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Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

My Mom

Posted in Personal, Random, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on October 29, 2010| 4 Comments »


I was in college in Maryland. It was a Monday when I received a call from my mom. We talked about this and that and how it was going.

At the end of the call, she said, “I’ll meet you by the gate.”

At the time, I thought she meant the gate to her yard or garden.

On Wednesday, another family member called saying my Mother’s doctor had stopped treatment for her cancer six months earlier. That there was no hurry, but I should come see her.

I finished a test on Thursday and started driving back to Texas late Friday. I drove all night. When I got about thirty minutes from home, I felt it. It was like a huge rubber band connected to my gut had been pulled tight and then cut.

It snapped back and I knew my mother was no longer at the other end. I began to cry.

When I got to the house, no one had to say anything. I could see it in my sisters’ eyes.

My mother was lying in her bed, her hair had been combed. Someone had dressed her in a white cotton gown with tiny lilac flowers and a ribbon at the collar. Her hands were folded over her chest. I touched them, but they were already cold.

I knew then she hadn’t meant her garden gate, she would be meeting me somewhere else.

This is the basis for a book I’ve written, Meet Me at the Gate. Once it’s been polished a little more, perhaps it ‘ll be publishable.

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Posted in Personal, Random, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2010| 4 Comments »


Several times a week I see an elderly woman working in her yard. There she is wearing tan slacks, cotton shirt and wide brim straw hat, bent over pullling weeds under the shade of tall trees. This is what I think of when I think about America. Some people might imagine parades, fireworks on the 4th of July, fishing at the lake, picnics in the park or a roaring fire and a good book.

I think of my Grandmother working in the yard.

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Old Files

Posted in Personal, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on October 4, 2010| Leave a Comment »


You never know what you might find if you clean out your old files. For instance, I found a novel I wrote when I was 16. Yes, it was with much fear and trepidation that I dare read this horror from the past, a romance novel. It was only two short years later that I was told I should give up writing by a college professor and took her at her word. I stopped writing for more than 20 years. Here is an excerpt —

Standing at the top of the stairs, the darkened corridor seemed strangely threatening. In Mariah’s haste to escape her Father’s lecture, she had forgotten to take a lamp. She heard a low voice from the shadows.

“From the sound of things, I win. Get use to it. I always win.”

Mariah felt the warmth of Damon’s body behind her. She trembled in spite of herself.

“We’ll make a splendid couple.” Damon’s breath was hot against her ear.

“I’ll not submit to this without a fight.” She threatened, turning to face him.

Damon’s dark curls fell across his forehead. His chiseled features settled into a thin smile, but the hard glint in his steel-gray eyes betrayed him.

“I can be very persuasive.” Damon griped her arm.

Mariah stiffened. The knot in her stomach tightened. She wanted to run, but Damon held her fast.

His hold tightened. “And you know what they say.” His voice barely audible.

Mariah shook her head.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

She detected a threat behind his words. She tried to pull away, but the more she struggled, the harder he held her.

“You’re hurting me.” She gasped.

“Was I? I didn’t realize.” Damon smiled, releasing her.

Mariah stumbled before regaining her balance.

“Good night, Love.” Damon quickly disappeared down the stairs.

Mariah retreated to her room. She lit the lamp on the table. The light danced across the wall and the shadows retreated to the corner. Blank canvases leaned against the bulging bookcases. Paints and brushes were strewn liberally about. Books were stacked in precarious piles. Everything was familiar, but different. What was important this morning, didn’t matter now. Mariah sank down on her bed. Her shoulders slumped. Her slender figure cast a small shadow on the wall in front of her. She stared at the wallpaper without seeing it. Pastel pink and blue flowers wove up the walls on pale green vines.

How could everything have gone so wrong? Staring at the flowers, she couldn’t help but replay the day’s events in her mind. …

I don’t think it’s that bad really. I don’t have the last 1/3 or so, but I remember it ended with Mariah knocking Damon in a raging river, presumably to his death. Damon of course, was not the hero. I was told I was too dark. That may have been right for 1978/79. Makes me wish I hadn’t stopped writing for so long.

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Growing Up Poor in the Land of Opportunity

Posted in Personal, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on September 27, 2010| 7 Comments »


Growing up poor in America, though I heard of the streets of gold, I had never actually seen them. In fact, I lived so far from those streets, I didn’t know anyone who had seen them. I remember the year I first saw those streets where money seemed to grow on trees. It was Christmas and my Mother was taking us to the nearest city to see Christmas lights. We drove up and down the streets of Highland Park and University Park in Dallas. It seems the cities with streets of gold were in parks. I remember seeing grand two story houses with large lawns. These houses had lights on the outside. We only had lights in the window, illuminating the foil wrapped TV antenna. 

I remember seeing perfect trees through the windows, not like the lopsided tree we had cut from the back field. They not only decorated the trees inside their houses, they decorated every tree outside too. These children wouldn’t be getting used clothes their Grandmother mended and hemmed. They wouldn’t be getting used shoes that were too large. They wouldn’t know the thrilil of removing the tissue paper or newspaper in spring when they had grown enough to fit their shoes. These children made lists and Santa really brought them things from their lists. I never asked for anything because I already knew Santa didn’t bring children like me what we asked for.

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Hero Locked Inside

Posted in Personal, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2010| 6 Comments »


I met a man in ’84. He wore tan, dickie work pants and well-worn, leather shoes. He owned a metal salvage yard. I remember him shuffling around the piles of discarded metal. He was quiet, but he seemed kind enough. I don’t even remember his name.

Later someone told me when he was a boy he’d been imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp. He was Jewish. I don’t know what country or which camp or how long he was there. But when he was about 12, he escaped.

He was making his way to Israel, the promised land, when he was captured by the British and placed in what was little more than another concentration camp. Now being a man of 13, he escaped, stole an airplane and flew it to Israel. He managed to land safely. The plane became the first in Israel and he became known as the father of the Israeli airforce.

When he was 16 or 17 he was sent to the U.S. to become a pilot. Here he met a beautful young Jewish girl who could never leave America. So if she would agree to marry him, he would agree to stay here. And that is how I came to meet him many years later, the quiet man who never said a word. Just goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover, you never know what’s locked inside.

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