I was seven that summer morning between first and second grade when I had my first taste of wooing. Danny was a quiet classmate, someone I’d smiled at once or twice and shared my reading book with on a half-dozen occasions when he couldn’t
I got a card from my not-so-secret pal a few weeks back. She’s eleven, blonde-ish, and creeping up on me height-wise. She lives in the bedroom above mine. As far as secret-pal duties go, she favors sneaking up on me when I’m working and
Gage follows me into the bathroom and watches while I put the brush back where it belongs. As we turn to leave, he settles his gaze on the drawer where I keep the bandaids — the boring ones, and the ones I’ve collected just for him.
It took a lot of faith to get in that car twenty-nine years ago, and drive seven hours to a town I’d never been to, with a boy I hadn’t known a year. It took all the faith I had to stand and face him, and take his hands, and promise before
Here’s a snapshot of July from a few years ago …
“Well, life on the farm is kinda laid baaaaack!”
Really? Let’s see now. How has my week gone …
Two of our goats, Bambi and Jimmy, had a touch of something or other.
She was sleeping when I began slicing onions and celery and a Granny Smith apple; when I crumbled one tube of maple-flavored sausage into my heavy black skillet, and stirred, and watched the heat rising in savory wisps.
She didn’t see the coming