When our kids were younger, we used to play a memory game in the car to occupy their time. We’d start out by saying, “In my grandmother’s attic I found …” then each person would go around thinking of something new, in alphabetical order, repeating all the previous items. You’ve probably played versions of it yourself. It’s silly, but it went something like, “In my grandmother’s attic I found; an Arthur, a bongo board, chopsticks, a Democratic canvasser, etc.”
Strangely enough, all those things have actually been found in my grandmother’s attic. Though to be fair, it wasn’t an attic per say, but a cupboard or closet of her senior living facility out in Arizona.
An email hit my screen at the exact perfect time. I had just been rejected for a teaching position and was feeling kind of down. The email was from a former student of mine four years ago who was applying to film school; he wanted to write scripts. He asked if I’d be so kind as to write him a letter of recommendation. “As someone who was my favorite teacher at MSU I know you would do a great job at this.“
Okay, I was hooked.
Merry Whatever You Celebrate from all of us at Spiritual Wanderer Incorporated.
Here’s an oldie but a baddie. It’s either nine seconds of me wishing you a holly jolly Christmas, or nine seconds of your life you’ll never get back. Regardless, I feel this may be my worst attempt yet at trying to get you to check out any of my books. Click any of those books up there, if for no other reason than to make me STOP!
Want a free audio sample from my latest book? Gosh, who wouldn’t? Here’s something I wrote and recorded for Getting Laid (off) back in 2010.
Click here and listen to a free MP3 from the chapter The One Where I Drive My Mother To The Death Panel At The Local Walmart.
And, of course, click on any of those three books above to order your paperback version, iPad version, Kindle version, Nook version or just one to carry along with you on your phone.
The house has grown quieter throughout the day. A Sunday night after the holiday hears no more loud simultaneous conversations in bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms — all of which happen, inexplicably, on floors. My daughter’s friends seem to find our floors more appealing, more to their liking than our soft, comfy furniture.
One daughter is back at school, many states away. Next fall, the other will follow her sister West, just not as far. A loud, roaring quiet echoes through the emptying nest. One bedroom is now closed, vents shut, conserving the household heat. Soon we’ll have, what, three guest rooms. Come visit us; bring your friends, plenty of floor space.
Our dogs sense the silence and sporadically bark at December phantoms. There’s nothing out there, boys, Grinches and ghosts don’t show up till the 24th.
I’m reminded by a comforting wife that Christmastime will bring her parents, other relatives, our daughter back from the western prairie and until then we still get at least one lovely teen, her boyfriend and their entourage. And thinking about it reminds me that I’ve actually bought chestnuts to roast over an open Kenmore.
For now I’ll do my best not to act like the bears (grizzly, not Chicago) and hibernate.
There’s a teaching job open at a nearby university. I half-considered applying for it, until I realized a couple things. One, it requires that you teach poetry. My appreciation of poetic form basically starts and ends with “There once was a man from Nantucket.”