Dark Pleasures by Angie Ledbetter

"Loafing needs no explanation and is its own excuse." ~ Christopher Morley

I went to see a movie yesterday with my daughter. It was nice to spend time together since we haven't done much of that lately and I always enjoy her company. She makes me laugh and we have a lot in common. It was especially nice being in a dark theater in the middle of the day and getting tickets at matinee rates. The theater is nearby and wasn't very crowded because most people were still at work, so it felt almost like we were playing hooky.

There's really nothing like sinking into a plush comfortable chair in the cool darkness and sinking away into anonymity. The movie we chose was decently funny and captivating; enough so that I was able to forget the lists of things I could/should be doing and totally relax for a few hours.

Escape is important. It eases stress and relieves tension. I had a great afternoon doing something I don't get to do often, and with a person whose company I enjoy. I'm thankful for that time...and the buttered popcorn I had for "lunch."

Three Photographs by Kat Magendie

1.
See. The back of the neck shot. My ear like a seashell. The age on my face barely shown on a half cheek. My hair grown out a bit. The shadows where the sun hits and bounces off. I am white, even with my Indian ancestor. I am looking down, and away. Maybe I am thinking how the person attached to that foot, making that shadow, is coming too close. For the back of my neck is vulnerable. The earring about to puncture the soft underneath my ear. Sunglasses hide my thoughts. The back of my neck. At Chimney Rock

2.
Black and White. I remember this day, just a little. To the photographer we went to record my youth. I remember my shoes were too tight, and I kept pulling at the strap as I sat in the backseat of the rambler. I had not long been with my new mother, who hadn't adopted me yet; and my father who was driving, one arm always more tanned than the other from leaving it draped out of the window; who had airconditioned cars then, the rich? I remember how proud I was that my new mother let me wear her single-pearl necklace. It lay heavy against my chest, that grown up symbol (somewhere an unrest occurred, but why would someone so young know these things?). My hair long and tied back into a ponytail, and it shone with the strokes of the brush my new mother gave it. I can still feel her hand as it smoothed the flyaways, following the brush against my scalp. I see my young self from the height of my grown self. The little me fits perfectly inside the grown up me. Smile! Snap! Flash! Then, my father drove us home and I took off the dress, and the too tight shoes, and the grown symbol around my neck and I became just a dirty barefooted kid again, running in the grass with my brothers, never knowing I'd one day look at this picture and sigh. What does the sigh tell me? I can't figure it out.

3.
You are grinning out of your car window, that old heap of junk you fixed up. Your eyes are almost crinkled shut, and your teeth are strong and white. A shock of hair falls on your forehead, a comma, separating your expressive eyebrows. The nose you share with me—brother-sister similarities of eye, nose, ear, chin, smile—breathes the Texas air. You are a million miles away from me. Yet, there you are.

Gratitude for the life in still form, that look back, that moment captured, the moment that has no awareness of its future, but I, from this distance know all, like I am a god but only with hindsight.

Non-Cancelable Flights by Nannette Croce

You know the feeling. You’re staring at your itinerary on Expedia or Travelocity, index finger hovering over the mouse, heart pounding. Once you click “Submit” it’s a done deal. No going back. Okay, you can purchase the cancelation insurance, but that only applies in drastic cases––things you don’t want to even think about lest you call up those evil spirits you’re forever knocking from any nearby wood.

Sometimes, though, that non-cancelation policy can be a good thing. Like when you are experiencing ambivalence about the writer’s workshop you will be attending in just two––gulp––weeks now. Yes, I’m still on that one. Bet you’ll all be glad when it’s over.

Me too.

Well, not really. I think that now, but I know that last night I will be wishing it could go on longer. You see, I’ve been in this situation before. I’ve even felt that way about fun trips I’ve taken from time to time, like the time I left on Father’s Day for the first trip I took on my own in years or, once, when my daughter suffered her first major break-up the day before I was set to leave for my 50th birthday Pottery Tour of the Southwest.

And every time I’ve lost that feeling the minute I arrived at the hotel.

I sometimes wonder, if I could easily cancel my flight, get all the money back, even lose just $50 or so, how many trips would I have skipped the last minute? How many great times would I have missed? How many learning experiences would I have passed on?

I can’t get my money back now. Not for the flight or the workshop.

Eventually, I’ll be grateful for that.

Suddenly Summer by Barbara Quinn

It went to suddenly summer in the last couple of days here in the Northeast. One day I was wearing long pants, shoes, and socks, the next, my flip-flops and capris. Since summer is my favorite season, I’ve been quite happy to see it finally arrive. My herb garden is finally starting to grow and my flowers are thriving in the heat.

I spent Sunday on the beach where there was way too much wind to hoist the umbrella. But the breeze was warm, so I slathered on the sunblock and later a long-sleeved shirt. In spite of the breeze I managed to read most of the Sunday Times. There’s nothing better than sitting on the beach reading, with the sound of the surf and gulls surrounding me. And when I get tired of reading, the people watching is just as pleasurable.

Couples old and young stroll hand in hand along the shore. Babies toddle toward the surf with concerned parents following behind. Children dig holes and build sand castles. Gulls and sandpipers look for dinner in the waves. Women collect shells, men use metal detectors to find treasures. It’s the same every year. And best of all, people are smiling. The ocean is not for the grumpy. The sea and salt air work their magic on those who draw comfort from dipping their toes in the sand and soaking up the atmosphere. Not all of us are beach people, but for those of us who are, the beach is a joyful place, second to none.

Hooray for the summer season!

Good Tired by Angie Ledbetter

Sometimes our plans and gotta-do stuff clumps together in a wad of busy days and we run as fast as we can to keep up and check off the things filling our lists. I've had a week of that -- a 6-day writers conference and my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party the day after I returned.

The conference required a lot of mental work and writing, with lots of walking around the huge hotel all day, and a 3-hour ghost walking tour around New Orleans. Okay, I'm 48, heavy and not in marathon shape, so it was more exercise (physical & mental) than I'm used to, but I'm not complaining. Actually, I enjoyed it and took the stairs sometimes when an elevator was just as close. The point is, my body spent almost a week in unfamiliar circumstances and in a strange bed. But out of that conference, I got some golden nuggets in the form of an improved manuscript and some successful agent pitches. I was exhausted, but so glad I went.

Yesterday my parents celebrated five decades of a wonderful marriage full of love, laughter, grandchildren, and great-grands. The guest list had to be limited because of the venue, but their friends could've filled the New Orleans Superdome. And what a tribute and statement to their goodness that is. It was fun helping put together the party, and again, I felt that "good tired" you experience after an unfamiliar event or circumstance involving some effort pays you back with dividends you weren't expecting.

I slept like the proverbial log the last two nights and the jetlag I felt (even though I was nowhere near an airport) has lifted. I'm ready for whatever comes my way and looking for more "good tired" nights. I am grateful for last week and that my body, mind and spirit kept up with the demands needing to be met. And, again, I'm grateful for my good soft bed.

A Fairly Fair Fairy Story by Kat Magendie

Once upon a time, in a land up high, there lived a Queen. This Queen’s King was on a trip to a mysteriously eerie swamp-land called South Louisiana. Whilst the King was away, the Queen danced and sang and had no fingerprints, dribbles, and the entire bedchamber was hers and hers alone. Then, came the morning when the Queen looked upon her larder in the Frigidaire, and noticed there were no more greens, there was no more grapefruit juice, and on the royal counter, there were no more apples, and in the most high royal pantry, there were no more Cheerios and Cocoa Pebbles. The Queen, in a panic, summoned her minions, but realized she had no minions, just two fat lazy dogs who, by the way, were almost out of their royal pain dog food!

The Queen fretted and moaned and gnashed her teeth. Where did these wondrous and nutritional items come from if not from minions? Surely they did not just appear out of the misty mountain air? The Queen sat her quite shapely for her age rump upon her stately throne and thought and thought, and the thoughts became more thoughts, and those thoughts went off into tangents of thoughts until her brain squeezed and she had to blink and give her head a shake and pronounce, “Where were art I?” Then, she recollected her mind, and sighed, “Yes, my larder is bare. I have none of the precious foodstuffs that I daily enjoy.” Then with a start, a horrified, “Augh!” The Queen also realized there was soon to be no more Charmin to be had in the Land of Mountains.

“Oh, Oh, whatever will I do?” The Queen sobbed. She paced the little log royal castle, wringing her royal hands. Then, it came to her, how these things suddenly appeared to the royal homestead. The King! Yes! The King went to the village and pillaged the Ingles Supermarket and brought forth his bounty for the Queen’s enjoyment so the Queen never had to leave her mountaintop. The Queen pondered and pontificated and gasped and ballyhooed. And when the King returned from his quest from the wet mooshy land of yore, she ran to him and rained upon his face kisses, and said, “My King! My King! Get thee to Ingles quickly, for my cupboard is bare!” And the King set off without complaint, off to the village to pummel and plunder for his Queen. And his Queen was ever so ever grateful, even if she sometimes doesn’t show the King thusly so. The End.

My Back Porch by Nannette Croce

Funny how it is sometimes the little things that enrich our lives. Take my back porch.

Just about all the suburban houses in my part of the country, built in the last couple decades, come with wooden decks. A great feature people use about three times a year when it’s not too hot or too cold and the bugs aren’t biting. I’d completely forgotten about screen-in porches like we had in my childhood home, until, ten years ago when we were looking for a new house, that back porch was what clinched the deal.

I know other things in my house hold far more value real estate wise––the kitchen we updated, the size of the family room, the full basement, but I’d take a house half the size so long as it had that screened-in porch. When we first moved in, a hectic year for me following an untimely death in the family, a new business venture for my husband, and, of course, the stresses of buying and selling homes simultaneously, I made a point of taking some reading time on that porch every afternoon. It always catches the breezes, the angle of the sun in spring turns the yard a deep green, and the surrounding plants and bushes attract an array of birds, including hummingbirds.

Even in the rain, I love sitting in the protection watching the storm rage around me, now and then a spray of rain being carried in by the wind––refreshing on a muggy day. And in winter it’s a nice place to watch the snow fall and stack the wood for the fireplace.

Forget the square footage and the number of baths, when I look for the home I will retire in, I want a screened-in back porch.