Remember the story of the Little Engine That Could? With his determination and persistence, that little locomotive became a role model for beating the odds. Here in Fresno, we have our own incarnation of that unstoppable hero on wheels. And although it is less mobile, it is every bit as inspirational.
Time has an interesting way of blending the present with a bit of lingering tastes from the past. Some days when I look back and remember falling in love with my husband, it doesn’t feel like it was all that long ago. But over four decades later my feelings for him are still strong, and though it would be hard to have realized back then, my love for him has only grown stronger.
Bev trusted her instincts, always had. So far she figured that’s what had kept her out of harm’s way all these years. Her mother moaned and complained about all the crazy schemes that her daughter had come up with. Though this time her mother said that none of her other ideas sounded half as ridiculous as this one. “You’ll end up a pile of bones,” were her mother’s last words as Bev closed the door behind her and descended the steps of the front porch.
In the last couple of years, Mother’s Day brings dolls to my mind. It’s not like I was a little girl with lots of dolls. In fact, I remember only a couple of occasions where dolls were part of my life. But as the years passed, and I transitioned from daughter to mother and now to grandmother, dolls have sweetly slipped into my life. Perhaps it’s the fictionalizing of my past as situations sometimes get fuzzy, and I suppose this is when the mind mixes and matches reality with invention. But for whatever reason, lately dolls have become one of my preoccupations.
Mid summer, when heat feels the most unforgiving and cooking is the last thing on my mind, I fall back on cold soups.
Soups have always been special to me, whether hot or cold. They seem a bit like alchemy. The mere boiling of bones in water produces a rich flavorful broth.
Charlotte usually experienced a transition at dawn. She had lost count of how many of these she had undergone, but then, since her murder, not much made sense. There was a familiar feeling when this smoky life force came over her. Charlotte often thought it must be how a butterfly feels when it comes out of a cocoon. There was no casing though for her to break through only heaviness that weighted her down making it difficult to move about as she once again became active.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this winter weather. I long to hear the crack of a bat and the cry, “Let’s play ball.”
Pop died suddenly. There were no warnings. He had slightly elevated blood pressure and the doctor said he was pre-diabetic, but with diet and standard meds there didn’t seem to be anything to worry about. I guess when your time’s up, there’s not much you can do about it.
New York City is an undeniably atmospheric place that many mystery authors find irresistible to use as a backdrop for stories and novels. I cannot even venture a guess how many murder or crime stories have been centered in any one of the five boroughs that make up this town that I call home.
When I lived in the Bronx, every once in a while in the hour before the morning light leaked across the horizon of the midnight blue sky, I’d be awoken by a train whistle. I used to think it was a dream or perhaps simply my sleepy mind confusing the raggedy sound of a car horn for a Pullman. But there were no trains in that area. There hadn’t been any trains in more than a hundred years. You see I lived on the edge of Van Cortlandt Park, a haunted section of 1,000 acres that spreads out across the most northerly section of New York City in the Borough of the Bronx.
