Houston’s Best Stories

She stuck the needle in his eye. I had already turned away. As soon as the assistant had clamped the speculum to his eyelid, the eyeball protruding like a meaty oyster sitting in its half-shell waiting to be plucked from its socket, I had already seen more than I could stomach. It was speculative fiction turned speculative reality.

A speculum for the human eye.

So it’s not just for vaginas.

Tilted all the way back in the treatment chair, like he was Neil Armstrong on the Apollo 11 destined for the moon,  Dad chatted away nonplussed with Dr. Wang, Sandra Oh’s doppelgänger in her New Balance sneakers that matched her powder blue scrubs. He finally stopped long enough to ask her, “Are you going to let me know when you inject it?”

She chirped,” I already did!”

Ahhh, just like a good equine vet injecting a horse’s joint. It’s over before the patient realises what is happening. 

When she was done, they adjusted the chair back to the sitting position. Dad, as jolly as when we arrived, jumped up (hyperbolic), grabbed his walker, and announced, “I’m driving!” As he hobbled out of the office, Dr. Wang and her assistant looked at each other, eyes wide, until Mom and I laughed and said, “Haha, very funny!” We went out for dinner afterwards, and I couldn’t help but be mystified by Dad’s stoicism. For a crusty old crow at times, Dad can still rally in the face of pain and discomfort. After we left the office, I made a mental to remember: The older you get, the worse the solution to your problems becomes.

I’ve started another Section4 Sprint this week: Product Strategy. On the first day of class, the teaching assistant asked, “What’s a product you would enthusiastically recommend to a friend, and what do you love about it?” The slack channel quickly exploded with answers: Headspace, Zoom, Microsoft Teams, Lemonade, Coinbase, TrainerRoad, Mistobox Coffee, DrinkTrade, Whimsical, Unsplash.









These are all apps—brands/platforms—as products, that my peers, and the world, use and subscribe to, on a daily basis.  Me? I’ve never heard of most of them.  I threw Apple and Toyota into the ring. This garnered no response. Crickets. I might as well have added “rotary phone” or “castor oil” to the conversation. One person did present a physical product they use everyday: “Anessa,” sunscreen that sells for $52 per 60 ml tube. 

Who are these hybrid millenials/gen z’ers with robust purse strings, and where did they come from?

I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Who really cares what others spend their money on? I’m just pointing out it’s a lot of disposable cabbage (credit, Prof G for the metaphor) for a young professional, newly-minted in the workforce, to spend on skincare. 

Despite my culture gap (I’m living the speculative fiction class I’m taking), and my aversion to assimilating multiple apps, I love this class. It took me a while to understand why I love these sprints so much, but I finally figured it out. Branding is nothing more than the fusion of storytelling, behavior economics and data analytics, all concepts I find truly fascinating. That, and I learn more about the world in which I live from my peers, who have their finger on a different pulse than I do. It opens my world to that which I do not know.

In the meantime, I’ve made a list of the apps cited to investigate at a later date. 

One of my tasks this week was to help my parents buy a new mattress to replace their old one wrecked in the flood of February. Mom heard that and said, “That sounds like something for you and your dad to do.” 


Dad and I drove down to Gallery Furniture, a Houston staple since 1981. I remembered the cheesy commercials on TV as a kid and “Mattress Mack,” the energetic owner in them. My parents brought his name up a few years ago, after Hurricane Harvey displaced more than 30,000 people.

“Did you know,” Mom said, “that Mattress Mack opened up his showroom for those now homeless, but Joel Olsteen wouldn’t open his church?? Can you believe that?”

That conversation four years ago was etched in my head as I parked the car in front of the showroom. 

Stepping indoors, there he was behind the counter, many years older, but still recognizable: Mattress Mack. At the age of 70, Mattress Mack still stands behind the counter, head down and working, reserved and humble (unlike the commercials). I asked, “Is there someone who can help us with a new mattress?”

He said, “Yup! I’ve got the best salesman. He knows everything about mattresses. Been selling them for thirty years.”

From around the corner, a man, a little hitch in his giddy-up, ambled toward us. What I noticed first about Scott was the big, starched cowboy hat covering the grey hair sticking out below it like straw in a bird’s nest. He wore the requisite Wranglers with a plaid Ariat button down shirt. Curiosity finally got the better of me.

 I asked him, “Did you used to rodeo?”

Scott smiled, but shook his head. Mattress Mack was right. He did give us the best salesman. Dad and I were in and out of the store in less than an hour, but not before discussing Mattress Mack with Scott. The two of them have been friends for 35 years. Scott waxed on about this Houston icon and what he has done over his career for the city.  In that moment, it all clicked—Why Gallery furniture has huge brand equity; Why Houstonians truly adore Mattresss Mack.

It’s because Mattress Mack truly loves them.

Sometimes good branding isn’t storytelling scripted before fruition.

Sometimes the strongest brands are stories created over a lifetime–a lifetime of business conducted with authenticity and kindness.

Proof that, sometimes, nice guys do finish first. 

What Are Pants, Anyway?

When I’m on the go, I often record anything interesting that pops into my head on my phone in the notes app. Scrolling through it recently, looking for ideas for my writing class, I came across an entry from February 8, 2020, three weeks before the world changed, before COVID-19 rocked us all.
It seemed fitting to share it (and a couple others around that time) since I’m flying back to Texas today. No sweats this trip, just jeans, an upgrade.


I have finally succumbed to wearing sweats on the plane. My mother would die. The lowest of low. 
They announced there was someone on board allergic to peanuts, so no one was to open or carry peanuts on the plane. 
Seriously? The guy in row 24 (that’s me) can affect the person in row 10? 
Is that an allergy or a full on phobia/panic attack in crisis? Can the smell of peanuts wafting up the aisle send someone into anaphylactic shock?
Boarding group 5. Again. 
I’ve decided to drink my coffee with heavy whipping cream. It makes it THAT MUCH BETTER. 
When you buy in orbitz, no frills, you always end up with the middle seat. It’s fine, I can deal. Not my favorite, but ok. You still get a stroop waffle. 
I fell asleep right off the bat. Holding my coffee, that was only a quarter full, I eventually dropped it over the edge of the seat. Not before it dribbled down the seat under me. High five for the camo sweat pants. Wearing jeans it would be obvious. The net to hold magazines, or coffee, or your stroop waffle, looks like a brassiere three sizes too small. It sits away from you, below your knees. What can you put in it besides a fucking napkin? They’ve made everything smaller when flying, even the magazine net that’s not big enough for a magazine. Luckily I didn’t spill any on the girl next to the window. Her converse are sparkly white. The guy at the aisle. I don’t know what he took, but I want some. He’s been out before I even sat down. His elbows have invaded my space from the beginning. I finished my book yet can’t change the channel on my screen because his deadweight arm is covering it. 
I moved it anyway, and gave him a pointy elbow kick of my own. 
I’ve gotten tougher as I’ve aged. I give a shit a lot less.


When faced with a crossroads, ask yourself, “WWCD?”

What would Cracker do?


I’ve been buying all of my clothes on ebay these days. It’s easy to do when you sort of have a standard issue wardrobe-a certain brand of jeans, turtlenecks, one style of dress. So far I’ve hit the jackpot every time, except once. This is the problem with some jeans-they can be the same size on the label, but they are physically two different sizes. I ordered a dark blue pair that were tight at the ankles. I had to really fight to get them on. Do a few squats and ple-aa’s. Slowly staggering around the bedroom trying to force them (sweet talk) them to go against gravity. I could barely get the ends over my foot. It was like putting on a sock all the way up my leg. After a brief workout, I got them on. Because they’re so stretchy, they buttoned up fine. That was the only easy part. I walked out and asked Russ, “Well, what do you think?”
He was silent for a few seconds before finally responding “Hmmm.”
What’s that? What do you mean? Too tight?
Well. They’re tight alright. It’s like your ass has a triple chin. 
Somewhat affronted, by the honesty, or the truth of it, I’m not sure, but I went and had a look. 
Sure enough, with my back to the mirror, I could see one big scoop of ice cream followed by two smaller ones below. 
Still, I had hope. 
I rationalized they might loosen up. (They couldn’t possibly get any tighter). In the end I thought, well I don’t give a fuck. I got them on and that counts. Big words coming from someone who hasn’t managed to ditch her ego enough to actually walk outside with them on. In the corner of my mind”Do you really want to be that woman?
The debate continues.


Got a free facelift with the force of the car. Almost met Jesus, but he decided not today. I wasn’t ready for heaven, or hell. Earth was still shaping me.  
I always feel closer to God at Christmas. On the plane. In the car. I call to him ceaselessly sometimes under my breath, so people aren’t concerned I’m born again. Or desperate. On the brink. 

Strawberry shortage. It’s a world crisis. Because our winter has been so cold. Told by a teenage boy with braces and a face full of strawberries, very serious. The Napoleon Dynamite of strawberries lives in Houston.

Post script

When I got to the airport this morning, I had to wait for the airline kiosks to kick on before I could check in. Then I waited for security to set up the TSA queue for the day. Dunkin’ Donuts wasn’t open, neither was Green Beans Coffee.

Do you know what was open?? That’s right, Starbucks. The only vendor ready for biz. So if zombies do exist, that’s where you’ll find them, and at 4 am, they are positively cheerful.

So It Goes.

The car whizzed past a motor-coach lot on the side of the highway. 

Russ nodded towards the glistening coaches and said, “That could be us one day.”

I grunted disapprovingly.

Seriously? Why not? Look, they have Airstreams, Jenn.”


He knows I like those retro Airstreams refitted…so maybe.

But where would we put all the soap?

Russ put his middle finger in my face. 

I was referring to the 40 individually-boxed bars of Dove he brought home from the store last week. Russ had skipped through the doorway, bags in hand, and chirped, “This is the first time we’ve had to buy soap in a year!”

I asked, “Do we really need to buy soap a year at a time?”

Hence my concern with the limited capacity of an Airstream.

We stopped in Kingston, NC on our way to the beach. Stepping out of the car, the savory scent of the passing rain steamed from the asphalt. I looked around wondering, “How did Kingston ever get on the map to begin with?” The streets lined with old buildings tells a grand story of yesteryear. They now sit mostly empty. Vivian Howard’s presence must have revived what holds court now: a couple of fine dining establishments, a few microbreweries housed in red brick, and the latest trend to be found, not just in cities, but communities everywhere, an axe-throwing enterprise. The only other notable addition in town was the replica of the Confederate ship, The CSS Neuse, which sits on the corner across from The Chef and the Farmer. It was there I made the acquaintance of Beauregard Stuart Lee Jackson, a short little bulldog with a notable underbite, not unlike his cheerful owner’s.

The next morning, the birds woke us, ushering in the day long before the sun breached the horizon. I carried my cup of coffee out to the deck, but had to go back inside and grab a flannel shirt and a pair of Smartwool socks. I picked-up the throw from the couch and wrapped it around me. Curled up on a cold morning, sipping a hot cup of coffee while listening to the hum of the ocean as the birds conversed, it was easy to envision some of my favourite things in this world: the smell of rain on freshly clipped grass; hot coffee on cold mornings; the waves of the ocean slapping the beach; fresh berries and a jar of local honey from the roadside farmers’ market; open windows and doors in the springtime; cool sand, dry and slippery under my feet; the reflection of the sunrise across the canvas of the Atlantic; the dunes’ stalky grass as it sways in the breeze; morning skies striped cotton-candy pink and bright blue, rolled out like an entryway tapestry; a trio of pelicans muted brown windsurfing inches above the surf; delicate little sandpipers running along the edges of sea foam, their legs a blur, spinning like pinwheels; a yellow Lab napping with his owner on a beach towel below the afternoon sun; and hot caramel ice cream sundaes after a round of putt putt at night. Visiting the beach was a wonderful reminder how much I still crave the outdoors, the way some crave sugar or alcohol.

I submitted my first writing assignment for class this week. Students critiqued each other’s work before the instructor did. I learned a few unexpected lessons with this exercise. I remembered, once again, perceptions are nothing more than the result of preconceived notions. It’s the story we tell to ourselves, trying to bring sense to that which we do not fully understand. I began this “unintentional” class (I didn’t realise I had registered for) believing I would be far behind the other students’ skills and expertise, as it was clear this type of writing, speculative fiction, was what the other students truly loved and aspired to author themselves. Without a doubt, their sentences were much more colourful and creative than my own. However, I came away understanding a good sentence is built like a Rolex timepiece, no matter the genre or individual style of the work. One can chip away the diamonds and peel back the gold, but the time is still measured precisely, as the hands round the face of the clock. Anything beyond that is costume, hanging on the bones that bring it to life. 

As bedecked as the pieces were, I struggled to read more than the first three sentences. They were packed with words, fictional names and places strung together, fat charms weighting the thin chain bracelet clasped around a child’s wrist. My eyes stumbled over each impregnated word like a car traversing a cobblestoned street. I had to look away from the page. It was like watching a herd of choppy, paddling horses trot past, who look to be assembled by committee. Sometimes even a passerby has to avert their eyes, in order not be seasick standing next to the paddock fence. From this I garnered another lesson: less is more. Just because one can step into their closet and wear every article of clothing they own at once, adding every accessory in their jewellery box to the getup, doesn’t mean one should. This brought to light another epiphany: Copying another artist’s style, while the sincerest form of flattery, often lands as cheap mimicry. While experimenting along the lines of the greats, it is important not to ostracize our selves in our own writing.

Applauding my simple sentences (never good), I thought about one of my favourites: Kurt Vonnegut’s “So it goes” in Slaughterhouse-Five. I cringe remembering what became my adolescent mantra after reading the greatest book of my young life, a satire centred around its protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, who became a prisoner of war, lived on the planet Tralfamadore, travelled in time, and read the science fiction of Kilgore Trout, which uncannily resembled Billy’s own unique life experiences. It turns out I’ve loved speculative fiction all along. My first love is one of its masterpieces.

The Chat Box Will See You Now

What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?


Why are you laughing?


I was still asleep. Russ leaned over, kissing me goodbye. He found me chuckling under the covers.

What’s so funny?

I…I…I don’t know…

Were you laughing at your own joke in your sleep?

Earlier that day I informed my boss we had basketball tickets in the corporate suite. Life is reopening its doors. He furrowed his brows and thought about it for minute. 

Hmm, that’s the Golden State Warriors. Do you know who they are, Jenn?

We’re talking basketball, right?

He smiled and sighed. He’s a total sports guy. My ineptitude still surprises him four years later.


Las Vegas?

He leaned in with the same smile on his face.

Jenn. Golden? State? Like the Golden Gate bridge?

Ok, yeah, yeah, California.

There ya go!

In my defense, Las Vegas’ hockey team is the Golden Knights. I wasn’t totally out in left field. Anyway, it seems this conversation was just as funny the second time around. 

Last night I started my second writing class. It’s called “Crafting Fantastic and Imaginative Worlds.” I don’t remember signing up for a course with that name. I wonder if I clicked the wrong box checking out. It’s about writing speculative fiction. Whaaat? It becomes clear I don’t know what that is and the other students do. It’s like walking into the high school Chess Club when you thought you joined the Poker team at the local bar. They speak a language I do not understand, like Sheldon Cooper speaking Klingon with his physicist friends. They are the Star Trek fans of Fantasy writing. I cringe every time I hear the phrase “speculative fiction.” The first word elicits images of a cold metal depressor, not unlike what horse dentists use to keep the long, flat pickets of teeth from clamping down on their arms. It’s a necessary instrument, but barbaric in appearance. The horses are bewildered by their inability to shut their mouths. Chomping at the metal device, their eyes roll back in their heads while their tongues flail about, pink lizards tethered by their tails. Instinctively, I cross my legs and squeeze them together. 

Hearing the word “speculative,” I can’t help but picture a bespectacled man looking speculatively at the speculum found held in his hand. Of course it’s a man because that completes the “ick” factor.  I never understood why a man would choose to stare at the birthing orifice of a woman day in and day out. There are so many other body parts to earn a speciality degree in, but yet, they choose that? Is it is the possibility of what might come out of the female cavern (a baby, for all you dirty birds!) that entices interest from both genders?

So it seems I signed up for a class I hadn’t intended to sign up for, but I thought to myself last night, “This is going to be so good for you!” Naturally creative I am not. I’m more of a “super perplexed observer of the world” than any kind of artistic, imaginative writer. But I know from riding and from yoga, doing what’s easy or what you love doing the most, will not improve your skills whatsoever. Growth comes from practicing what is hard to do. For my riding, this meant practicing dressage, and in yoga this meant practicing backbends, such as Camel and Wheel. When one repeats what isn’t natural to them over and over, the difficulty starts to fade, and instead, one begins to look forward to the challenge. With enough sweat, weaknesses can evolve into strengths. This class will challenge every fiber in my writing frock. I’m a fish who has found herself beached on the surrounding shore. This class will require growing some legs and developing lungs.

In addition, class is led via chat-box. You heard that right. It’s like a giant text thread with eleven people in it. The chat box will see you now. Someone asked if class would ever be held on Zoom, and the instructor messaged that many people preferred the chat-box to “Zoom fatigue,” but I can attest I’d rather look at a variety of interesting mugs on a screen than a steady stream of black words like worker ants marching across the blank screen. I fear chat-box fatigue already. The chosen platform for delivery compounds the challenge I am already facing.  I am, unfortunately, well adept at surfing two or three screens simultaneously, thereby lacking any real attention to a single one. Multi-tasking is made exponentially worse when it comes to technology. I’ve used so many new ones this past year. “Crafting Fantastic and Imaginative Worlds” is held on Campfire. My previous writing class was held on Canvas. I’ve also worked on Slack, Basecamp, Notion, Calendly, Microsoft Teams, and Google Meet, just to name a few.

They. Just. Keep. Showing. Up. 

That’s all there is today for Cracker. My first assignment is due in three days and I don’t think procrastination will do anything in my struggle to concoct a supernatural, futuristic writing piece. 

Shit. Is. About. To. Get. Unreal. 

Blackouts & Daisies

Last week’s post received a lot of positive feedback. This intrigued me considering I had a hard time resonating with it as I wrote the words. It was a wreath weaved of brambles, a mere Charlie Brown decoration, sentences brittle twigs fastened into a single loop, twine callused and ropy holding it together in a shape nature never intended. But I forced myself to finish, because if I don’t subscribe to anything else, I subscribe to deadlines and meeting them. They are the hammer of fate that shatters the glasshouse where perfectionism lives. 

These days, I cringe before selecting “publish now.” It’s the fear of embarrassment my poorly shod words might elicit, like morning breath clinging to the inside walls of my mouth like old paint. I insist on finishing, and let it go. I hold the chick over the side of the nest and open my fist, not sure whether the tiny, hollow bones will instinctively fly, or hit the ground and burst into a million pieces. I look away from my words and hope for the best, knowing that some of the best lessons are the most painful of all.

I question whether I am seeking approval or acknowledgement from others. As much as I tell myself I’m not, that this is nothing more than being brave and showing the inside of myself when I’m not confident if I’m wearing pants or not, it’s human nature to seek acknowledgement if not approval. Even if no one agrees with me, it’s confirmation I am not alone in this world, that others are subject to the same crosswinds, the current of life, regardless if we don’t paddle in the same direction or use something other than a paddle to get where we are going. 

No human interaction whatsoever feels like neglect or abandonment, which is why some dogs would rather endure a lifetime of mistreatment, than no treatment whatsoever. We are all a social species, our communities lending a sense of identity and safety to each other. Anyway, to sum up last week’s post, the old adage must be true: sex sells. The trite in the middle is inconsequential when the beginning and end are juicy.

Since my writing class, I start my day by handwriting three pages in a notebook. This exercise is called “Morning Pages,” coined by Julie Cameron. This was a difficult exercise at the beginning. My hand could not keep up with my head eliciting a froth of anxiety. This development surprised me and frustrated me. The words breached the pages, clipped and broken, a jewellery box littered with busted clasps, garish fakes, and lonely earrings in search of their vanished mate. It will take some time to diminish the sea legs. Another “new normal” in the making.

I learned some valuable lessons this pandemic. Like any good crisis, it sifted the gold, separating it from the dirt. There is juicy fruit to be found underneath the bitter rind of any catastrophe, even long after separating from the tree that birthed it. To my surprise, I discovered I suffered from FOMO. Two days after the shutdown began, I took a deep breath seeing our city block lit at night like the tree in Rockefeller Center at Christmas, all of us rabbits tucked in our warm burrows, the streets and sidewalks reticent. After a lifetime of operating as my own island in the turbulent seas, it turns out I am a herd animal after all, proof I didn’t know myself as well as I thought.

After living with the creed, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” for the last twenty years, I’ve been quick to embrace the newly-hatched entropy. My new schedule became no schedule whatsoever and I accepted it. This is a great liberty to be afforded, but running outdoors writing have sparred this past year for the crown position in my day: the morning. As each day rushes to its conclusion, like a tuning fork, so too does the fuel in my tank. I work best in the early morning. After a lifetime of waiting patiently, athletics is no longer first chair in the orchestra. My writing practice has finally eclipsed it.

In part, the decision was stemmed from physical duress. My knees are tired of pounding the pavement. It doesn’t mean they’ll have the last word, but it does mean I take them out of the barn less often for a jaunt. A sabbatical from the miles might even pay dividends in the future. I’m safeguarding this belief for now, as the word count stretches its own exploration.

It sounds good in theory, but well laid plans are ripe targets for disruption. Last week I stood up from the love seat, and as I stepped away, my knee caught the corner of the coffee table, a short and rectangular contraption, designed with utility, lacking ornamentation, constructed using a thick piece of glass aboard a small, metal frame. The corner of the table met the soft pocket of flesh below the shield of my kneecap. It was a perfect fit, like a key slipping into its lock.

I hobbled forward, swearing. Nausea climbed my legs like bubbles in a freshly poured soda racing to the surface. I slid to the floor, ice cream melting into a puddle. Russ found me curled on my side, hyperventilating with my eyes squeezed tight. 

“Are you alright?”

“I. Can’t. Breathe.

 I think I’m going to pass out.”

“All that from walking into the coffee table? 

That’s what happens when you’re looking at your phone and walking.”

(Hard to argue that.)

My legs shook as I stood up. Pulling up the pant leg, a tab of loose skin hung from the pea-sized blush spot like a pop-top on a soda can. Cupping the knee, the flesh burned like a charred coal under my hand.

I looked over at Russ. 

“I can’t believe this is it. It should be black and blue after all that. 


Russ rolled his eyes, but I’m still an Event rider at heart. Battle scars matter. Sometimes it is all you have left when the fireball is extinguished.

As I rubbed my leg, I thought about last summer, when I smashed the crook of my elbow on the edge of a wooden door. I was on the floor sitting on my heels,  my belly curled over the front of my legs, propped up on my elbows talking to my sister on the phone. When I finished, I sat up, my elbow caught the edge of the door behind me. 

Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. A cold sweat washed over me. I folded over my legs, my forehead against the carpet, as the velvet curtains of darkness descended. I passed out. I had this terrifying sensation of falling through the blackness. Even scarier, I could not distinguish which direction I was traveling. I was unsure if I falling down, or falling up. I only knew I was not in control of anything and was moving with incredible speed. Worse than all the above, I distinctly remember feeling panicked—I did not know who I was.

 I don’t know how long this lasted. Thirty seconds? Two minutes? Longer? Even with no idea of what was happening, the human instinct for survival is fierce. Somehow I knew my only choice was to fight. As I jettisoned through the pitch of space, I realised I was still attached to a body, but couldn’t move it. This was the answer. 

I fought the inertia. I managed to flip onto my side, breaking the spell. As my eyes opened, I had no idea where I was, or who I was still, and just as quickly, it all snapped into place. I lay there shivering in a cold sweat for another five minutes or so. I can only chalk it up to the depletion of running in a Texas summer coupled with whacking of my funny bone in just the right spot, just hard enough, to create a potent witch’s brew.

HA! Running is dangerous to my health after all!

I kid.

The business of living is a dangerous proposition for anyone. While my knees take a rest, I’m going to keep writing, and wipe the dust off my yoga mat. The studio reopened after thirteen months closed, almost to the day. The free-fall through the unknown is coming to an end. I open my eyes and lift myself onto shaking legs. Today, I am on the sunny side of the daisies, and that’s enough.

Class & Cowgirls

There’s an old saying out here: ‘If your daughter is riding a horse, no one is riding her.’

I laughed so hard I almost fell off the couch. 

Russ looked at me like Garfield peering at Odie—with utter disdain.

So, is that true?”

I stopped laughing long enough to say, “Well, I was divorced for ten years, and now I’m married. What do you think??” 

Russ shook his head and I doubled over laughing even louder. 

We broke down and bought “Yellowstone.” Broke down because I can’t quite wrap my head around paying for a streaming service and paying for streaming a program on top of that. I’m all for supporting the arts, but this feels akin to double dipping in my pocket. I’m cancelling all of the streaming networks next month. I told Russ it’s time to get outside, especially after the year we have all experienced.

My first writing class wrapped this week. I am so grateful to my mom for sharing the link for the class two months ago. I could not have handpicked a better fit if I tried. The teacher was incredibly nurturing,  full of resources and ideas, and contained only a dozen students, all with the same goal. After being one of the oldest students in all of my Section4 Sprints this past year, I suddenly found myself one of the youngest in class. While I enjoy the froth of yearlings chomping at the bit and kicking up their heels, being in the field with seasoned hunters was a nice change of pace.

The writing class was part of Rice University’s Glasscock School of Continuing Studies. I’ve looked several times in the past for classes in DC, but so far I’ve only come across asynchronous programs, or programs for professional writers. Finding classes that are synchronous, longer than a weekend, but not a semester long, was harder than I anticipated. 

She opened our last class with “The Road Not Taken,” by Robert Frost:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

After much searching, I did find another writing course with a similar format that begins in two weeks. This one originates from a writer’s organisation and is led from New York City. This should lend a different flavour to the “Brene-Brown-like-twang” experience of Houston.

I am also wrapping up a two-week Section4 program: Platform Strategy with Mohan Sawhney, Associate Dean for Digital Innovation at Northwestern Kellogg School of Business. I’ve enjoyed learning the components of platform companies and the crucial ingredients necessary for reaching critical mass (sustainability) and for thriving (reaching expansion). Sawhney started class with: “It’s not about great ideas, it’s about solving problems.” It’s identifying a customer’s pain points, such as Uber addressing what taxis fail to provide, or latent assets, such as Cessna selling the “empty” time in their jets, creating ride-sharing in the air. 

The class hosted a guest lecture with Jackson Jhin, SVP of Cameo. He discussed the inception and growth of the company. I still find it hard to comprehend how Cameo scaled a platform with the sole objective of connecting celebrities with fans for a few seconds on video. Three years after inception, the company is now valued at $1B. No doubt the pandemic added some necessary fuel, but idea must have had its own stickiness, appealing to the masses. 

We live in a culture destined to eliminate the middleman, whether you are a financial advisor (thanks to Jack Bogle and Vanguard), a real estate agent (Zillow), or a car salesman (Carvana). This list is long. Platforms bring information and accessibility to billions of average people just like me. I can take a workshop with Anne Lamott (in May!), purchase my own stocks, invite Kevin Costner into my home, and gain access to our country’s best professors for a fraction of the cost. I can compare prices worldwide, across every industry, to find the best product or service that solves my need or problem. 

This week I ran into two coworkers in the office who I haven’t seen in over a year. One has triple the grandchildren now, strengthening the point that life moves on, even during a pandemic. The other one said, “Have you seen Yellowstone yet?

I said, “Russ and I are just beginning season three!”

She said, “I was watching that, and it reminded me of you! All those horses, and the mountains.

Have you seen that girl yet? The one who likes that funny guy, the one who rode in the rodeo and got hurt.

I said, “The dark-haired girl? The one who met him at the hospital?

Lighting up she said, “Yeah! That’s the one! She reminds me of you!

Last I saw of her, she was riding a cowboy, so maybe the old saying isn’t true after all.

The Delight is in the Details


My grandmother knew what a painful life had taught her: success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality. The quality in life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.

The reward for attention is always healing. What is healed, finally, is the pain that underlies all pain: the pain that we are all unutterably alone. More than anything else, attention is an act of connection.”

—Julia Cameron

[Paying attention] “is a mixed grill of happy anticipation and dread. [Life] is a very bad match for us for those of us born extremely sensitive. It’s so hard and weird we sometimes wonder if we’ve been punked.”

— Ann Lamott

I’m reading Julia Cameron’s  The Artist’s Way. The 25th anniversary edition printed in 2016. My sister suggested it last year when homes across the globe were shuttered with locked doors. I resisted. “I’m already writing everyday,” I said. “I don’t think I have time for ‘morning pages.”

Handwriting three pages of stream-of-consciousness without taking my eyes off the page or lifting my pen seemed redundant to my already established practice. Of course it wasn’t, but I didn’t understand my habit to clump all work under one haughty umbrella was completely irrational, like boarding every animal in the zoo within a single enclosure.

Eventually I waded into the middle of the marsh, experimenting, my jeans rolled to my kneecaps, the oily earth squeezing between my toes like wet marshmallows. Sometimes this is a prerequisite for feeling the lush, symbiotic communities within the ecosystem of writing. With Morning Pages, I began to understand the differences in my writing pieces, and more importantly, I understood its usefulness.

 Morning Pages serve as a total scribblescrabble, a get-out-of-jail-free card, before you put on your writing togs and get down to the nitty-gritty.  (That’s writer humor if you didn’t catch it, because everything is scribble scrabble, despite putting a dress on it and polishing its patent leather shoes, before sending it on its way). Morning Pages is permission for the writer to dance like “Elaine,” before their rehearsal for Hamilton begins.

I’ve just begun writing Morning Pages. So far, they amount to recording tidbits of information with no other homestead available to breathe them into existence (they are unwanted elsewhere), and random suppositions searching for their missing reconciliations, which may or may not exist. Sometimes I use Morning Pages to be crabby and complain, about what a person did or didn’t do, what they said or didn’t say, brewing an extra pot of Pike’s Peak to fuel my cauldron of miscreantic soup. I write down what I didn’t say in that heated moment in the hallway that one time (all the time), hindsight’s stature questioned by the failure of its mute proxy.

When I let my recessive hand hold the pencil during Morning Pages, I swear a lot more than I generally do, which comes as a surprise, even to me. Leftover dreams linger near the pages like they can’t decide whether or not to put their quarter in the jukebox. Some do, some don’t. When I finally finish my three pages, I sigh and wave them away until the next morning, like Scarlett O’Hara bidding Rhett Butler adieu with her silk handkerchief bleached white, a momentary truce. I sing to them, “Run free little darlings!” as my derelicts bump and snarl, fighting for space.


When I was home in Texas two weeks ago, my siblings and I packed the first floor of our parents house after it flooded from a broken pipe. In total, we logged 35 man-power hours in a single day. We uncovered all kinds of mementos such as heirloom family photos cast on hard paper, like thin cardboard. The people looked familiar, but we didn’t know their names. We found old magazines, white debutante gloves up to the elbows my Mom wore as an adolescent. I couldn’t get them past my wave of knuckles. We found boxes by the dozen of model trains, old school photos of us, school letters and papers my siblings and I wrote in college, and art projects that spanned generations. I found all of my father’s acceptance letters, typewritten and carefully preserved. I found old mortgages and wills from descendants and homes long perished or forgotten. I found a leather-bound copy of Bleak House by Charles Dickens, inscribed on the inside cover, “To Aunt Mary and Uncle Douglas, Love Terry and Dick, Christmas 1962.” It would be another three years before my parents had their first child, my brother.

Susie said, “Hey. Look at this.”

She help up a large dark-blue thin book.

I leaned in searching the cover. “What is that? What does that say?

It’s Dad’s yearbook.

From college?”

“Nope. High school.”

I reached for the book taking it from her. 

Peering at the bottom were raised letter.

I looked up with wide eyes. 

Does this say….CRACKER?

The room was silent, but my brain was screaming against the echoes inside my skull.

Yep,” she said.

“Are you kidding me?

I looked her in the eye.

“Why does it say Cracker on the front?”

“I’m not sure.”

I crouched down on the weathered footstool, leafing through it. The book was created in 1955.

I turned the pages carefully. At some point in time, my father added yellow tabs to mark the important ones. I flipped to one and found an arrow written in pencil pointing to himself in the group photo: The Honor Society. 

I chuckled at his lifelong penchant for labelling and organization. 

Squinting at the black and white photo, I realised the arrow was helpful with identification. I thought to myself, “We sure do change with the decades. Why am I so surprised by this? No one escapes it, yet I am always so intrigued by time’s ability to transmute.”

“I think it is what they named their yearbook: Cracker.”

I looked up at my sister from the footstool, the yearbook’s insides filleted open, the spine resting in the seam of my thighs pressed together. 

So…Dad’s yearbook was called Cracker …

and I have a blog called … Cracker???”

She smiled. “Yes, I think that’s right.”

My head exploded with all the well groomed postulations why even a solitary hint of serendipity was absurd, as tears made haste for the exit doors behind the curtain of my eyes, only to be painfully stopped, jammed in my throat. 

Maybe it is only a coincidence, sixty-six years later, but considering two “Crackers” is wrought with emotion. Even now, the yearbook is a strange portal when held in my hands. Chalk the arbitrary synchrony to your own sensical explanation, because I have none, and will leave it as such. Some things are so extraordinary to define them is to diminish them.

Dad was involved in many activities, many of which no longer exist: Model Train Club; Glee Club; United Nations Club; Challenge Case Club; Usher Club; as well as Varsity Track and Varsity Cross-country. 

The other day I asked my father, “So, Dad. How did you get to school?“

Oh, I walked up this long hill and took the trolley car from there. That’s how we travelled anywhere because we didn’t have a car.” 

Well. what about after school, Dad? I noticed you had so many extracurricular activities. How did it work for you to get home? Did you take the trolley car then, too?” 

Well, when I ran track, we had to walk a couple miles to another school, since we didn’t have any of that [gymnasium, etc]. They had a track so we practiced there. It was usually late by then, so I would hitchhike home.” 

Seriously…You hitch-hiked to get home?” 

Oh yeah, we did it all the time,” he said nonchalantly.

One time this guy put a hand on my leg. He started getting a little frisky, so I jumped out at the next light.”

Oh my God, then what did you do?

He chuckled and shrugged.  “I caught another ride with someone else.”

Stepping into my father’s yearbook, seeing his aspiring adolescence poised behind his big brown eyes was intoxicating. While already successful, his self-assurance of the inevitable possibilities awaiting him stared back into my own face broken apart. He didn’t know where he was headed, but he was confident wherever it was would be good. He just knew. His classmates peered from the page just the same, the entire world laid before them.

It’s bittersweet these days to peel my parents away from their personhood, like carefully removing the skin of an orange to find the soft, vulnerable fruit underneath. Who were they before I, or my siblings, entered the world? All the stories we were told as children we adopted without question, cherishing the beginning chapters of our legacy as our natural rights into this membership. Familial stories carry tenacity and safety for any child. Who are we if we don’t have common stories belonging to each of us? Who doesn’t want to be pulled into the orbit of their parents’ sun, little emerging planets circling the source of their light, searching for our rightful place in the universe?

As I’ve grown older, I understand we are in constant orbit, our places within it always in flux. Sometimes it’s not as we thought, and other times it is and we are not ready for it. We haven’t prepared. We don’t always know and we can’t always be certain, but still we circle the sun. We do it for as long as the sun exists.

Post Script: I’ve been trying to link my WordPress account to my social media accounts, but I had to create a Facebook page seperate from my individual page. Then Facebook had a problem with the title “Cracker.” It suggested, “Unofficial: Cracker” as an alternative. Hmmm. Adding the word “unofficial” suggests an unsavoury propensity for rakish material and a lack of culpability for posting it. Facebook instead accepted “CrackSmack” as the new title of my Facebook page.

When you no longer see the page, CrackSmack, and find me manually adding Cracker to my individual Facebook page, you will know what happened.

It is just the name of a dog, after all.


I held myself accountable. I said I would start painting as a new challenge. I’m sharing this as a good reminder how hard it is to produce anything beautiful and creative. Funnily enough, I walked away from the experience viewing it a lot like snowboarding: I really suck, but I don’t actually care. It’s so much damn fun, and that’s a really great place to find yourself immersed.

March is a busy month on the calendar. The start is a slow emergence away from the dormancy of winter, but halfway through, March is marked by betrayal, Et tu, Brute?, followed closely by the death of a patron saint, Slainte!, and culminating in the start of spring, rebirth!, a few days later. Sometimes, March even includes the Resurrection of Christ. It’s like a burst of  extinction and sanctification, all in a short period of time. At least this year Mercury isn’t in retrograde at the same time… like it was last year…right before the pandemic pissed all over the global directory.

April brings climatic improvement, but that alone isn’t enough to negate the angst of Tax Day for Americans everywhere, amid the myriad of emerging blooms. This year I decided I was going to use Turbotax. Last year, Russ and I filed jointly using a major accounting firm. Despite the extension added to the deadline, Russ and I gathered our papers and handed them over on time. The experience wasn’t overwhelmingly positive. I left thinking, “If it’s so straightforward and easy, I’ll save us a few bucks, and do it myself.”

My experience with accounting firms has not been great. I want to attribute these bleak encounters to the emotionally riddling services they instigate, sort of an ancillary byproduct, like waking up with sweaters on your teeth, after failing to brush them before bed. 

I chose a small firm to do my taxes a few years ago. The first two years the experience went as smoothly as a gaited Paso Fino gliding across the plains. My taxes were prepared efficiently and professionally. After that, they filed for an extension, without having a consultation. I don’t even know if that’s kosher really, but I chalked it up to being a small fish (me) in a big pond (them). My stuff could wait. The next year I proceeded as usual. Once again, I was not notified they had filed for an extension until after the original deadline passed. That year, I ended up owing a significant penalty. I had intentionally liquidated some holdings into cash that year. Filing late does not mean a person can pay taxes on any capital gains late. Who knew? 

That’s not actually a rhetorical question. I thought they would know. The only silver lining is they didn’t send a bill those last two years either, but it sort of begs the question.

What kind of accounting firm does that?”

So Turbotax it was. After aggregating your data, it’s a matter of plugging the right number in the right box. Turbotax does the heavy lifting calculating your fiscal status as you fo through the program. However, adding the wrong number in the wrong place causes Turbotax to stop until you fix it. 

Needless to say, this is where the rubber met the road. 

Like a school crossing-guard standing in the middle of the street stopping traffic, Turbotax raised its yellow flag at the end of its stick with the giant exclamation point in the middle of it. 

You have exceeded income limits for your ROTH IRA contribution and are subject to penalty.”


That. Cannot. Be. Possible.

I added $6,000 which is the limit. 

Wait. Income limits?

Is that even really a thing?

Dazed and Confused (life imitating art), I consulted the expert, Dr. of Economics, Google.

I discovered income limits are indeed subject to federal regulation, but only to ROTH retirement accounts. I had surreptitiously tripped over the fence boards into its jurisdiction, for a variety of  reasons, a collision that ended with a tightly wound ball of hot wax caked in horse shit, the wick dangling dangerously close to the flint, like a hand outstretched desperate for its mate. 

I sat scratching my head, disgusted with Turbotax and Google, twin contrarians in cahoots. In a nutshell, I’m being penalised for paying taxes on my retirement contribution now versus paying taxes on it later. That is the only difference between a ROTH and traditional IRA. My blunder will cost six percent in penalties for 2020…and 2019 as well  (the year the big accounting firm did not catch this oversight the first time). 

Nothing holds a Democrat’s feet to the fire like the pervasiveness or perverseness of unexpected taxes. Despite my best efforts to be fiscally responsible, the penalties felt like a mortar strike just as my tourniquet snapped into shards. 

It’s ridiculous Turbotax’s feckless little bot, not the professional accountant, is who uncovered this massive oversight. (Robots: 1 , Human: 0). I knew the inevitable plan of action for correction was outside of my bailiwick. I called a new boutique firm. They came out of the gate swinging, sucker punching me hard, confirming I will actually be eating a 12% penalty for 2019 since it’s been in the account for two years now, for a total of 18% in fines. 

This experience alone has me flirting with the other side of things. 

Sweep the leg, Johhny. 

Russ and I are at the bottom of our tax bracket, like millions of others in the same situation. This isn’t too dissimilar to being the youngest player in an age brackets for youth sports. A nine year old and a twelve year don’t always have a lot in common with height, weight, maturity, and otherwise. Smaller players aren’t usually as strong, or as resilient, as their teammates. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule, and a lot of other factors to be considered. 

The comparison between tax brackets and age brackets is loosely hung, but what does a couple making $20,000 a year have in common with another couple pulling in $80,000? Or how about a couple making 90K more than those at the bottom of their own tax bracket? Everyone is paying the same percentage of taxes on their income, but they are world’s apart in their standard of living and opportunities. 

This blunder I’m still ironing out made me consider a lot of other policies, such as why an employee can contribute up to $19,500 to an employer-sponsored 401K, but the self-employed can only contribute $6,000 to an IRA, which is likely their only retirement account. Independent contractors are hogtied before they get the shingle on the door. 

I’m mad at myself and this federal regulation, but I’ll get over it, but it does make me wonder where all of our tax dollars go? I believe in taxes and supporting the social good, but it would be nice if Americans were assured they were well spent, or better yet, weren’t squandered, misdirected or spent duplicitously. Being fined for acting as a conscientious steward of my financial future seems highly….contradictory… to the principles of American Dream.

“In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

-Ben Franklin


I hopped in the car and backed down the driveway after a few teary hugs goodbye. The car was brimming with bounty, not unlike a pirate ship after a successful pillage. Tucked inside was a marble-topped table belonging to my maternal great grandparents, and a Victorian rocking chair, its skids brittle and faded after floating trapped in the recent great deluge indoors. A large silver tea tray set made the trip, complete with every accessory except the teapot, which got packed in one of many boxes somewhere else, not to be discovered until another chance moment in the future. 

As I headed north towards Shreveport to pick up I-20, imagining the worst was not hard. Passing through small town after small town, the schools once epicentres of these sparse rural communities, they sat forlorn, dark and empty, their presence foreboding. Only the cows dispersed on either side of the highway, heads down, ripping the last of the pale winter grass by the roots, followed by a Dollar Store planted in the middle of a paved square, were the only indications of commonwealth whatsoever. I couldn’t help but envision the best of samaritans turning spontaneous swindler, like a chameleon changing to meet the color of its environment, after glancing the cavity of the swag bag in transit should mechanical calamity occur. 

In total, it took 25-hours to drive home. I spent the night in Gadsden, AL, about an hour past Birmingham. It was a dry and dark run between the two cities. Finally exiting the interstate, it reminded me of the cluster of hotels in Elkton, MD we frequented when competing at Fair Hill. There were five all stacked together, along with a gas station and a Cracker Barrel. I picked my way through the parking lots to get to the “nicest one,” the Holiday Inn. I unfolded myself like a pretzel and walked my sea legs inside to the lobby. 

Sorry, we’re sold out.


I picked my way back through the parking lot to the other side, what I considered the second “nicest” hotel. When I asked if they had a room, the young guy was hesitant in his answer, but after scrolling his computer screen announced, yes, they did. Shortly after, two other couples came in looking for a room, only to be told what I had already heard before: Sold out. I asked what was going on. We were in the middle of nowhere. Without looking up he said, “High School Basketball Tournament.”

Who knew?

I got the last room, caddy-corner to the front desk, and across from the ice machine. Needless to say, I discovered people’s affinity for ice is an around-the-clock necessity. I watched Killing Eve on my phone until fatigue bettered the day’s stream of adrenaline. I woke early the next day and showered, starting the day by rubbing the complimentary lotion into my hair, instead of the shampoo. It was not a great start for the last leg of the trip. Luckily, I found the Starbucks only a mile away, attached to the side of a truck stop. 

With coffee in hand, I buckled up and started my entertainment for the journey: Wondery’s The Apology Line. It’s a true story about what started as an art project in the 80’s, turned into a cultural centerpiece that lasted well over a decade. I was only a young kid when this artistic experiment began, but listening to the voices and recorded messages from adults at that time made me realise the world was just as fucked up ideologically for a lot of people then, as much as it is now. Human struggle is as persistent as nature’s mission to fill the void with its own kind: relentless.

While I was visiting in Texas, I managed to stay awake during my second writing class. We learned a creative method called “clustering.” It is sort of like roping the stampede of your stream of consciousness into little seperate corrals for identification and branding. I had never done this exercise before and I found it very useful. I tend to operate habitually, which I don’t think is all that uncommon. Good habits are the sunny side of determination. But working on my own comes with benefits and constraints like anything else. I have no choice but to listen to my own words, developing attunement, but also coddling my idiosyncrasies hovering beneath the surface. This is the dark side of habituation. In short, I attribute some of my dry spells as nothing more than hitting the end of the runway that was built intentionally with consistency and determination. It is time to lay new rails in order to go different places.

This week one of our exercises was to write a passage of our own making with the opposite hand. I learned my right hand is highly critical when given the mic, as if it took a speedball and crashed into Jack Nicholson holding the knife standing in the hallway of the Overlook Hotel. Demons really do exist….inside of ourselves. 

The last writing exercise she said, “I want you to write about the four qualities you can become…”

I was off and running. I listed “insivible” and “flying.” Then I got a little more grounded with “generous” and “intelligent.” (Combined, I thought, that sum would be much greater than its parts!)

“…I want you to write about becoming your creativity, your fear, your judgment, your perfectionism. If these parts of you were speaking to you, what would they say?”

Hmm, not as fun.

Looking down at my paper, I always want to start at the beginning of the instructions given, but Judgment leapt to the front of the line screaming, “Look at me, look at me, DAMN IT!”

 This is what I wrote: “I am your judgment. I WIN!! I’m shiny blue like a rosette. No one can touch me, you fucking bitch. I taste like saltwater brine. Too big a mouthful and you choke, just like I want you to. I smell like erudite because I’m clever. I am Villanelle in nice clothes. I am beautiful, unassuming, even in my silver leggings and combat boots. No one ever sees me coming. I smile in your face as I submerge the knife.”

We read our writing to each other in breakout rooms. That was an unsettling experience, sharing our writing so off the cuff and spontaneous, with not a modicum of curation, but it was fun to hear what others wrote using the same prompt. Strangers transformed into peers, their writing pieces each a signature calling card all their own.

This is what I wrote about Creativity: “I am a flower girl with a coronet of daisies in my hair. I am free, a cloud, floating. I am Brene Brown, following the trail, leaving fresh prints. I taste like a desert morning, high above the boulders at Hueco Tanks.”

I said to Russ last night, “Guess what?

He got the same funny look on his face he always does when faced with this ambiguous, always rhetorical, question.


This morning I bought paint, brushes, and paper.”

He smirked. “Why?”

“So I can paint.”


“So I start to rewire my brain and access parts of it that are frustratingly dormant.”

No response.

“So get used to some really shitty art happening in this house!”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Oh…I will!”

“Maybe we can paint together and you can help me!”

“Hmm. Okay, we can do that.”

Because I married an artist. Someone who studied art long enough to earn a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. It’s still in there. It’s in all of us. It’s taking the time to coax it out, inviting it to dance, even when we don’t know who is leading who, or we step all over each other’s feet as we round the floor. 

In lieu of the potential bickering between a husband coaching his wife (in anything), I predict one of us in this marriage will end up with paint swatches all over our clothes, hair and faces instead. 

Who will it be?

Turkey In Charge

There is too much to write. The dry island of writer’s block is now overrun by the volcanic eruption, the rivulets of lava, like details on the page, pour across the canvas fighting for their own purchase . Where do I even begin?

Saturday was the big day. Between five people, we filled 70 boxes with belongings, shredded 60 pounds of decades-old documents, moved furniture out of the house into two piles–keeping or not–rearranging the rest on both floors of the house. It was an emotional day for everyone as we uncovered memory after memory: old letters from my siblings and me, and their kids, all written as small children or young adults; cards full of the kind words from old friends; art projects from elementary school; my parent’s wedding album; Dad’s chemistry textbook, and his precisely-written notebook, a complete analogue with perfect manuscript, documenting his high school classes; it’s eerily similar to his final resume, a bound book chronicling the successes over his career; baby clothes that were either my mother’s or her parents, beautifully kept, but time disintegrating the fabric between our fingers nonetheless; speeding tickets and court appearances of my Dad’s, never mentioned, the fact he had a lead foot discovered sixteen years later by his youngest daughter; model train magazines from the 50’s; my grandmother’s set of Windsor tea cups, long forgotten in the back of the cupboard, carefully wrapped for their imminent journey to their new home in DC. The list of treasures discovered is immense.

It was fun to discover an essay I wrote in college, although, I question whether my writing was better then. The sentences were written in a simple and straightforward sequence, a true moniker of how unaffected, how unfettered, my life was back then. I thought I would share one of these old stories. This one is from my sophomore year of college.

This is dedicated to K.T.

A Turkey In Charge

For someone who never had a cat before, this was quite an experience. It happened two years ago, when on Thanksgiving Day, I was given a little tiny fur ball that could fir in one hand. Turkey, as she was appropriately named, was a longhaired white kitten with chestnut and grey calico spots and blue eyes. At first, Turkey would sleep constantly. I attributed this to her small size, because after she put on a little weight, she became Turkey the Terrorist.

First, it would begin by her climbing up the leg of your jeans to your shoulder. She could do it so fast, that you almost couldn’t stop her. I thought this was real cute, until she tried to do it when I had shorts on. But those she most terrorised were Barney and Autumn. They were the dogs that belonged to my roomate. Barney was a Peek-A-Poo, older, cranky, and set in his ways. We called him Barney the Bohemian Peek-N-Snort because of all the lovely noises he liked to make. Autumn was a middle aged Cocker Spaniel that would pee at the dop of a hat.

Barney didn’t like this newcomer in his house. He used to wait for her to come out of my room, so he could chase her. Turkey didn’t mind though. In fact, she thought this was great fun. She would peer around my bedroom door, and then make a run for the couch in the den. Barney would be right behind her, running as fast as his short little legs would go. He would run so fast, his belly looked like it was touching the ground. Turkey would run under the couch to safety, but this did not last long. Eventually you would see a little white paw sticking out from under the couch, usually swaying at Barney to get his attention. Barney would get so mad that he would run up and down the couch, crouching to try and see her. Sometimes Turkey would climb up the back of the couch and sit and watch Barney as he ran back and forth wimpering to get to her. She would then make her position known, and really irritate Barney. Barney once tried to climb under the couch to get to her, but he got stuck midway. Only his back legs were sticking out like frog legs trying to get himself out from under the couch. My roommate and I left him like that for a few seconds, partly because we were doubled over laughing, and also to teach him a lesson. We had to lift the couch to get him out. Needless to say, he never tried to crawl under it again.

Turkey really liked to antagonise Barney, probably because he was infatuated with her. One time she decided to sleep in his food bowl. She curled herself up all nice and cozy, and went to sleep. At first she went unnoticed, but then Barney saw her. He walked over, and looked at her, and then he started to circle around her, growling. Then he began to bark nonstop. Turkey never moved. She didn’t care. I think she did it just to irritate him.

Autumn really liked turkey. I think Autumn though she was her puppy. She would just lick Turkey until she was sopping wet. Turkey thought this was great fun, because then she would jump on Autumn’s head and attack her. Turkey loved to play with Autumn’s huge ears. All three actually got along well. When nobody was around, they would all three sleep together. As soon as Barney noticed you were there, he would jump up and chase Turkey away. He liked her, he just didn’t want to admit it.

Since we lived over a horse barn, Turkey would spend most days outside finding lots to do. She would scamper through the barn attacking horse blankets that were hanging up or anything else that looked good. If there was a horse in the aisle way, it had to be careful not to swish its tail in fear that turkey might attach herself to it. She did like to swing from the horses’ tails. She had no idea that she was suppose to be scared of them. She would really antagonise the horses when she would hide in their hay in their stalls. A horse could be munching away, when you would see Turkey get down in her pouncing position. With her eyes set on the horse, she would pounce out from under the hay, attacking the horse’s face. Most horses would just pin their ears and look disgusted. One day, when it was really cold outside, I was walking down the aisle way, when I noticed a little white furball all cuddled up on one of the horse’s backs. She was just a happy camper, all warm and cozy. The horse never felt her.

Turkey spent most of her days entertaining herself in these ways, but like all good things, everything must come to an end. College would be starting for me in the fall, so I had to take turkey back to Texas to get acquainted with her new living conditions, and my parents, who would be taking care of her. I wasn’t sure how Turkey was going to take to the domestic life. After all, she wouldn’t have any horses to amuse her. She would have our dog, Bonnie, to keep her company, but Bonnie didn’t like to play with cats.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Turkey adjusted just fine. She would harass Bonnie by grabbing her leg as she waked by but Bonnie didn’t pay any attention. There were also small lizzards to be caught in Texas. Turkey substituted these for the barn mice. Turkey fir right in, and started to takeover the household. She instantly became my dad’s alarm clock by sitting on his face when it was time to get up. Turkey learned Bonnie’s tricot get someone to let her inside. She would sit at the kitchen window, that went almost to the ground, looking in at everyone who would be eating breakfast at the table. If this didn’t get your attention, then she would start climbing up the screen. As soon as you got up to go to open the door, Turkey would run around to seet you, just like the dog,

Now every time I call home, I have to listen to cute turkey stories from both my parents. It never fails. After fifteen minutes of “Turkey this” and “Turkey that”, then its “Oh, by the way, how are you doing?”. There really is a Turkey in charge.