In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clean Slate.”
Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?

Loves necklaces of all kinds
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clean Slate.”
Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?

Loves necklaces of all kinds
My husband is very protective of his Pilot G-2 pens. He has taught the family that his pens are forbidden fruit and it is a sin to use a pen without replacing it. This was his recent reminder to me when he found one of his pens on my desk:
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Going Obsolete.” Of all the technologies that have gone extinct in your lifetime, which one do you miss the most?
I loved the clean sheets of columnar pads for Bookkeeping class, number 2 Ticonderoga pencils with good erasers, red pencils for liabilities and losses; Typing class with the heavy black Royal manual typewriter and daily typing drills; Business English; but most of all I loved the Secret Society of Stenos.
In prehistory only girls took Steno or Shorthand class in high school. Do you know why there is a vertical line dividing each page? Gregg shorthand is written in short lines across and down each column. I adored my shorthand classes because I was learning something only a select few could understand, a secret language used by intelligent professional women, a widely admired and necessary skill for any woman who wanted a career in the business world. Think Della Street on Perry Mason.
It was a skill that I used to pass notes to my girlfriends in class about cute boys and boring teachers and later used to pass notes and jokes to other women in boring business meetings when the Chair or other speaker proved to be a pompous ass. When I graduated from high school I could take 90+ words/minute in shorthand and type over 100 words per minute. Back then, in the late 1960s, it mattered.
My first job out of high school was in a major Miami Beach bank. My position as Accounts Receivable Clerk was at the smallest, oldest, rustiest, ricketiest desk in the furthest corner of the least prestigious office space in the bank. Did I mention the flickering fluorescent lights? In those days, people sent their monthly installment loan payment to the bank and my job was to pull their loan account card and paper clip the check to the card for a more senior “girl” to actually post. I wasn’t old enough to be a teller or experienced enough to use the precious bank equipment. Of course I was still expected to dress professionally in a suit or dress, stockings, heels, etc. even if I worked as a mushroom in the back corner of a dark room. The executive secretaries to the Vice Presidents were the stars who entered the inner sanctums of the Board Room and closed door meetings wearing expensive heels and silk dresses . Very mysterious and glamourous and envious-making. Very Della Street-ish.
My Cinderella day arrived when one of the VPs ran into our office yelling for anyone who knew shorthand. His secretary was sick and the senior officers needed someone to take notes at their monthly meeting. I shyly raised my hand and was whisked into the boardroom, given a steno pad and pencil and told where to sit. The rest is history.
I stayed with the bank through the introduction of electric typewriters and the first computer (in a specially built room that took up half of the second floor of the bank). I knew every aspect of banking and when I left four years later at the age of 21, I had advanced from mushroom to Assistant Comptroller … because I learned shorthand in high school and jumped at the chance to use it when the opportunity arose.
Thank you Mr. Gregg for your brilliant shorthand system. It launched me on a business career that expanded and grew with my education and experience over a period of 50 years. I am sorry it is a lost art.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Turn, Turn, Turn.” Seasons change so quickly! Which one do you most look forward to? Which is your least favorite?
From Ecclesiastes 3:1-15
“Turn! Turn! Turn!”
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ingredients.” What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?
My husband sits at the kitchen island with his computer while I prepare meals. Suddenly he has become the secret ingrediant to my success in the kitchen. After all these years I couldn’t possibly prepare a meal without him explaining to me:
- How to clean a chicken
- Which herbs and spices are appropriate for the dish I’m preparing
- How many herbs and spices I should use
- What temperature the oven should be set at
- How to fold the grocery bags
- How to line up the cans in the pantry (all labels facing forward)
- How to most efficiently load the dishwasher
- What foods should never be put in the garbage disposal
- Why fruit flies have appeared in our kitchen
- How to make a better cup of coffee
- How to clean the coffee maker
- Which dishes/cups can safely be used in the microwave
- Which bread/salad dressings/pickles and other condiments he prefers on his sandwiches
- Why he is the best popcorn maker in the family
- Why our grand-daughter prefers his pasta to mine
- The proper way to clean dishes (hand-wash)
- The proper way to fold a dish towel
- The best brand of dishwashing liquid
- How to clean a cast iron skillet (the way his dad did)
- How to empty the drip pan under the refrigerator
- When the garbage can needs to be emptied
- Which items can be recycled
- Etc.
It’s amazing that my family has survived the past 40 years of my meal preparation without his supervision. For those of you ladies who don’t have a man looking over your shoulder while you’re in the kitchen, feel free to borrow mine.
Please.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Am a Rock.” Is it easy for you to ask for help when you need it, or do you prefer to rely only on yourself? Why?
“I Am A Rock”
I’ve built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Don’t talk of love,
But I’ve heard the words before;
It’s sleeping in my memory.
I won’t disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.” You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob.
I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for a response from a publisher with the verdict on the fate of my novel. Following my daily ritual I rinsed the syrup off my breakfast plate, sent out a silent plea to the universe and leashed Bob so he could do his doggie business on the way to the mailbox where I will either suffer my daily disappointment or, perhaps, the joy of acceptance.
We made our way down the drive with Bob sniffing every bush and flower and generally taking forever to decide where to cleanse his colon. Finally, arriving at the mailbox I retrieved my letters.
Halleleujah! An envelope from the publisher. I shouted in jubilation and tore the envelope open to read the verdict on my life’s work. My shout caused Bob to act like an idiot, prancing and barking which flushed a bluebird from a nearby tree. As it flew over my shoulder it crapped on my letter. A gooey gob of guano smeared the ink on the letter so I still don’t know whether my manuscript has been accepted or rejected.
Oh, shit!
Literally.
My little action hero had breast cancer. Last week she had a double mastectomy by choice and no longer has breast cancer. All mothers must know how I felt … fear, anger, depression, helpless, sleepless. Now I feel:
And you know what? She never stopped smiling. Her breasts look beautiful already and there will be almost no scarring. Yes, she’s in pain but it’s temporary and we’re looking forward to her next adventure – renewing her marriage vows wearing her original wedding dress.
LADIES – PLEASE PERFORM YOUR SELF-EXAMS AND GET YOUR MAMMOGRAMS!!