Thanks and appreciation to James Stafford for running my piece Beach Music on his Why It Matters site!

 If you're up for more from me - Thank You! - I have a few more stories gathered loosely under the Memoir: On the Street Where I Live heading.  This is the most recent: The Sticky-hot Days of Summer. I'm really glad you stopped by.

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Baker Street Station—Sherlock Holmes was there

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Baker Street Station The main thing my husband wanted to see in London was London ... as Sherlock Holmes saw it. So our first move, like any fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation was to take a double decker bus to Baker Street. As it turns out I read the map upside down or sideways or maybe it was backwards but we found ourselves in Putney at the bridge. Very much in the wrong direction. Over half an hour by car, which we didn't have. We wound up taking the tube back in the right direction which delivered us to the Baker Street Station. The station is one of the original stations opened when the Metropolitan Railway—the world's first underground railway—was built in 1863.  While we don't immediately think of Sherlock dashing out on the tube, he very well could have and in fact the rail, train etc is alluded to in several dozen Sherlock stories. The Baker Street station is situated on the very block where Sherlock lived at 221B Baker Street. Or should I say th...
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An Undying Love ... just an old love story.

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The Coleus under Roy and Martha’s front porch window look a little scraggly, nothing but tall leggy stems bending in their bed of dry cracked earth. The gardener would never let them go like that if Roy hadn’t been so sick. If Roy had been up and around, standing tall the way he used to, those plants would be standing tall too, their leaves firm and perky, the ground blanketed with a soft, moist layer of mulch. Well-tended. That was the best way to describe Roy’s garden and come to think of it, Roy too. I try to remember if I saw the gardener this past Wednesday, his usual day to mow and blow. Who will notice if Roy’s plants die now? Not Roy who is sick in bed. Not Martha who uses a walker and rarely ventures outside. Roy told me once that Martha wouldn’t allow him to get her a wheelchair. She couldn’t stand the idea of looking like an invalid. That sounds like Martha, the kind of woman that old-fashioned words like proud and stubborn apply to. Too proud for her own good. Martha’s se...
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#4 Turkish Delight: Izmir, Turkey, 1957

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Turkish Delight There’s darkness everywhere, shapeless black all around except for a blur of wavering yellow light in the distance. Something has woken me up. Muffled voices in the darkness; a man’s—deep, hushed, whispering. Then another—higher pitched, a lady’s? My mother’s? I hear my name, “Simmy” but I can’t make out the rest; just sharp, staccato sounds.  A shadow crosses the yellow light, so big it blocks the brightness, and there’s nothing but blackness again. The dark shadow, darker than the darkness, is moving fast, coming closer, heading towards me and I’m too terrified to move or breathe or close my eyes. If I stay perfectly still maybe it won’t get me. I watch as the black blur moves towards me, growing larger as it comes closer and closer and just as it reaches under the blanket to scoop me up with its big hands, I want to cry because I can tell from the smell that it’s my father.  “It’s Daddy” he says, pulling a blanket around me, a...
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