Category: family

>If

>

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow.   A corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

Rising, I am vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before spitting, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.”  As I turn to walk away, candlelight flutters across ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only I could have been a little quieter…

If only I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Playing In The Dirt…


Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

“Well, that depends. If we’re lucky, they’ll have lots of good ones. If not, we’ll have to look.” My voice was bright in an effort to impart some of the enthusiasm I was feeling, but he didn’t seem to get it as he slumped down the hallway in search of his shoes.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

My first task was to remove all the summer flowers, still clinging to life in the warm Georgia sun. This is the part I like the least. I always feel a twinge of guilt at ripping a brave survivor out by the roots, so I grit my teeth, clear my mind, and just start pulling.

And now the fun begins. I don’t use gloves to do this kind of planting, as I like the feel of dirt on my hands. While shoving them, over and over into the aromatic black dirt, I mentally applauded my decision to cancel my manicure appointment on Friday, and a mischevious smile crossed my face as I imagined the reaction of the beautiful, little sprite who tends my hands if she could have seen the way I was treating her handiwork.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

And, as I headed to the back of the yard, towards the bench which has long-since been swallowed up by the English Ivy I planted three years ago, I thought back to last summer. My daughter called to say she and a friend were coming for a visit. They arrived in full make-up and skirts with heels, prompting me to wonder at the occasion. My daughter produced a monstrous high-tech/high-end, camera featuring a nearly foot-long snout of a lens, and explained that her friend needed updated photographs of herself for a project she was working on.

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Playing In The Dirt…

>
Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

“Well, that depends. If we’re lucky, they’ll have lots of good ones. If not, we’ll have to look.” My voice was bright in an effort to impart some of the enthusiasm I was feeling, but he didn’t seem to get it as he slumped down the hallway in search of his shoes.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

My first task was to remove all the summer flowers, still clinging to life in the warm Georgia sun. This is the part I like the least. I always feel a twinge of guilt at ripping a brave survivor out by the roots, so I grit my teeth, clear my mind, and just start pulling.

And now the fun begins. I don’t use gloves to do this kind of planting, as I like the feel of dirt on my hands. While shoving them, over and over into the aromatic black dirt, I mentally applauded my decision to cancel my manicure appointment on Friday, and a mischevious smile crossed my face as I imagined the reaction of the beautiful, little sprite who tends my hands if she could have seen the way I was treating her handiwork.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

And, as I headed to the back of the yard, towards the bench which has long-since been swallowed up by the English Ivy I planted three years ago, I thought back to last summer. My daughter called to say she and a friend were coming for a visit. They arrived in full make-up and skirts with heels, prompting me to wonder at the occasion. My daughter produced a monstrous high-tech/high-end, camera featuring a nearly foot-long snout of a lens, and explained that her friend needed updated photographs of herself for a project she was working on.

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Drip Castles


I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.

My mother loved to sunbathe, and spent most mornings on the beach, supine, on a generous towel, until overwhelming heat forced her into the surf, where she stayed for a few, precious, minutes. Now, as a mother, myself, I realize that having four children attached to her floating limbs probably precipitated her quick exit.

And, sometimes, she built castles.

It started with a hole. As is true about anything worth having, a good sand castle requires work, in the form of a very deep hole. My mother supervised as one of her daughters manned the shovel. Mounds of pristine white sand piled, as the hole was dug, until water began to seep in from the bottom, forming a permanent well.

And then, we dripped. Each of us, in turn, thrust our hands inside the hole, to remove a dripping mass of grayish colored sand. We dripped turrets, we dripped landscaping, we dripped roofing. Tiny, pea-sized mounds of sand, built, one upon the other, as we dripped, and the castle grew higher and higher, and more and more elaborate.

Construction could take hours, but we had no concept of time. For each of us, it was simply one-on-one time with Mom, and we sat there until she gave the sign it was time to stop, as she rose, and strode, purposefully, towards the surf. As she bent to lower her hands into the warm, jade-colored, water, we mimicked her action, until she left us to return to her towel. And, as she lay back against the sand, we broke for our rafts, and the water.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Drip Castles

>
I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.

My mother loved to sunbathe, and spent most mornings on the beach, supine, on a generous towel, until overwhelming heat forced her into the surf, where she stayed for a few, precious, minutes. Now, as a mother, myself, I realize that having four children attached to her floating limbs probably precipitated her quick exit.

And, sometimes, she built castles.

It started with a hole. As is true about anything worth having, a good sand castle requires work, in the form of a very deep hole. My mother supervised as one of her daughters manned the shovel. Mounds of pristine white sand piled, as the hole was dug, until water began to seep in from the bottom, forming a permanent well.

And then, we dripped. Each of us, in turn, thrust our hands inside the hole, to remove a dripping mass of grayish colored sand. We dripped turrets, we dripped landscaping, we dripped roofing. Tiny, pea-sized mounds of sand, built, one upon the other, as we dripped, and the castle grew higher and higher, and more and more elaborate.

Construction could take hours, but we had no concept of time. For each of us, it was simply one-on-one time with Mom, and we sat there until she gave the sign it was time to stop, as she rose, and strode, purposefully, towards the surf. As she bent to lower her hands into the warm, jade-colored, water, we mimicked her action, until she left us to return to her towel. And, as she lay back against the sand, we broke for our rafts, and the water.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Three of a Kind


For Aunt Pat…

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes’ insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and…

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Three of a Kind

>
For Aunt Pat…

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes’ insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and…

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Changing Faces


I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.

I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Changing Faces

>
I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.

I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Shakin’ and Bakin’


After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. And, as usual when my child downloads alarming information, Mommy-mode kicks in, and my focus is on allaying his fears so that he doesn’t trip on the stairs as he climbs into the bus.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You have a great day, ok?”

My next-door neighbor, who works from home, does not answer my call. He is a sound sleeper.

I decide to take my chances, until I remember that we replaced the hinges on the side door a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t shut properly without careful attention.

Visions of my cat-eating dog, loose, and free to eat what she may, viciously flash across my brain, complete with dripping, red background…

Patricia answers on the second ring, as she carefully negotiates the car-rider lane in front of the school.

“Sure!”, she answers without hesitation, as I envision two potentially horrific scenarios.

“Um…What do I do if they are out?”, she asks, with a voice that tells me she is measuring traffic in an effort to make a turn.

“Stay in your car!”, I almost shout, as I imagine my friend, who is violently afraid of dogs, dealing with the blood-dripping cat-eater.

My phone rings, again, as she climbs the driveway in front of my house.

“The door is closed, honey.”, she manages, in a tight voice, not yet given to relief.

I tell her where to find the key, and, my pathetically frightened friend braves the door, and the pouncing, barking, cat-eating dog on the other side of it, as she inserts the key, and finishes the job…

And, tonight, I bake, in thanks.

While I don’t always enjoy cooking, I do enjoy baking, and, especially baking for a reason, and, particularly, baking for other people.

Tonight, I got to do both. I strapped on the IPOD, and cinched up my apron, as I pulled out recipes I had settled on earlier today.

I am baking “Butterscotch Blondies”, courtesy of Alexis Stewart of “Whatever” on Sirius radio,(A guilty pleasure that makes my daily commute doable.), and, “Pretzel Yummies”, a recipe I’ve made only once before, but which is requested on a weekly basis…

I had a great night! Below, I’ve included some pictures, and samples of music that accompanied me along the way. Come have fun with me!

My resident taster…

“Butterscotch Blondies”, fresh from the oven…


My crumb-catcher…


Coating for the “Pretzel Yummies”


“Pretzel Yummies”, complete

Presentation is everything…

The total package…


Baking is hard work…

And my music….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net