Water Color

The following short story was inspired by a poetry prompt. Last month in our third Thursday group meeting, we were given a suggestion to write a poem in a different dialect. After spending six months in Fargo, North Dakota, and listening to A Prairie Home Companion for years, the North Dakota Norwegian way of speaking came to mind. What started as a poem turned into flash fiction. Click this link to hear me read it.

***

WHEN TWO NORTH DAKOTA NORWEGIANS WATER COLOR

 

 

In their retirement,       Nils and Astrid spent a lot of time painting since their children were grown and scattered across the country. They took art classes at the senior center in Fargo and worked on their assignments together at home. Their love of painting didn’t keep them from bickering, but they always made up.

That June day in 2015 was no different. They were sitting in their back yard. The early morning sun shone in a cloudless sky. Birds sang, and the flower bushes’ scent wafted across the lawn. As Nils dipped his brush into the small container of red paint a little too vigorously, it splattered onto the white picnic table. “ufta, oh darn,” he said.

His wife looked up and frowned at the splotch of red against white. “Well then, you spilled it, you clean it up.”

“So how come you’re so cranky then?”

“Cranky, I’m not cranky. I’m not the one who spilled the paint.”

“Yes you are. You’re cranky because I dripped a little red paint on your nice white table.”

“Who says I’m cranky? I’m not. So clean up that paint then.”

“You are cranky. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so mad about me spilling the paint then.”

“Oh shut up then about that paint and clean it up already.”

“Why should I? You made me spill it then.”

“I did no such thing then.”

“Yes you did. You distracted me.”

“Oh ufta tufta, you poor thing. You can’t multi-task so you blame me then.”

“Yeah, so if you’re gonna be so gung ho about it, you can clean it up.”

“Me, I didn’t spill the paint. You did.”

“Yeah, but you made me spill it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not, but just to shut you up, I’ll…” In her haste to pull herself off the picnic bench, she knocked over the small container of water between them. “Oh ufta tufta, look what you made me do. Now, we got a real mess on our hands, thanks to you.”

“Me, you’re the one who knocked over the water.”

“Yeah, well, you distracted me then.”

“Well, now you know how I felt when you distracted me, and I spilled the paint so let’s just get some paper towels and clean this mess up together, huh?” Nils stood, turned, and embraced his wife. She relaxed, and a moment later, they kissed.

***

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazon

One More Review: Gustus Dei

Gustus Dei by Monica Byrne. Copyright 2015 && 2016.

 

This short story was published in two literary journals over the past year and is now available as a free download in various formats here. I ran across it on Twitter last night. Since I’m not sure how long it’ll be available, I decided to post this now instead of with next month’s reviews.

The story’s time and location aren’t clear, but because of the lack of modern conveniences and the mention of native Americans, I’m assuming it’s in North America during the 18th or 19th century. A novice nun in a convent grapples with the idea that everything is corrupt and the necessity of being pure at all times. Parts of the story, including the ending, are surreal.

Although my family’s not Catholic, I’ve always been interested in the religion. I was in awe of my friend next door who went to a parochial school and called her teacher Sister. When as a teen-ager, I took an interest in attending a Catholic college in Kansas, miles away from my home in Wyoming, my father said, “Oh, you want to be a nun. Well, if you enter a convent, you’ll have to give up Dr. Pepper.”

I did not want to be a nun, but that didn’t stop me from being interested in them. The turn of events in this story fascinated me, and I wish I knew the significance of the title. I’m assuming it’s Latin but couldn’t find a definition. To learn more about Monica Byrne and her work, click here.

***

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazon

January 2016 Book Reviews

Pioneer Girl: The Annotated Autobiography by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Edited by Pamela Smith Hill. Copyright 2014 by Little House Heritage Trust.

 

This is the basis for the author’s Little House series. She talks about her life from her earliest childhood memories in Kansas in 1869 to her wedding in 1885. She details her family’s many journeys from Kansas to Wisconsin where they previously lived, to Minnesota, to Iowa, then back to Minnesota, and finally to Dakota Territory. She relates many anecdotes and talks about the myriad of characters her family encountered in various locations, many of whom I remember from the Little House series, although some names were changed, and some stories varied.

She also discusses the hardships her family endured including grasshoppers in Minnesota and the blizzard of 1880 in Dakota Territory, the basis for The Long Winter, Wilder’s sixth book in the series. She also explains how her older sister Mary became blind right before the family moved from Minnesota to Dakota Territory. There were other incidents not mentioned in any of the Little House books.

According to Pamela Smith Hill, the editor, the original manuscript was not broken into sections as it is now. Each part details life in each location where the family lived with several sections devoted to their life in Dakota Territory. Scattered throughout the book are footnotes with additional information about a person, place, or thing. There are also strike-throughs and other indications of editing. At the beginning of the book, the editor explains her process, and at the end are appendices and bibliographies of books, magazine articles, and Web sites.

Although I enjoyed reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s story from her first person point of view, I found the footnotes and editorial insertions distracting. They interrupted the flow of the story and should have been included in a separate appendix. Maybe someday, I’ll write my own autobiography the way Laura Ingalls Wilder did. I’m sure that a hundred years from now, people will be interested in how we live today, just as we are curious about how Laura Ingalls Wilder lived over a century ago.

***

On the Way Home by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Copyright 1962 by Roger Lee McBride.

 

This short book contains diary entries the author made in 1894 while she and her husband Almanzo and daughter Rose, who was seven years old at the time, were traveling from Desmet, South Dakota, to Mansfield, Missouri. They started their journey by covered wagon in mid-July and arrived in Mansfield at the end of August. The chapters preceding and following the diary entries are told from Rose’s point of view. She describes life before the family left South Dakota and after they arrived and were settled in Missouri. At the end, there is some biographical information about Laura and Rose.

I found the diary entries bland. They mainly consisted of a run-down of what happened when with little dialog or expression of emotion. How would it feel to leave your mother and father and friends whom you may never see again and move far away to a place where you’ve never been? Of course Laura and her parents and sisters did a lot of traveling, never staying in one place longer than a few years until they settled in Dakota Territory, so she was probably used to it. Still, I would like to have known her thoughts.

Rose’s chapters were more interesting. She doesn’t appear to have been given much credit for her part in the book. I was left wanting to know more.

***

The State We’re in by Ann Beattie. Copyright 2015.

 

From the author of Chilly Scenes of Winter, a book I read years ago in college, comes a collection of short stories set in the state of Maine, hence the title. These tales aren’t so much about the state as about the people. Three of them are about a teen-aged girl from Massachusetts sent to live with her uncle and aunt in Maine while her mother recovers from surgery. Other tales are about different people such as two writers who meet for lunch to discuss Truman Capote and a couple from Maine who vacation in Nevada and have an opportunity to watch a movie being made. Some stories have endings that are up in the air while others have more definite conclusions. Click here to learn more about Ann Beattie and her work.

This book gave me an idea for my own short story collection centered on a similar theme. I’ve written several tales that take place in Wyoming, my home state, and others that I can adapt so they appear to take place here. Once I get my memoir put to bed, so to speak, I’ll work on this.

 

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazond

After the Wedding Pawn (Fiction)

Author’s Note: I was inspired to post the following after reading Alice Massa’s story on Wordwalk last week. Alice and I are both involved with the same writers’ organization, Behind Our Eyes, and a few years ago when I was President, I gave the group several writing prompts having to do with weddings. You can click this link to hear me read my story.

***

AFTER THE WEDDING PAWN

 

At the end of a long day of work, I used the tip of my cane to feel each step in front of me, as I climbed aboard the bus. When I put my token in the slot, the driver said, “Hi Frank, someone’s already in your usual seat, but the one next to it is empty. Don’t worry. I’ll still see you, and I won’t forget to tell you when I get to the corner of Mills and Watson.”

“Thanks Ed,” I said. After eight years of working at J. B. Lansing and riding the same bus back and forth every day, why was my usual seat now taken? I was too tired and frustrated to care. As I turned to walk to the next seat, the voice of the man in my seat stopped me cold. “Hey bro.”

Oh great, I thought. Wasn’t it bad enough that my new boss couldn’t work with my blindness, despite the fact that for the past eight years, I was proactive in improving the company’s computer system and that I was dedicated, with an excellent employment record? Now, here was my brother, back to make my life miserable again. “I’ll move over so you can sit here,” he said, and I heard his body shift from one seat to the next.

At least he had some manners this time, I thought, as I took the vacant seat, folded my cane, and grasped the pole in front of me, as the bus lurched forward. I turned my head in his direction and sniffed. What, no booze? I sniffed again. “I’m dry as a bone,” said Jess. “Have been for about as long as you’ve been working at JBL.”

“How did you know I was working at JBL?”

“Mom told me. She always wanted us to make up.”

“Yeah, even though she sacrificed her ring so I’d have one to give to Jackie at our wedding after you got drunk and pawned ours at the last minute. It was bad enough I couldn’t afford to buy her a good ring, but then you had to steal it.”

“I don’t remember doing that, but yes. She and Dad always respected your wishes. You didn’t want to have anything more to do with me so they didn’t have you over when I was there, and you didn’t want them to even mention my name so they didn’t.”

“But she told you all about me? Did she tell you that after you pawned Jackie’s ring, there almost wasn’t a wedding? Jackie told me for months beforehand that she didn’t trust you as best man, that I should ask my good buddy Jerry to stand up with me instead. I wanted to give you one more chance, and you blew it. When I got to the altar, Jackie almost didn’t say I do. I had to get down on my knees, literally, and promise her I would always listen to her and never trust you again.”

“That’s why when you and Jackie came to the rehab center for Family Day, in front of all those people, after Mom and Dad said they forgave me for the third time, you said you wouldn’t have anything more to do with me until I paid you back the two hundred and fifty dollars the wedding ring cost. You said I shouldn’t bother darkening your door unless I came up with the money.”

“So you decided to take my seat on the bus instead?”

“I didn’t know it was your seat. Mom just told me which bus you ride to and from work.”

“So your last time through rehab actually worked? You haven’t had a drink in eight years?”

“After you said you didn’t want to have anything more to do with me until I paid you back for the ring, I knew I had to make it up to you, that I had to give you and Jackie a reason to trust me, for good this time.”

“So what did you do when you got out of rehab?”

“You know I’ve always been the athletic type, and you’ve always been the brains of the family. I should have listened to Mom and Dad when they told me there was more to life than football.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“Even before I turned nineteen, I had to drink to forget I wasn’t college football material. The fact that you were always ahead of me and passing just about everything with flying colors despite being blind didn’t help.”

“So what did you do after your third stint in rehab?”

“I figured if I couldn’t play football professionally, I could teach it. With Mom and Dad’s blessing and some financial support, I went back to college and this time, I majored in physical education. You’re looking at the P.E. teacher and football coach at our old school, Waverly High.”

I turned my head in his direction, not believing what I was hearing. “You mean that?”

“Yep, it wasn’t easy, but I’m proud to be where I am today.”

“Way to go, dude,” I said, thumping him on the back.

“Mom told me your son Chad is seven and playing soccer, and your daughter Amber is five and starting ballet. I hope to still be at Waverly High when Chad gets there. I’ll teach him a few things about football and about life.”

All I could say was “Wow.” I pinched myself and shook my head to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot something,” said Jess. “Give me your hand for a second.”

To my surprise, I found him counting bills into it. “A hundred, two hundred, twenty, forty, and fifty, there you go.”

“What the…”

“You said you wouldn’t have anything more to do with me until I paid you back what I owe you for the wedding ring so here it is. Your little brother’s not a loser anymore.”

Dazed, I folded each bill separately before placing it in my wallet. “Hey Frank, here’s your corner,” the driver called, as the bus jerked to a stop.

“Come on, bro,” said Jess, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go buy Jackie a new ring.”

I pulled my arm free and took his. “Oh sorry buddy,” said Jess. “I forgot. It’s been a long time.”

I didn’t know what to think, as he led me off the bus and down the street to a nearby jewelry store. As we stood at the display case, waiting for assistance, Jess said, “Oh wow, look at that ring. It looks just like the one you were going to give Jackie.”

“How would you know? You said you don’t remember the ring.”

“I don’t remember pawning it, but I sure remember what it looked like, almost like Mom’s ring which you gave Jackie instead. It’s too bad Jackie isn’t blind. If she were, she probably wouldn’t have known the difference.”

“You know, Jess, I may not be athletic, but I do know how to throw a punch, and if I didn’t have a wife and kids to support, I’d risk doing some jail time just to hear your body hit the floor.”

“Hey Frank, I’m sorry, really I am. I didn’t mean that. Jackie’s a good woman. You’re lucky to have her. Maybe someday, I’ll find one just like her.”

“May I help you?” said a woman’s voice.

“Yes, we’d like to see that ring there,” said Jess. My brother wants to buy it for his wife. He’s blind so he needs to feel it.”

I hated the idea that Jess and others thought they needed to speak for me because of my impairment but let it go for now. “Oh this ring would be perfect for your wife,” said the clerk, placing it in my outstretched palm. “It has a gold band and one gold stone in the center. If it doesn’t fit her, we can always re-size it.”

I was amazed when I felt the ring. “You’re right, little brother. It’s just like the other one,” I said, fighting back tears. “How much is it?”

“We have it on special for two twenty-five,” answered the clerk.

“Wow, bro, you still have twenty-five dollars to spend,” said Jess, as I paid her.

“How come Jackie doesn’t drive you to and from work?” he asked, as we walked the few blocks to my house.

“She’s got a lot to do as it is, getting the kids to and from school, soccer practice, and ballet class. Next year when Amber starts first grade and is in school all day, she’s thinking about going back to work, at least part time, if the newspaper will hire her again.”

As we strolled up the front walk, Jess said, “It looks like Mom and Dad are here. Dad’s Plymouth is parked in the driveway.”

My talking watch announced it was six o’clock. “That’s funny. I don’t remember inviting them to dinner.”

“Surprise!” I was startled by the voices that greeted us, as we walked in the front door. I shook my head.

“Happy birthday, bro!” said Jess, thumping me on the back.

It was my birthday. With all the stress I’d been having at work and Jess showing up all of a sudden, I’d forgotten about it. “Did you know about this, little brother?”

Jess only laughed.

“Who’s that with you, Daddy?” said Amber, as she approached us.

I was still holding Jess’s arm, and I felt him bend down and tousle the little girl’s hair. “Hey cutie, I’m your uncle Jess.”

“What’s he doing here?” said Jackie.

I reached into my pocket and took out the ring in its box. “Honey, I have something for you.”

“It’s your birthday, and you’re giving me a present,” said Jackie, as she took the box. I heard her open it and the rattle of tissue paper. “Oh my God, it’s my wedding ring. Where did you find it? Oh honey, happy birthday. I love you.” A moment later, I was in her arms.

***

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazon

Order That’s Life from Finishing Line Press.

Vote for my new book idea.

 

In the Moment (Fiction)

I sat in the classroom, not knowing what to write. The only sounds were heavy breathing from the guy next to me and the scratch of pencil against paper. The blank sheet stared me in the face.

I stared back, as time dragged on. Another student walked in late, whispering an apology. Footsteps sounded in the hall, as others walked by the open door.

I stared out the open window that overlooked the courtyard. Birds sang. Students laughed, as they passed the building, no inspiration there.

I looked around at other students sitting at tables set up in a u-shape format, the blackboard, the professor’s laptop on the lectern at the front of the room. I turned and stared at the computers lining the wall behind me. At the beginning of class, the instructor said we could use them if we didn’t want to write the old-fashioned way. I stood up and made my way to one of the terminals.

Sitting down, I pushed a button, and the screen came to life with Facebook in all its glory. Without thinking, I typed my log-in information and went straight to my home newsfeed page. There, on my timeline, were his words. “Emma Sawyer, you’re nothing but a goody two-shoes. Go to Hell!”

Others gasped, and a few tittered. I turned to see projected on the screen above the blackboard my Facebook timeline with Jeremy’s ugly words. Other screens were lit up, probably displaying the same information. I opened my mouth but couldn’t say anything.

Someone was shaking me. “Emma, wake up.” It was my roommate Shelley. The bland classroom walls dissolved into the walls of my dorm room, decorated with my photos and Shelley’s rock star posters.

“Oh, what is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“It’s after nine. Didn’t you hear your alarm? Your creative writing class starts at ten. Oh, and Jeremy called.”

“Shit,” I said, sitting up and reaching for my cell. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

”           “Of course not, silly, I just saw who it was on your caller ID. I’m glad you finally got rid of that bozo.”

“Yeah, he’s a real jerk. He’s here on a football scholarship so all he can think about are football, football, and football. He just wants to have fun, and he can’t understand that there are times when I need to study. Oh well….”

I picked up my phone and, with the push of a few buttons, blocked his calls and deleted him from my contacts. I then reached for my lap top.

“Emma, it’s after nine. You’re going to be late,” said Shelley, putting on her coat.

“I know, but if I don’t do this now, he’ll ruin my day.”

“And if you don’t eat breakfast, you’ll ruin your health, but that’s not my problem, is it?” said Shelley, sounding disgusted, as she slung her back pack over her shoulders. “I’m off to the cafeteria and then to my music therapy class. See you later.”

I waited for the computer to boot up, then went straight to Facebook where I un-friended Jeremy and blocked him from contacting me. For good measure, I deleted my Facebook account, figuring I could create another one later. I also blocked him from e-mailing me and removed his address.

I showered, dressed, and dashed to my class, grabbing a Hostess Twinkie and a can of Dr. Pepper on the way. I made it just in time. After roll call, the instructor, a woman who looked to be in her twenties said, “Okay, for the next fifteen minutes, I want you to write about being in the moment.”

THE END

***

The above story appears in the fall/winter issue of Magnets and Ladders at http://www.magnetsandladders.org . It was inspired by a memoir writing workshop I took last fall, held in a classroom similar to that in the story, with computers along the walls that students could use. The instructor, also a young woman in her twenties, gave us a similar prompt, to write about being in the moment.

***

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazon

Order That’s Life from Finishing Line Press.

Vote for my new book idea.

Visitation (Fiction))

The following story appears in the fall/winter 2015 issue of Magnets and Ladders at http://www.magnetsandladders.org . To hear me read it, go to https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/15213189/visitation.mp3 . Happy Halloween.

***

Carrie was fourteen years old and lived in an apartment with her mother in New York City. A year earlier, her father wandered into traffic one night while drunk and was killed by an oncoming bus.

He wasn’t always drunk. Carrie remembered many times as a child when he picked her up after school while between jobs and took her to the park where they flew homemade kites, and he pushed her on swings and waited for her at the bottom of the slide. When she joined a softball league at school, he bought her a used glove, ball, and bat and showed her how to pitch, catch and throw. He occasionally took her for ice cream.

As she grew older, his drinking bouts increased in frequency. He rarely took her places after school and was hardly ever home when she went to bed. She often found him sleeping on the couch in the morning.

Her mother, Dianna, constantly berated him. He kept saying he was sorry, that he would stop drinking and get a job and keep it. He never quit drinking, and he never kept a job for long.

Dianna worked as a secretary at a Baptist church. Carrie was used to getting by on the meager salary her mother received. Most of the time, it was their only source of income, barely enough to pay the rent on their small, shabby apartment, let alone buy food.

On the night Carrie’s father died, when he didn’t come home for supper, her mother packed his clothes and other items in a box that she left outside the apartment door with a note. He never claimed his belongings.

During the following year, Carrie and her mother were forced to move to an even smaller, shabbier one-room apartment, and Carrie had to switch schools. Dianna threw herself into the myriad of projects at the church to help those in need. These took up a lot of her time, and Carrie was left to fend for herself most of the time when she wasn’t in school. She didn’t attempt to make friends because the squalor where she lived embarrassed her, and she never kept in touch with former classmates.

One day after school, she boarded the bus, resigned to yet another evening alone with the cockroaches and leaking roof. She hated riding buses since her father was killed by one, but on this cold Halloween evening, it was getting dark, and she didn’t want to walk alone at night. As she did many times, she stayed after classes to study in the library where it was warm. Now, as the sky gradually darkened, she found a seat in the back of the crowded bus and stared out the window at people and buildings, as it bumped along, stopping every so often to pick up and drop off passengers.

Someone sat next to her. A hand fell on her knee, and a familiar voice said, “Hey sweet pea.”

She jumped and turned to see a man who looked just like her father, wearing baggy blue jeans and his favorite plaid shirt, the clothes he wore the day he died. She detected no acrid stench of booze but a whiff of the cologne he wore when he was sober. Thinking he was just another pervert who happened to look, smell, and sound like her father, she turned back toward the window. “I know you don’t believe it’s me, princess, but it is,” he said, taking her hand.

Princess, that was one of the many names he called her. “Leave me alone,” she said, jerking her hand away and moving closer to the window. People turned and stared, and she wondered why.

“Honey, nobody can see me. I’m a ghost.”

“You’re nuts,” she said, turning back to him.

“So are you,” said a man across the aisle.

This couldn’t be real, she thought, as her face grew hot, and she stared at the man sitting next to her. She shook her head and blinked several times. “Carrie, you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

She turned back toward the window. She was nowhere near her stop, but she had to get off this bus now. Without a word, she reached for the bell to signal the driver to stop. The man’s hand shot up and grabbed hers. “You’ll have a long walk home if you get off now, bug-a-boo.”

How did he know where her new home was? This was ridiculous. “Besides, sweet pea, you really don’t want to go back to that fucking apartment with those god damned roaches, do you?”

Carrie smiled in spite of herself. She always thought it funny when her father used such colorful language when talking about things she didn’t like. “Now that’s what I like,” he said. “a smile from my little girl.”

She looked around, wondering if she could move to another seat, but they were all taken. “Honey, I know I haven’t been the best of fathers lately, but I’m clean now. I haven’t touched a drop of liquor since last year, and I won’t ever again. I’m going to make it up to you. From now on, we’re going to have the best of times, just you and me.”

What did he mean? Was she going to die right here and now? She remembered something her mother said. The preacher at the Baptist church believed that people like her father went to Hell, a place which was always on fire, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. Was that where her father was taking her? She pictured herself being consumed by ugly, yellow flames.

“No, I don’t want to go to Hell,” she screamed, trying to stand and pull herself away from him.

He gripped her hand. “It’s gonna be okay, honey. Daddy’s right here.”

He said those exact words the night her appendix nearly ruptured when she was seven, as she lay in the emergency room, tears streaming down her face, gripped by pain. He told her everything would be all right, and it eventually was. It was one of few kept promises.

A squeal of breaks brought her back to the present. She felt a jarring crash, then nothing.

***

Abbie J. Taylor 010Author Abbie Johnson Taylor

Front Book Cover - We Shall OvercomeWe Shall Overcome

Cover: How to Build a Better Mousetrap by Abbie Johnson TaylorHow to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver

That’s Life: New and Selected Poems

Order from Amazon

Order That’s Life from Finishing Line Press.

Vote for my new book idea.