I'm proud of Maxine for surviving a grueling cancer chapter in her life. The cancer was a snap, the cure was not. I'm also proud of her for sticking around since we were in high school. The school isn't there any more, but the memories make me smile.
I received word today that I've got a Thanksgiving short story coming out in the Nov. 1 issue of The 400 Magazine. It's about my husband's family. You may want to drop in to see it. And I'm excited about having a signing with the Thompson Creek Book Club this coming Tuesday, Oct. 18.
I was on line to meet with a book club out of town and they just emailed me they couldn't get my book at the library. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Do libraries buy new books? I know they're doing Kindle ebooks now. I know I asked about doing a signing at the Dawson Library and was told they have no budget for this. I'm not sure about the relationship of my book and their non budget. I didn't think about or expect them to purchase the books, don't see how it costs them money. I think I'm missing something here. It's good I like research.
GRANDMA WAS RIGHT
by Melody Scott
I recently in the mirror and couldn’t figure out when it was I lost my “babe” look. All my clothes had turned dumpy. New ones only helped for a little while before they look dumpy too. The shorter skirt look made my top half and bottom half seem mismatched.
It had to be the shoes.
I consulted my daughter, who scoffed and said, “Mom, anybody can look like a babe—all you need is five inch platform heels.”
“But I don’t want to look like a hooker!” I said, even knowing fatter does look better when it’s taller. And I CAN walk in five inch platform heels. I know because I tried some. Yuck.
Then I tried an open back wedge style and slid right out of them onto the floor. I felt like a duck.
I skulked shoe stores until clerks started staring, and I did find some really nice sandals with low heels. They had a “nude” look that hinted of babedom. But it’s autumn now and blue is not my favorite toe color. I continued the skulk.
Then I saw them—perfectly striped running shoes, sort of sloped downhill, that made me look like I was going fast when I was standing still.
When my grandma was recuperating from having been hit by a car while in a crosswalk at age 81, she very sincerely told the doctor, “I just hate it when I can’t run, I need to be able to run if I want to.”
“Do you run very much?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
“Only when I want to,” she said, without a smirk on her face.
Not long after my car died and its funeral was over, I had to face replacing it. I tried a four door silver Dodge, an efficient blue compact, even a couple of SUVs. I didn’t feel right in them—they all looked like jellybeans.
Then I saw it—A loaded Mark VIII whose inside looked like a 747 jet cockpit, and whose engine made me smile. It looks like it's going fast when it’s standing still.
Grandma was right. I, too, need to be able to run if I want to.