If I could walk into court to place blame for a dead cellphone, the guilty party would be my clothing. Neither my blouse nor pants included pockets. That’s a violation against cellphone storage. I had no choice, when taking my laundry to the basement for washing, but to place my cellphone atop the laundry sitting inside of a round basket. If I held the phone
“Can someone take the top off this pickle jar? I can’t do it.” “Give it to Shirley. She can do anything, especially if it needs muscle!” This conversation occurred when I was 13. It was a time in my life when I was part of a group of kids who lived on the same block and got together to talk, play, and try to find
My mom asked me to complete her tax return. This happened years ago when she didn’t know that knowledgeable tax representatives were available at a local library, a place where she faithfully goes now. Mom presented me with her documents and the previous year’s return as a guide. I began sorting everything, and as I calculated each line, I realized that a document was missing.
Like all teenagers, I thought I could get away with breaking my mother’s rules. She sought to curb my bad behavior before I harmed myself by saying: “Someone who lives across the street is watching you at all times.” I didn’t challenge her out loud, but my immature teenage brain was furiously trying to make sense of what my mom said. Who was this mysterious
“I want to be a cashier.” That’s what I announced to my mom in 1962 on my first trip with her to the supermarket. The job looked fascinating through my young eyes. The ladies seemed to be enjoying their jobs, and enjoyment was definitely what I wanted in life. Mom scoffed at me. “That’s what you want?” she asked with a sour look on her