is never too late to share your perspectives with the world. Everyone has a story. Every day is a story. Don’t live in a secret world. Clear out your closet of ideas and reveal your insights through fiction stories, non-fiction, memoir, or poetry. Your voice is an important thread in the fabric of humanity. We have so much more in common than in opposition.

I apologize to anyone who was misled by the title of this piece, thinking there might be some delicious salacious tidbits in the offing. Eighty years have been filled with a myriad of highs and lows, disappointments, and missteps. My deepest, darkest secrets are still locked away in my journals. Some are delicious in retrospect. They may see the light of day at some point.

HP and Me

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It started in September 2024. I was notified that my Windows program would soon be orphaned, no longer supported by Microsoft within one year. My computer was four years old and beginning to show its age. I remember when my home computer lasted six or seven years, but they seem to have shorter life spans now. When we owned our real estate company, I purchased, installed, and connected all the computers and printers in our office for agents and staff. I replaced them every two years so our agents had the advantage of the latest and speediest technology. Our home computers didn’t require as much attention.

I decided to replace my computer and printer with the latest, greatest I could find at a reasonable price. I chose HP as the provider. Henrietta, my new laptop, was a snap to set up. I’m not a tech wizard by a long shot, but I can do the plug-and-play kind of setup. The printer, Oscar, was easy too.

About three weeks after setup, Oscar decided, on his own, to go offline. He wouldn’t print anything Henrietta sent to him. I fiddled around for a couple of hours and coaxed Oscar into a working relationship with Henrietta. All was well. I use my laptop and printer daily for my writing projects. I rely on their compliant participation in my efforts. I usually do the creative part of writing with a pencil and paper but transfer my work to the laptop for editing and legible printing.

A few weeks later, Oscar decided to take a vacation again leaving me and Henrietta without a way to share our work. I tried to persuade him to reconnect, but he was recalcitrant. I decided to call on the HP techs to help. I spoke with Brian. He said he’d walk me through the steps to reconnect. Steps I might add, I’d already done on my own. But who knows? A tech may have a fresh approach to the problem. After he and I worked on Oscar and he still was uncooperative, Brian asked to do a hands-on try. I gave over my computer to him via a sharing app. He took virtual control of the laptop and printer. It took about four hours from start to finish for Oscar to reconnect with Henrietta. Brian and I had a lot of time to get acquainted over the phone as he manipulated Oscar’s stubborn psyche.

We sailed along for a few days, THEN… Oscar, in his obstinacy, stopped working again. I just didn’t have the patience to charm him back, so I left him alone for a day. My thought was he just needed a bit of time off and would come back in a day or two on his own. Maybe a spa break. Really, Diana?

Finally, I went to my office to tackle the problem that was Oscar. I checked all the settings. I disconnected, reconnected, uninstalled, reinstalled, on and on, a number of times. Again, I decided to call on HP for help. I started with the chat bot, escalated to a human bot. I followed instructions, I redid, undid, and did-did over and over with the same result. Bupkis! The printer had gone offline willy-nilly three times in three months causing hours of my time placating it back to its job. Not acceptable.  I “chatted” with Rachel, then Jamison, then Ricardo over a period of two days. It restarted one day, then quit the next morning. Enough! This printer is under warranty, and it definitely is not working. I want it repaired or replaced. I told them I was a writer and needed a printer pronto. I told Ricardo that I was keeping a copy of the chat-texts and maybe they would be the basis of my next novel – a murder mystery.

My last helper was Shannah, the warranty maven, on the phone. She said that in order to process a warranty claim, she had to lead me through a process to document the trouble.

Oops! A bridge too far.

“No,no,no,” says I. “I have done all the processes and procedures I am going to do. I’ve tried for hours with and without tech support. I can send you all the chat texts. I will NOT go through it again. Just send me a new printer.”

Poor Shannah. She entered the drama after seven hours as I dangled dangerously on the ragged end of a fraying rope. I tried not to be harsh, but I was done dealing with processes and procedures and printers. I realize Shannah is not responsible for my dilemma. She barely speaks English and is on the lowest level of competency. She is an order taker and can only perform her job using a script, a mindless automaton.  I quoted to her the last text I received from Jose who stepped in as the supervisor when I demanded service. He wrote, “Escalate to HP Warranty Support since your printer is under warranty, request a case escalation directly to HP Warranty Services. Provide the serial number and product number when contacting them. Ask explicitly for a replacement under warranty due to the persistent issues and failed troubleshooting attempts.”

She said she would place the order. She saw I had an account with HP and asked me to verify my contact information. It was all my business info from years ago. Since I am now retired, it was all wrong and needed to be updated. I gave her my current information. She said they would send me the new printer in two weeks, and I could send the defective one back in the same box.

“Two weeks?”  I responded in a not-kindly tone. “I use the printer daily. What am I going to do for two weeks?”

I could tell she was unsettled by my retort. “Maybe, you could ask a friend to print for you,” she offered sheepishly.

“Seriously? “ I scoffed.

“Well, I could expedite it for a fee and you could have it in five days.”

“I will not pay one more red cent for this pile of junk. I want it replaced tomorrow.” My voice lost all semblance of sanity.

“I’m so sorry for your inconvenience, but that is the best I can do.”

Evil thoughts entered my mind, but I controlled myself. “I’ll figure something out.”

She wished me a better day and weekend and thanked me for being an HP customer. I hung up, poured a glass of wine, went immediately to the Amazon website, and ordered an HP printer to be delivered free by 6:00pm. I have 30 days to return it and will use it until my replacement warrantied printer is delivered. Even OLD foxes can be wiley.

Afterword: My new printer was delivered at 5:30pm that day and I set it up immediately. It WORKS! The next morning when I returned from my walk, there was a box on the porch. HP said the box. Inside was the replacement printer. Hmmmm. Maybe my message was received. One-day service. Now I just need to summon the calm demeanor to connect the printer one last time. A memo from HP was sent to my old office email address as confirmation of the delivery. One of my former agents saw the email and forwarded it to me. I guess I’m lucky the printer wasn’t delivered to the old address. Oh, well, win some, lose some. I’ll be setting up the replacement printer tomorrow and returning the new printer well within 30 days for a refund.

 Keeping my fingers crossed. As always, thank you for reading. Have a nice day. 

My Fling with Fabio

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Prompts are a favored way of getting my mind engaged, setting aside whatever “project” I’m working on which may or may not be stalled, and opening myself up to a challenge. I am always surprised by what I write when I sit down to approach a random topic that is presented. This short short story was a prompt from our writers’ group. Sally authored the prompt. I chose to write it as a letter to a former lover. It was silly and fun.

  • The title is “Fling with Fabio”
  • In this story, you must use the words:
  • Churlish
  • Gallantry
  • Lame
  • Senescent
  • $5.00 (or use a five in another creative way)
  • and a quote of your choice from Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

Dearest Fabio,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. I know that sounds like a lame cliché. Still, the truth is that most of our relationship has been cliché — from the beauty, the passion, and those glorious mornings sitting on the deck of your condo on San Diego Bay drinking our $5 lattes and watching the sun peek its head above the horizon, sending shivering shards of light across the gentle waves of the Pacific.

You were, are, and will always be my gallant lover, but your senescence has become a problem. I don’t wish to sound churlish, but when you cuddled me and called me Shirley, I knew we were done.  

I would like your remembrance of me (which will be irrevocably short due to your lapses) to remain of our good times, our joy, our gayety, our desire.  As Romeo said,

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears.” Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1.

Forever yours,

Julie

I especially love my reference to the sunrise above the horizon in the West on San Diego Bay, where the sun decidedly sets every day. It was an intentional faux pas that added to the silliness.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover

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This was written from a prompt for the critique group I’m in. The prompt was to rewrite something from a favorite children’s story, add to the story or change it in some way. At the same time I was considering the prompt, Hurricane Helene struck the East Coast. The two ideas came together as I wrote.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover.

Alice was snuggled close, her head on my chest. Her hand on my cheek.

“I can’t sleep Grammy,” mumbled the toddler who had been fast asleep for four hours. Slivers of lights from passing cars and trucks flashed through a wedge in heavy curtains at the window of our motel room. The roar of trucks on the highway, a sound that made the room quiver, woke her.  I was amazed she slept as long as she had.  We were on the way to my home in Georgia and stopped for the night to get respite from the very stressful day. Hurricane Gianni had torn through the Florida town where Alice, her Dad, and Mom lived. I had been staying with them for a long weekend. The storm tracker indicated that Gianni was due to hit only the edge of land about one hundred miles south of their town. Suddenly it took a swing northward and inland, a giant locomotive ripping through San Colima. Tyler, my son, and his family live on the edge of town and were not in the direct path but the debris from the leveled town flew into their neighborhood. A grand piano crashed through the roof and landed in the middle of Alice’s bedroom. Fortunately, we were all in the underground hurricane shelter at the high school. We returned to their house to find the devastation. Luckily only two rooms had been seriously affected, Alice’s and the guestroom where I stayed. Wind and water had done more damage through the open roof, but the house was mostly intact.

“Take Alice and go back to your house Mom, Tyler said. “We’ll stay and help our neighbors then come up to get her when things are sorted out.” We hastily put things in a bag for Alice and I packed up a garbage bag with soggy clothes from my battered suitcase.

There was no electricity or water when we left to drive the three hundred miles to my home in Georgia. After a couple of hours on the road, the trauma of the day caught up with me and I needed to rest and regroup. I stopped at several motels along the highway but they were all full of people fleeing inland from the hurricane. The old Flamingo was the only motel with a room available. It had seen better days but at least it was a refuge for the night.

“This room is at the end of the building close to the road,” the clerk said. “It can get a bit noisy when trucks drive by.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in no shape to continue driving and Alice was cranky even though she had dozed off and on as we traveled toward Georgia. “I’ll take it. I’ll only be here a few hours, then back on the road again.”

It was about 4 am, I had rested but only snoozed a bit as I held Alice close. She began to squirm and whimper. “Grammy, I’m hungry.”

“OK Lambkins, we’ll get back on the road as soon as it’s light and find a place for breakfast. I have an apple and graham crackers for you now. Come snuggle and have a snack until then.”

“Read me a story,” she said.

“What story do you want?”  I knew perfectly well which one she would ask for. We had hurriedly tossed some of her favorite books in her bag along with a couple of stuffed animals and what dry clothes we found under the smashed dresser in her room.

“Alice in Wonderland,” she said. It was the book I read to her at least twice each time I stayed with them or when she came to visit me. In the four years of her life, she must have heard it five or six dozen times either by me or her parents reading. She knew each page and would correct us if we read it wrong or missed a word. Sometimes she would ask for just one scene. “Read the tea party, or read who stole the tarts, or off with their heads.” She would say when told there wasn’t time for the whole story.

“Gotta go potty,” she announced.” I retrieved the book with its colorful cover of Alice and the Cheshire Cat, the Queen, and the White Rabbit, from her bag while she went to the bathroom.

She came back to the bed, stopping to grab her pink and brown giraffe that had been her crib companion since she was born. It went everywhere with her.

“Ok. Where shall we start?”

“All the golden afternoon,

Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

By little arms are plied..,” *

My Alice started with the beginning poem as she nibbled on a cracker.

I opened the book and started to read. It had been tossed about in her room. Some of the pages were crumpled and water damaged but the hardback book was mainly intact. Something wasn’t right though. Glancing at the rumpled pages I noticed pictures I didn’t remember being in the book, but I began.

“…when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close to her…followed by three little pigs.” I read. And there on the page was a picture of the white rabbit in his tight-fitting plaid jacket and three little pigs dressed in red, blue and yellow jackets following close behind. 

“Grammy, there aren’t three little pigs in this story,” Alice objected.

“Look at this picture.”

She glanced at the page. “Hmmm,” she said and settled back on the pillow.

Then as poor Alice in the book shed a pool of tears because she couldn’t get out of the hall, she heard footsteps running and looked up to see a wolf dressed in a red cape. She peered out from behind the curtain that hid the door to the garden. “What big eyes you have,” said Alice to the wolf. “The better to see you with, my dear,” said the wolf.

“Grammy, that is the wolf from Red Riding Hood. How did he get into Wonderland?” Again, I showed her the illustration and again, she accepted the modification with no comment.

And on and on, the book had characters from Peter Rabbit, the Frog Prince, the giant from Jack’s Beanstalk, Snow White, and the three Billy Goats Gruff. Some attended the tea party with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter, some played croquet with the Queen, and some showed up at the King’s court to defend the Knave of Hearts.

Every once in a while, Alice would stop me reading to peer at the pictures – strong evidence that what I was reading was true because the illustrations verified the words.  “Grammy,” she said. “I think the hurricane jumbled my storybooks.” As the story ended, Alice had fallen back to sleep, snoring lightly, clutching her giraffe. I, too, was able to close my eyes and fall asleep. Restoration and renewal for a new day, a new adventure, a new Wonderland.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

And I Fly

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Our writing group writes to a prompt for each meeting. A recent one was the challenge to write an anaphora poem. First I had to look up what an anaphora poem was. Anaphora is a literary device to emphasize meaning or create rhythm in poetry or prose by using a word or phrase repetitively.

It is exemplified by Charles Dickens’ – It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity… giving a rhythm to the opening paragraph of Tale of Two Cities.

Or Martin Luther King’s – I have a dream…. repeated nine times in his speech delivering his dream of hope for our nation.

Or William Blake’s poem London: In every cry of every Man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban,…

This is my attempt at anaphora.

And I Fly

I fly in dreams

Across landscapes of imagination

Reaching for adventure.

And I fly

I fly across time

Unbounded through memory

Yesterdays as fresh as flowers.

And I fly

I fly with my mind

Examining my interior world

Life an unending mystery.

And I fly

I fly with words

Extending my thoughts

Through story and poem.

And I fly

DIANA – the magazine

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I had so much fun with this idea, that I passed it on as a prompt to our writer’s group. The prompt was to envision yourself as something other than a person. Tell your story as if you were a building, a musical instrument, a machine, or any inanimate object. I chose a magazine.

Diana – the magazine

This magazine has been in print for seventy-eight years and witnessed many important events of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. The slick glossy cover has transformed over the years. It has a more homey feel now.

The magazine has all the requisite sections including:

an Opinion Section where thoughts about current politics and local events are offered and discussions are welcome;

the Food Section offers luscious recipes of all kinds (the editor reserves the right to modify them at will);

the News Section where the daily events are downloaded and recorded for posterity;

the Puzzle Section where the conundrums of everyday life can be sorted and resolutions proffered;

the People Section is where relationships are explored and developed, gossip is encouraged if it has a positive vibe, and Grandson news is at the top of the page;

a write-in Advice column is active;

a Pet Section includes articles about cats, dogs, horses, guinea pigs, hamsters, rabbits, and bearded dragons. Recently added are articles about wildlife including javalina, coyotes, bobcats, deer, and a variety of birds. We may have to start a new section called Nature;

an Amusement Section contains articles full of unbounded happiness and optimism with lots of laughter and good humor;

during the 1980s and 1990s, the magazine had a robust Travel Section with mainly national and some international reporting. This section has been devoid of recent articles (travel having lost some of its former luster with delays, restrictions, and bullshit), but the management hopes to include more in the future;

the Sport Section contains sailing, skiing, horseback riding, and baseball articles with Baseball reporting the most invigorated at present (basketball news is rejected). Walking, as a sport, developed as physical limitations to the machinery producing the magazine became evident;

the Music Section explores popular music from the 1940s through 1990s, an emphasis on the 1980s, a modicum of present-day composers and singers, with a nod to the classical genre, especially Debussy and Vivaldi; Elvis, Sinatra, Alan Jackson, and Jimmy Buffett are prominent contributors;

a very active Literature Section features interviews with contemporary authors, along with reviews of books old and new, both fiction and nonfiction, and special interest in history. Stories and poems are published in this section;

a Wisdom Section was added in 2000 in acknowledgement of and engendering discussion of all things of a spiritual nature; a response to the natural facts of our human condition as we age;

a supplemental In Memoriam Section is published semi-annually in recognition and appreciation of those who made significant contributions to the magazine over the years but have moved on to a cosmos beyond this.

This magazine was initiated in Wichita, Kansas in 1945 and thrived there under loving development for about twelve years. Then the headquarters moved to Bellevue, Washington for a period of forty years. A co-editor was added in 1964. Then three satellite editors came on board in the late 1960s, adding extra depth and heart to all the articles produced.

When the machinery started locking up due to the cold and damp in the early 1990s, the magazine relocated to Tucson where it is currently ensconced in a more conducive environment. We plan to continue publication for the foreseeable future. The times they are a-changing, and we look forward to an interesting second quarter of the twenty-first century.

This magazine will no longer be featured at the front of the magazine section of the newsstand, taking a more unassuming place for discriminating clientele near the back.   

*photo is AI generated.