How do you WANDER?

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gift from my sister who knows me well

How do you WANDER? Aimlessly or with purpose? Neither is the wrong answer. Aimlessly means you might be stuck. Everybody gets stuck. And, perhaps, being stuck, helps us wander. Sometimes we wander to discover something new. For me, I wandered on paths that led me to new interests like: tap dancing, hot yoga, pilates, volunteer work, Italian lessons, art lessons, writer’s conferences and workshops, boxing, studying diversity training for children, piano lessons, kickboxing, writing. And did I really just pull out my mom’s old sewing machine?

Don’t just wonder. Wander. It’s a beautiful word and the paths are numerous. So, as you wander, find the things you love. The scenery is stunning.

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photo credit

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Oh, how I miss you, Italy

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painting by me, Carolyn Dennis-Willingham

I miss the language (I’ve forgotten most of what I’ve studied)

I miss the people who say what they mean and mean what they say.

I miss the culture, the arts, the music on the streets.

I miss the architecture and the oldness of things.

I miss the food with its all-fresh ingredients.

I miss the incredible chalk paintings on the streets of Firenze (Florence).

And more.

Wait for me, Italy. I’ll be back!

 

Step Aside, Mr. Mayor

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Mayor Marshal Hicks

Mayor Hicks slammed a fist on the table. “This is a damn murder investigation. That woman had her throat slit. The whore sitting here is known to pull out a knife. Plus, she had possession of the deceased’s scarf. Sheriff or not, you can’t just take them out of here. Miss Dubois has a cell waiting with her name on it.”

Sadie shuddered. Van Riper sat motionless, the emotion behind his squinting eyes, unreadable. Anger? Curiosity?

John shot a dogged grin at Hicks. “What murderer would flaunt a scarf belonging to the person they’d killed? What murderer could slit a throat and have no blood on their clothes when they returned home? Now, step aside. We’re leaving.”

Hicks’s face flushed with rage. “So you can go back to your whore madam? Make a sandwich between the sheets? Talk about a conflict of interest!”

In a  Blur of motion, John pinned Hicks to the wall, his hands around the mayor’s throat.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

 

The One Hundred Languages of Children

An amazing inspirational poem about children, the mistakes we make in teaching them, and how they can learn to become their true selves.

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photo credit

THE ONE HUNDRED LANGUAGES OF CHILDREN

The child is made of one hundred.

The child has a hundred languages a hundred hands a hundred thoughts a hundred ways of thinking of playing, of speaking.

A hundred always a hundred ways of listening of marvelling of loving a hundred joys for singing and understanding a hundred worlds to discover a hundred worlds to invent a hundred worlds to dream.

The child has a hundred languages (and a hundred hundred more) but they steal ninety-nine.

The schools and the culture separate the head from the body.

They tell the child: to think without hands to do without head to listen and not to speak to understand without joy to love and to marvel only at Easter and Christmas.

They tell the child: to discover the world already there and of the hundred they steal ninety-nine.

They tell the child: that work and play reality and fantasy science and imagination sky and earth reason and dream are things that do not belong together.

And thus they tell the child that the hundred is not there.

The child says: No way. The hundred is there.

Loris Malaguzzi

 

The Smart Crust

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March, when Scooter turned fourteen, the handmade crown Miss Primrose gave Scooter never stayed on his head. I’m not so sure it was the crown’s fault.

“I agree, Scoot, ol’ Buddy,” Frank says. “We should wait until we’re real kings to wear crowns.”

“King Scooter Hutchings.” Scooter chuckles. “King Scooter Hutchings doesn’t walk on crutches.”

“Frank,” I say. “Are you teaching Scoot to rhyme?”

Frank shrugs and smiles.

“All the time,” Scooter squeals.

We laugh our way to the final steps of the schoolhouse. “Scooter, remember about tonight. We can’t tell Bernie about our plans. It’s a secret,” I tell him. “I want our plans to come to fruition.”

Scooter crinkles his nose.

“You know—”

“Work as planned,” Scooter says, pulling out his pocketknife.

Scooter is the smart crust around the Juicy apple pie that holds everything together.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket