Posted inTelling Our Stories

My Mystic Mansion

If someone had asked me five years ago if I were a “mystic,” I wouldn’t have understood what they were asking. A mystic! What the heck is that? Would a mystic be someone like that guy Merlin the Magician in Camelot, who performs weird alchemical tricks with batwings and bitter herbs?

Posted inTelling Our Stories

The Curse of Moving

A certified mail notice arrived at my door on September 1. Now, usually there are only two reasons that I ever get certified mail: one is for a bill that the collector is finding a hard time collecting, and the other is from my lackadaisical, out-of-touch, out-of-town, first-time landlords. Their reasons for sending me things certified mail is to make sure I got the documents because “their friends, who were in the real estate business before, warned them about people like me.” Needless to say, I didn’t rush to the post office, but perhaps I should have.

Posted inTelling Our Stories

Making Rags

In every house I’ve lived in, there is a drawer filled with neatly folded rectangles of soft cloth: torn up sheets and pillowcases, dismembered tee shirts. Often their patterns are familiar. A favorite dress or comfortable shirt has slowly faded with use, until it no longer serves its original purpose…

Posted inTelling Our Stories

Big, Bigger, Best

A group of athletes runs competitively and proudly to a slogan that strikes a familiar chord with me because of my rather “full-ish” figure. You don’t have to be thin to be fit. This group is Team Clydesdale USA, and they gallop to this mantra via a weight class that specifically recognizes big, heavyweight people who race – not fat people (though of course they’re not excluded) – but big.