My fifteen year old grandniece doesn't know how to read handwriting. I discovered this absurd fact last year and found myself inspired to write a short rant. This is an ode to the people who did not teach Ruby handwriting skills, and to a potential future that lives...
The faded pink Ramble might have been built in 1958, but my young friends and I reaped the benefits of that old jalopy in the 70s. With Audrey at the wheel, the neighborhood kids, ages five to ten, often piled inside, sometimes squeezing twelve little bodies in every...
Franki asked Ma the question nobody else would. “Why do all short people end up in the basement?” “Shh.” Ma pointed upward. Franki saw nothing but blue sky and glorious clouds floating above. She breathed in the odor of freshly cut grass. Skipped along the gravel...
The boxy Dodge Colt I permanently borrowed from Dad had decided to stall, often. Stop at a red light or press the brakes—stall. “Alternator,” Dad mumbled into the phone. “Or spark plugs. Bring it by. I’ll take a look.” At twenty years old, I needed wheels for college...