“Buckle your seatbelts. We’re coming in for a landing.” As the seaplane descended, the tiny blue patch surrounded by green became a small lake, 200 miles from the nearest Alaska town.
"Hey Dad, how deep is it here?" Gracie asked from the front of the boat. She was watching the line from her fishing pole continue to roll out from the reel. It had been going out for what seemed a very long time.
Lizzie and Nick’s trio of standard poodles charged the back gate, barking and wagging their tails. Lizzie put down her pruning shears and glanced at her husband Nick. “Who’s there?” she called.
“It’s us, Mom. Open up, before the dogs tear down the fence.”
“There’s some dead bodies I need to deal with,” said my father as I walked into his room.
Dead bodies were common in Meadow Green. I walked by one on my way in, and said as much.
“What’s not common,” he observed, “is you coming to visit.”
“My little green muse took a vacation again.”
“I hate that.... wait a minute. Did you say green?”
“Yeah. Sucks, but they seem to work on their own terms. And it's green because he claims he's related to the little green rack monster who forces me to take naps. They both claim they're related to Kermit. Cousins on my mother's side, I think.”
I recently saw a headline that Nia Vardalos is getting ready to make the sequel to the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The very thought of this sequel instantly took me back to the numerous memorable lines from that movie. Each line was full of humor and wit, and eased the tensions of growing up as a child of immigrant parents in America. It easily tops my short list of favorite movies. I could relate so well to her cultural struggles but in the end, she came to realize what a treasure her family was to her.
“A village elder just reported a suicide at the home of Master Xiao Hong-gui.” Fu-hao slicked his hair back and shook his head in disapproval. “We’ve only been here a week and we already have a suicide!”
It was a cold and windy, West Texas thunderstorm that was pounding Amherst's brand-new South Plains Farmer's Co-Op Hospital when Howard Bulls joined the ranks of fatherhood. He was well aware that this honor could be short-lived: my mother had been hospitalized since the first day of March, battling toxemia. I arrived at two pounds, and with no incubator available, Dr. McDonald gave me a life expectancy of three days. Using the technology of a chicken brooder, the janitor rigged up a tent and a heat lamp over my crib.
The sounds of happy chatter ricocheted around the large room as shoppers inspected handmade sweaters, birdhouses, holiday decorations, and more. A table sagged under homemade pies, breads, and sweets. Youngsters jostled in line for a toss-and-win game.
“Be sure you gouge out the eyes, Imogene,” Hortense filled the Dutch oven with water to boil the potatoes.
Immy attacked the spuds, peeling off skin and popping out the eyes with the pointed part of the peeler. “Why do they call them eyes, Mother?” The operation was taking on gruesome overtones for the seven-year-old. “Potatoes can’t see anything.”
