Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

  My mother told me “there is always something to write about.” She’s not a writer herself, but she encourages my writing. I think this is just so she has something to read. But really, she is a big reader. And writing and reading go hand in hand. For there to be something to read, somebody has to write. So I posit that the writers came first, as in the instance of the chicken and the egg. Books didn’t fall out of the sky (and if they did I’m sure one would hit me on the head (it would probably be War and Peace)). I invited my brother over for a kitten chow session. We put food out and wait for them to eat, kind of like kitten fishing. I thought he could get a good look at these precious things I’ve been raving about. Out of five, only two came out, and he tried to chase them down, which scared them (I think it was an irresistible impulse. I understand that). And then it rained. Chow sesh over. Sometimes people go whale watching and there are no whales. This is life.  The ...

 Most of you don’t know this about me, but out of the various jobs I’ve held (very loosely) in my life, at one time I worked at a bed and breakfast. I worked at the Inn of the Shenandoah in Luray, Virginia, my hometown. It was short lived, but it is memorable and I thought I’d write about it :) I graduated from college in the winter of 2015. I missed a semester so I had to make up for it and graduate a semester late. Whatever. My plans were just to move back home (whatever). Really I didn’t have a plan. But I wanted to get a job like asap so I wouldn’t be one of those post college sloths eating all their parents cereal. So I dressed up and walked around town with my shiny new resume, the fancy kind on thick cardstock that the career planning lady at my college made for me. I gave one to the local newspaper office, The Page News and Courier. I had good intentions.  My resume scheme wasn’t working and honestly I don’t know how many jobs I actually applied to. My dad mentioned th...

 I forgot to say please. What can I say…it’s a hot day in May. I swear I saw the car dash temp at 91, and I finally succumbed to using the AC at night. I’d say it’s critical (your prayers are needed).  But I didn’t start this post to complain about the weather. You know Florida: it’s hot, hot, hot, with some sweater weather months. For the record, I’m not used to it. I have Northern DNA, yet I don’t dig the cold. I don’t know where I belong (is there a Mediterranean climate waiting for me in heaven?). But enough of that.  There are five adorable kittens that need a home, our home in fact, but we can’t find them now since we believe the mother relocated them and is using herself and Rusty to guard them from our sticky fingers. John says there may be an ensuing custody battle (“I’d like to call Untrusty Rusty to the stand”), so we’ll need a lawyer specializing in feline affairs. I hope it won’t be drawn out. We really need those kitties, like, right now. It reminds me of a ...

 I was going to title this post That Time When I Had a Kitten for a Day. Well, cause that’s what happened.  We have a neighborhood cat we named Girly who eats at our house (aka the 24/7 cat cafe). When she first started showing up we could tell right away that she was pregnant. Well, the anticipated day came, and this chunky girly showed up without her pudge…so we knew the kittens had been hatched. And we planned on finding these kittens and making them ours because we’re kinda feline deprived ( not depraved) people, and kittens are such a joy, and we would be giving them a better life (i know first hand that life on these trailer park streets is not pretty).  But we had to wait. And wait. And wait some more.  Because you cannot take new born kittens away from their mother (like I said, not depraved. I’ll keep repeating it), and we don’t have the talents to raise practically naked and needy infant kittens (we tried once. We failed). So I waited four weeks until I got...

 Exploiting yourself in the name of writing (I like the ring to that): not as satisfying as you’d think. As a woman (didn’t think I’d ever use that phrase), I should keep my age and my secrets to moi, but I’m so hopelessly boring that I have to dig up dirt on myself (in lieu of my own psychoanalysis. As my friend Ray would say, “this is going nowhere”).  My mother called me to ask “you’re not quitting writing, are you?” with the same tone as if she’d asked if I was drinking again (how did my past and present become this diametrically opposed? (Hemingway operated a typewriter and held his liquor quite well)). I hadn’t planned such, but what are plans (? In regard to goals); if you produce no work people may as well assume you’ve hit the bottle again (except in infancy, I never really drank from a bottle per se)…I don’t like being stereotyped, but my little square peg does fit in the little square hole (can a hole be square?), however unique and original I think I am (the traile...

 I wasn’t born on the bayou, but I do live on the water (and my sobriety is kind of a rebirth) and I have taken advantage of the river’s splendors: fishing, boating, watching the sunrise from the dock (the ocean is east). But not anymore. The boating was tied up with drinking,  and the fishing was a boredom killer and probably some act to impress guys (I do not relish taking a fish off a hook. Especially big ones. And the river is full of fat squirmy catfish). So the river is there, but I pretty much ignore it. So I had to travel to greener pastures and try fishing on the ocean.  We booked a half day with Sea Spirit charter fishing in Ponce Inlet, me, John, and my brother. Really it was my brothers idea (thank you!), and John seconded that, and I was curious (always looking for an antidote to my chronic boredom). The sucky part is that you have to get up really early to be there by 6:15 am, and I am not a morning person anymore (hence no more sunrises). But we managed, an...