Victory Garden

It is dark and I am working by the spotlight that shines out over our back yard. It is raining lightly and I am down on my knees, digging in the dirt with my bare hands, throwing the pieces of glass that I dig out of the soil into the plastic bucket at the end of the row, so I can plant the last of the lettuce. Shannon and John are inside, waiting to start dinner. I know I should go in, but I want to wrest every last possible moment out of my gardening time. [To read the full post, click on the title.]


I recognize them all immediately of course, but it has been some time since we have been together, Evie's funeral eleven years ago, a couple of reunions over the years. I have seen Barbara only once since she left for the West Coast, after the group ended, sometime in the eighties. (To read the rest of the post, click on title)

Becoming Brynna

We pull into the parking lot of the Old Saybrook train station. "Oh no!" I moan, looking at the full lot. "We'll never find a parking spot." Rosemary reminds me that when we first got together, I used to visualize parking spaces for her. She is right. Why have I become so pessimistic in my old age? I try my old visualization skills. It works! As we round the last corner, a parking space appears. ... [Click on TItle to read more]


I talk to my houses. I talk to my houses the way some people talk to their plants. When I leave, I say good-bye and tell the house when I will be returning. When I arrive, I tell the house I have arrived, announcing my homecoming loudly, and asking questions about how things have been as I check all the rooms. (Click on title to read more)

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