If Doors Could Talk

When my family visited my maternal grandmother during the springtime, we sat on her screened in front porch before the onset of a sweltering Louisiana summer, at which time we visited inside with the air conditioner. The view of her front yard from the porch in the spring and autumn months was intoxicating. You felt as if you were sitting inside a bouquet of untouched flowers beneath a pristine airy sky.   

The house was in the center of the yard, which was surrounded by azalea bushes, petunias, and moss sheltered trees, so the heat wasn’t the only reason we sat on the front porch instead of going in the house, it was because we couldn’t resist being outside.    

The front porch had two front doors, one for humans and a door my grandmother had built at the  bottom of the front porch window for her beloved German shepherd, “Sam,” whose door remained swinging from the top hinges after his death. I loved to enter the porch through Sam’s door and of course, play with it although my grandmother prohibited it.  Sam’s door was built for Sam and when a hinge broke or the wood cracked, she had it fixed, she never removed the door.   

What's The Most Outrageous Experience You've Shared With A Friend?

This week’s Tuesday’s Question is: 'What's The Most Outrageous Experience You've Shared With A Friend?’

As stated in my last post, my computer, "Sam" was admitted to the hospital last Monday for minor surgery. I thought I'd have him home in time to publish a question by now, but that didn't happen. -As it turned out I had to pay a few costly repairs before Sam was discharged.- 

Single Parenthood- I'm Glad I Paddled The Boat Ashore

                                                         

The color of the water in the gulf changed from dark blue to black at nightfall, so my vision was hazy, but I held my son tight as our raft bounced on the waves.

My stomach felt weak, and I braced myself for what may be a trip to the edge of the world. I gently stroked my son’s wavy blond hair and rocked him against my chest. His hair smelled like the day we had before nightfall...full of sunscreen, salt, and sweat. The droplets of water on his hair gave off the only light, except for the silver fish splashing in the waves and the tiny white stars twinkling above.

We are a part of the stars and the vast sea, suspended on our raft in rough deep water, miles above the ocean floor, and so far from land that we couldn’t see a line in the horizon, or where the sky ended and the body of water began. Disoriented, I prayed I could hold my head up while our son slept on my chest sucking his thumb knowing I would bring him home safely. Nevertheless, all I knew was that I was waiting for you.

Tuesday's Question: What Song Brings Back Nostalgic Memories?

Hello, and welcome to Tuesday's Question. Today's question is, well, I know you read the title, but I'll ask it again, and answer it: 

 What song brings back nostalgic memories?

 For me, it's I'm A Believer by The Monkees, which is odd because they were not my favorite band, although I did love them.

I'm A Believer pulls me back to a time in my life when the world was simple and friends were plentiful. When I was seventeen our lives and town were different; living was still and easy, yet loud and joyful. But the main reason the song brings back nostalgic memories is because my sweetheart at the time hid his Monkees 'eight-track' tape from me because I constantly played the song.
When I think of him hiding his tapes it makes me laugh, because he taught me how to play the song on the guitar, a deed I think he probably regretted. 

I hope Tuesday's Question's, and this question will encourage everyone to begin conversations by responding to each others comments. Plus, it's a way for all of us to have fun. But, if you are more comfortable reading comments that's fine too.  Alright, now it's your turn: What Song Brings Back Nostalgic Memories for you?

I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa of My Hair!

            

I woke up this morning traumatized by my reflection in the mirror. Everything about my face is the same, but my hair is a different color. I have the beginning of old lady hair- Well actually, a few silver grays mixed with a multitude of blonde colors or dark blonde, or what some people refer to as "dirty blond,"- The latter being one of my favorite descriptions for light brown hair.-

Anyway, after I blocked my reflection out of my mind, I stepped into the shower, and started singing,

" I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa Of My Hair", from the movie classic, South Pacific, thinking of an ancient relationship.

Word Habits

I haven’t been able to sleep lately, so when that happens I jump on my computer and write.  I do not think, I just write…Well, maybe I do think because I could not write if I wasn’t thinking, I suppose.  Hence, last night I started 'thinking' about how people say certain words that aren't part of the English language, over and over again, sometimes for years. For example, I spoke to an old friend the other day, who I haven’t spoken to in years, that used to say the word "majorly" all of the time.

It drove me crazy, but I didn’t want to sound like my mother, and say, “Don’t say that.”  Or “Did you know that majorly is not a word?”  Because, correcting an adult, particularly a friend, would have sounded self-righteous and mean.  Besides, there is nothing wrong with saying a word you like…it is not as if it’s against the law or anything.  Well, I guess you could say it causes mental anguish, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, I was surprised that she still used the same word…and she’s not the only one.  We are all guilty of this malacy…you see, malacy is also not a word, or I do not think it is, well, it may be a synonym for malady, who knows. 

My mother is still constantly correcting my words, but she is just as guilty of improper word usage as I am…although she would never admit it.  I don’t know why she is still correcting my language, but I guess she’s trying to make up for lost time, or she’s afraid I may run into one of her friends, and say, “Hello, it’s so nice to see you after all these years.  It’s been a majorly long time, hasn’t it?  “  

When I was a teenager, my siblings and I had certain after school responsibilities she demanded we complete by the time she came home from work, or shopping, or riding horses, etc…whatever she was doing.  In any event, my after school duty was to keep our kitchen clean, and I thought it was unfair since I had two older brothers who were constantly in the kitchen dirtying dishes.  I mean, come on, what teenage boy doesn’t spend much of his time staring into the refrigerator?


Well, my brothers were typical teenage boys, hence, everyday after school, my brothers had demolished my cleaning job by the time my mother’s 1966 Ford Galaxy zoomed up our driveway-(our driveway was on a hill, well actually, our   house was on a hill.  That is why the driveway was…oh, you know what I mean-).


Anyway, we had better have our chores finished by the time we heard my mother’s white monster car soar up the driveway. (The car’s name was Charger)

"If There Will Be An Answer, Let It Be...

 



In the words of the first man, I ever adored, Henry David Thoreau,

"If thou art a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short as the longest."

In January of this year as my friends and I danced, drank, and spoke of the year ahead as if we were guaranteed the time, the words of Henry David Thoreau rang a different truth for me, a truth I would understand in a different way by the end of the year.

Even some of my own words ring with a bizarre realism, for example, I wrote a little saying on this landing page that reads,

-Most of the worlds' great things were born of adversity and hardship; because these roadblocks encourage us to dream, imagine and believe.-

And now, those words ring more true to me than they did this past January, which I guess I should explain,

You see regardless of my train of thought at the end of last year, by February, my life began to cloud over, I had already been in pour health for some time, and it was beginning to get the best of me…for one thing I couldn’t write, which for me, is like snatching a bottle from a baby or alcoholic, take your pick…writing is my addiction, and I had the worst writers block I’ve ever known, hence, I knew I wasn't happy. In fact, I was simply miserable in every way, and I couldn’t put the breaks on my emotions. I was sick of myself.

Then, came the arrival of one of those typical Louisiana Springs, full of the kind of afternoon thunderstorms that tests your nerves like a colicky baby. I wanted to yell out of one of my windows, "Enough already!" My life was turning into days and days of pouring rain- Mainly because one of best friends in the world was dying of lung cancer. She passed away at the end of June, we met when we were twelve years old, so we were close friends for 35 years-, and now she is gone-

Which brings me back to my words,

Most of the worlds' great things were born of adversity and hardship; because these roadblocks encourage us to dream, imagine and believe.-

It seems to me that when the pain in our lives pull on our heartstrings, it stretches our hearts, thereby creating a greater capacity for love, joy, compassion, forgiveness, etc... In fact, after this year, I think my heart has grown to the size of a bottomless pit- Although, don’t get me wrong, I am not naive, meaning, I do realize,  that much of the time pain and tragedy taxes the human heart to the point of pulling it in the other direction. I just believe that life is about paddling through to the other side, in other words, if we make it through the “hardship and adversity,” we win the prize of knowing abundant joy, or I pray this for us all, because, as Thoreau said, “Indeed our time is short, at the longest.”


In closing, I hope that after reading all of these paragraphs, you won't think of me as mellow dramatic, because it's hard to articulate how thrilled I am at this moment. As I write this post, I feel as though I am wrapping my arms around a long lost friend, and indeed, I am. It is a great feeling, because here on this blog, writing to my fellow friends, bloggers, and writers, I can let my soul fly, and my imagination take its course.

I guess one of the reasons blogging is such fun, is because there are no deadlines, judgments, or contracts- just writing and friendship. 



In truth, I feel like I did the first time I saw the gulf coast; I was ten years old and so blown away by it's vast beauty that my stomach went into an excited flutter. I think it was one of the first times I realized how important and wonderful it was to be alive.  I felt a content happiness, close to the way I felt when I daydreamed into the branches of my grandmother’s pecan trees, or when my mother read to my brothers and I, but that was when I was much younger, of course.

I used to lay in my grandmother's front yard, and read, where the grass was cool, although there were times when I read the same paragraph repeatedly, because my grandmother had a habit of talking to people in a low voice from a distance.  I loved her dearly, but there were times when I looked forward to reading quietly, and I could hear her asking me something miles away through her front porch screen.. After years of this, I  could guess what she was saying, but I still tried to ignore her, so I could read,  although,  by the time she gave up, the late afternoon birds would begin to whistle loudly above my head. But, you know, I would give my right arm to have one second of those moments again.

All right, I suppose that's enough head in the clouds dreamlike writing. I hope I haven’t bored you or taken too much of your time, posting such a long post.

It’s just that I really wanted to tell all of you where I have been since earlier this year, because I have had an awful fear that you may feel deserted, or like I never cared for any of you at all, and I hope that after you  read all of this, you will realize that, that was not the case. (How could you not)

Hence, I would like to apologize to all of the special friends I have met blogging, and to my only pen pal,  with whom I love dearly. (You know who you are…and I am dying to write you.)

Finally, another reason for the length of this post, and my delay in posting it, is my computer has two of those awful trogan viruses, and Dell has advised me to back up my files and wipe it clean. This is happening at the same time my car broke down, my son’s car broke down, I am out of paper, and my only pen ran out of ink- However, not all is lost, because I do have a huge red mark-so-lot. I am not sure if I spelled mark-so-lot correctly, but I am sure you now what I mean.

Burgh…life, but I will return, and when I do, and I haven’t pawned my digital camera to fix the car, because the computer lost all my manuscripts, I will take a picture of what I have written on my walls in red mark-so-lot, due to writers withdrawal.

I love you all and I will return-



"Till the next time we say good-bye" - Mick Jagger

Someone To Watch Over Me

I'm having one of those melancholy days. The kind of day when it feels as if your heart and soul are a million miles away. I hope he hears my song.

And I wish the rest of you a fantastic evening...

Oh yes, I almost forgot- this is a Gershwin Tune sung by Jean louisa Kelly on the David Letterman Show.

The Laughing Azaleas

Christy, from Christy's Coffee Break tagged me with her Freaky Friday meme in September, as embarrassing as that it is to admit. It took me this long to respond because I couldn't think of one weird or interesting thing that happened to me, until I found this old picture of my grandmothers Azalea bush. This is a story I've never told anyone.

This meme was written with the option to tag, but if you have a bizarre memory I would suggest you write about it. Because I may not have remembered this experience if I hadn't been wondering what to write for this meme, and I'm glad I remembered. In addition, it would be sad to see this meme die out just because no one can think of anything. So do some brain storming and try to think of a bizarre experience that happened to you, I think you'll be glad you did.

The Laughing Azaleas


My grandmother’s house rested behind a circular driveway made of gravel. I remember the gravel changing the color of my bicycle tires when I was a child... Those little white shells used for driveways do the same thing, except the tires change a white chalky color instead of rusty gravel. My grandmother Nana's house and yard were paradise and to me concrete evidence that heaven existed. The three-acre wonderland was everything a twelve-year-old child needed to find satisfaction in his/her surroundings. I spent as much time in Nana’s yard as possible, although I knew she would put me to work before the end of the day. However, the sheer pleasure of being in her fabulous yard was more than enough compensation for picking up sticks and raking leaves all afternoon. My siblings and I found pure joy in everything we did there. Whether we were playing games, climbing trees, or working, it was an environment perfumed with the intoxicating smells of magnolia blossoms and azalea bushes. In addition, within the branches of the trees lay the excitement of whatever new Louisiana wildlife creature we had recently decided to adopt. After all, everything has to eat and the yard belonged as much to the animals as the rest of us.

That is for animals, because I didn't feel the same way about insects, even if they are living things, and I wished they didn't populate bushes. Especially since Nana’s job for me meant rescuing the azalea bushes from the honey suckle vines suffocating grasp. Suffering from agoraphobia in the South was a nightmare within itself, so I was already ear marked as a sissy because of my paralyzing fear of insects, especially spiders, by the time I became a yard worker. I spent one weekend grounded after spending the night at Nana’s with a friend. My crime was letting out a blood-curdling scream one Saturday morning, after my friend woke me pointing to the most terrifying spider ever invented above my head!


My agoraphobia was beginning to cause problems for me, especially on my job at Nana's, due to the fear of running into my spider friend again. The problem progressed to the point where every time I worked in the yard, I let out blood curtailing screams imaging spiders falling on me, no doubt a flashback from that fateful morning.

Hence, by the time I heard voices in the bushes one day, my grandmother had grown accustomed to my blood curdling screams. The day in question is the day I heard laughing from within an azalea bush under attack. It was a bush closest to the road; in fact, the bush would've been directly on the road, if not for the ditch between the bushes and the yard. Just think of everything lined up in this order: the front yard, the bushes, other foliage, a ditch, then the road.

I was supposed to pull the honey suckle vines from the bushes then carry them to an old well we used to burn weeds and sticks. But I wanted to keep as much distance from the creatures as possible, so I'd grab a vine and run in the opposite direction until it broke away from the bush- I would repeat this action until the vine released it's grip on the bush and set it free. But, every time I repeated this procedure, I could see Nana becoming more aggravated with me for making a big mess of the rest of the yard. I prayed I would get finished before she finally lost patience with me and completely let go of her composure.

This was my routine: grab a vine, turn around, and run! Grab a vine, turn around, and run!

That is until the fateful day in question, when I heard what sounded like voices coming from the foliage on the other side of the bush. Actually, I heard a child’s laugh that was so real I thought it was a friend of mine watching me from the street. Excited about who came to visit, I walked inside the foliage, which resembled a little forest, only to find it empty, not a soul was there. I shouted my friend’s name: “Ellen?” Dead silence, one of those eerily dead silences, coupled with the shivery feelings of being alone in the dense foliage. What followed was the best blood curdling screams I've summoned to this day! I couldn’t stop screaming; I was so scared I couldn’t find my way out of the foliage and onto the other side of the bushes. I could see my grandmother running from the porch, shouting, “Be still, Ann. Be still! “

She told me later that she thought I had been bitten by a snake. She also led me to some old steps three or so feet from the sound of the laugh. The steps led to a house built before Nana’s which burned down some seventy-five to one-hundred years before.

Was it the imagination of an imaginative already-petrified child, maybe, or the laughter from one a hundred years before?

What's Behind A Smile? Is It Real Or Fake?

Can you tell the difference between a real and fake smile? And what's going on in the mind of a person when they're smiling?
While sitting at a reading table in the children's department of Barnes and Noble yesterday, I noticed an employee watching me out of the corner of her eye.

She acted as if she had to keep an eye on me, because I had plans to rob the place, and had a getaway driver in the parking lot. Then she walked over to where I was sitting, flashed a fake smile, and began to wipe the table. There was something about this employees fake smile that made me think of my third grade teacher Miss Keysler, and the picture I posted the other day. I was surprised at how kind and sweet Miss Keysler looked in the photo. The picture reflected a different Miss Keysler than I remembered. Was my memory playing tricks on me?

I couldn’t tell whether Miss Keysler’s smile was fake or genuine, although when I got home and magnified the picture, there was no doubt, it's genuine. I guess my ten-year-old perception of her was off, especially since she made me stand in the back of the classroom after I blew Dexter’s whistle. Incidentally, I left Barnes and Noble, and gave up reading Puff the Magic Dragon, after a few more fake smiles from Miss Thundercloud. I thought about Miss Keysler’s smile in my car on the way home. What was I picking up about Miss Keysler from her body language and smile in person, that wasn’t reflected in the picture? What I mean to say is, her smile in the picture is a reflection of how she was feeling or thinking when that picture was taken. Therefore, our smiles are a reflection of how we are feeling and thinking inside but not necessarily saying aloud. I guess that’s what they mean by a photographers eye or insight into the perfect moment or camera angle. According to the BBC Science and Nature web site I looked up when I got home, most people cannot distinguish between a fake and genuine smile. The web sites article states; “it may be easier for people too get along if they don’t know how others are feeling,” so maybe that's why people can't readily tell the difference between a fake or real grin. I read this in the article posted after a test to see how well developed your fake and genuine smile radar works, entitled Spot The Fake Smile. I scored 16 out of twenty, which I think is good. Therefore, I think that many people can tell when a smile is fake or genuine.

The BBC Science and Nature web site gives clues on how to distinguish between a real smile opposed to a fake one, in addition to suggesting that our subconscious and conscious mind play a key role. Here is their suggestion:

“Fake smiles can be performed at will, because the brain signals that create them come from the conscious part of the brain and prompt the zygomaticus major muscles in the cheeks to contract.Genuine smiles, on the other hand, are generated by the unconscious brain, so are automatic. When people feel pleasure, signals pass through the part of the brain that processes emotion.”

I thought of this passage when I zoomed in on my classmates smiles...
When I copied the picture the other day I didn't notice their expressions, so I didn’t remember the other children as well as I did when I zoomed in on their faces. It's as if they were stuck somewhere in my sub-conscious...

You can tell our personalities by the look on our faces, or how we may have been feeling that day. I know you can find the mean girl and Dexter looks angry doesn't he? And me, I look like the sun's in my eyes, but none of our faces look fake. If anything, they just look like we all want to go to recess, with the exception of Miss Keysler, of course...although on second hand... she probably wanted to go to recess more than we did.

In closing how well can you judge a fake or genuine smile? Here’s the link to the test, let me know how you do, o.k.? Remember if someone smiles at you quickly it's probably fake, whereas if it's spontaneous it's real, I think. Take this test it's really cool. I can't wait to see how you do. Thanks for reading, and have fun!

Happy Halloween!

This is Taylor, my son, when he still went trick or treating with me. He is lucky Luke in the bottom picture, and obviously Superman in the top one. That's me in my witches costume in the tip top picture. Taylor is now 21 and refuses to go Trick or Treating with me anymore. So now my Halloween's are more about tricks, than candy and stuff. That is if you don't count the times I really wanted to go, and went on my own. I actually did get lots of candy those times, because no one knew that my son wasn't at home in bed with a bad cold.

Happy Trick or Treating!

Please Return Next Week For Tuesday's Question

Aeschylus

"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."

Due to the nature of the memories associated with September 11th, I respectively ask your

forgiveness for postponing Tuesdays question. My weekly Tuesday's Question will continue next

week as scheduled, and I will resume my daily posts tomorrow, September 12th.

In the meantime, please enjoy my most recent posts in the sidebar.

Thank you for stopping by to participate or just to read A Nice Place In The Sun.

Do You Remember Your First Day Of School?

At the end of every summer, I think of the children who will began their first year of school that year, and remember what a hard job it can be.


If you have a child starting school this year, try to relate by sharing your first day of school. Since we all like to know that someone knows how we feel, especially our parents. This is what I remember...


I wondered why Mrs. Day, my first grade teacher, turned her head from side to side when she walked. I remember her head tossing, her name, and the fact that she told her first grade students we could so anything, even write books when we grew up.

Before the first day of school, my mother brought me on a school visit to meet her and tour the school. Mrs. Day let me pick out my desk and put my name on the front so everyone would know my name. The three of us were the only people in the classroom that day, so my mother and I had my new teachers undivided attention. While my mother spoke to Mrs. Day, I sat at my desk and put my favorite book, a few of my brothers pencils, and a plastic Piglet toy from a cracker jack box in the inside. I will never forget Piglet. I brought him everywhere. The little plastic pig knew all of my secrets, and I tried to talk to him without Mrs. Day or my mother seeing me talk to a toy, though I think they did anyway since they keep looking over in my direction and whispering in grown-up, secret voices. As their conversation rolled along, I decided to leave the little toy inside for safe keeping, and make sure Mrs. Day remembered I picked that particular desk. The desk did wear my name, but it was the best one and someone else may pick it before the next day. It was a shiny tan color and a shade lighter than the other desks. Mrs. Day was attentive and kind, and asked me what my favorite books were, and if I had a dog, etc. She seemed focused on making me happy, and I began to get excited about my first day of school.


The following morning, I moaned while my mother combed the tangles out of my hair and my brothers made faces. The younger of which was complaining of having to watch me on the bus and walk me to my classroom. Every time my brother said, “I don’t want to walk her to class, mom, she’s bad!” my mother would brush MY hair harder! When I said “Mom, ouch!” she brushed it harder still. So by the time I got on the bus I had a sore head in addition to my brother’s comforting sneers. When I got off the bus my brother ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction of me and my classroom. He disappeared, the bell rang, and I was alone. I looked at the ugly red leotards on my legs, put my hand to my sore head, and cried.

Finally the principal found me wailing in the hallway and I joined the other wailers in my first grade classroom. I’m not kidding; when my teacher opened the door, I heard nothing but the sound of wails. It was like a "wailing for attention" contest! It was a real drama, although I could not be bothered, all I wanted was my desk, my books, and Piglet. Mrs. Day said, "Look class, here's Ann. Hello Ann."

But they were still wailing, and she led me to another desk in the corner of the room! It was a big desk with a big, ugly, dark brown top and no Piglet inside! Where were my books ? Where was Piglet? My eyes stung from the sudden impact of tears, until I could not last any longer...

Suddenly the whole classroom was one big wail for all!

(This is the reason my son’s teachers never had to explain what the Kleenex on the materials list is used for!)

Incidentally, I spent my first day of school (and many weeks after) convincing my new friends that I was not a cry baby. I also spent this time trying to find Piglet. I wanted my desk and books back, and even though the pencils belonged to my brothers, I wanted them back too. I do remember getting the desk I wanted but Piglet wasn’t found until the end of the year, when he miraculously showed up in the lost and found!

Well, maybe he made another child happy in the meantime. Do you remember your first day of school?

Who Was Your Favorite Grown-up?

When you were a child who was your favorite grown-up? My favorite grown-up was my maternal grandmother. Yesterday, I went to her grave site and recalled two of my favorite memories of her. I have many memories of fun grown-ups, although for some reason she's the one who sticks in my mind the most. My other grandparents were great too, of course, but we lived down the street from her in a new neighborhood branched off from an older street or lane, called Moss Side Lane. The name Moss Side came from the moss that hung from the oak trees that shadowed the street.
With the exception of my parents, this grandmother had the most influence in my life. She taught me to wish upon a star, to garden, curtsy, talk to people, read…

We called her Nana, and she said things like, "DAT Burn it!" and "A stitch in time saves nine." She had a garden in a huge beautiful yard which she embraced with passion. Determined to enlighten us on the basics of gardening and yard work, she would bribe us for the opportunity to put us to work. The funny thing is, my brothers and I thought our work was actually worth the gratuity. In order to teach us something, she endured the arguments, temper tantrums, and excuses with the grace of a saint. However, this was a tolerance reserved only for her grandchildren. She wasn’t a tolerant woman or a saint, she was just a grandmother. Always on the side of her children and grand children, right or wrong, in addition to having a lesson to teach …

On one of our gardening opportunities, I was working my heart out when (I was singing to myself and playing with a rake) she called out to me, "Ann, come see." When I reached her, I saw she found a baby rabbit lying limp on the ground. The soil, recently tilled, had disturbed a nearby rabbit hole. Evidently, a baby rabbit ran out of his home, and the tractor ran him over. The little baby was in bad shape. Nana yelled across the rows of vegetables, "Honey, will you come help me with this?"

I can see that baby rabbit in my mind's eye as clear as if it were yesterday.
Then she said, "Go get the hoe! We are going to have to put it out of its misery"

It took me a moment to realize she didn't mean WE were going to have to put the rabbit out of its misery, she meant ME! It was clear there was no "we" to striking that rabbit to death with a garden hoe! There was only a "me" to do it! She handed me the rake, and looked at me as if to say how hard it was for her to teach life's cruelest lessons.

"Go ahead, it is the best thing to do for the rabbit, honey, we cannot let it suffer."

"Nana," I exclaimed, "I ‘m not going to chop it's head off, I'm sorry, but I can't.”

Although this protest held the promise of making her angry, she was childlike and warm in her response, "Do you think your mother can bring it back to life?" (My mother had the skills and talent required of a veterinarian.)

Before she changed her mind, I went and got a box to put in it, and brought the little rabbit home for my mother to doctor. She did her best to save him by using an eyedropper for nourishment and water, but he died.

I brought the rabbit back and we buried him near the garden. That's when she told me the story of his relatives, and where they all lived under the ground. Later that evening, we sat on her back porch steps and she taught me how to wish upon a star. I remember the inflections in her voice moving in time with the crickets, her black hair and lightning bugs dancing around in the yard. She had the best rhyme: “Wishes come true when you wish on a star/Since the man in the moon knows where you are/No matter how near no matter how far/He sees you and me and knows where we are.”

“Nana,” I asked. “Yes honey?" is what she said as she pulled me close.

“Where is the man in the moon?”

“Right there honey! Look!“

I felt her draw me in tight, hold me against her heart, then she pointed to the sky and said, “Look baby, right there!”


I wish I could ask her where she is and catch up on the questions I have, or have had, or questions I don’t remember.

What do you remember the most about your favorite grown-up?