Where’s the Bacon?
When I ordered the “Big Beef Bacon Cheese Melt” from the menu at a local café, I assumed I was in for a big juicy burger topped with cheese and crispy bacon. Was I ever wrong. There wasn’t a burger at all—just thin strips of beef along with the cheese and tomato. Beef bacon. Whoever heard of such? I admit the abomination called turkey bacon has been around a good while. But everyone knows it’s not legitimate bacon. Bacon comes from a pig, folks. And when properly cooked, it’s thin, crispy, and oh so yummy. That turkey stuff should just be called turkey strips because that’s really all it is. But beef bacon? It was tough, hard to bite through, and had random strings of fat that weren’t crispy at all. Never in a million years could it be called bacon. You can be...
Oh, Deer
I recorded a Field Note that was aired on Montana Public Radio. Here’s the link: Oh, Deer
Bub
Bub’s not really his name. My daughter named him Tristan when she adopted the tiny kitten left in a cardboard box outside of a veterinarian office. He lived with Jen in her Nashville apartment for a year but came with her when she moved back home. It was a difficult adjustment for all of us. We had an older cat, Daisy, and a huge dog, Prince, who reigned in our home. Tristan stuck close to Jen until a year later when she moved across country. That’s when he homed in on me. He had to keep his distance, though, sleeping at the foot of my bed, far from Daisy’s place on my pillow. That is, when Prince would allow him to pass through my bedroom door. Tristan was low man on the totem pole. And how did he get the name Bub? Jen referred to him as Bub when...
Stories of Life
One of my stories has been included in the anthology Bones & Blue Eyes and Other Stories of Life, now available online at storiesoflife.net.
Contented, Though Demented
This story was just published on pulsevoices.org. Here’s the link: https://pulsevoices.org/index.php/stories/contented-though-demented
The Usual Delay
I delay my mammogram every year. In the past, two of them have shown microcalcifications, tiny indicators of cancer. Why would I give anyone opportunity to detect those again? So, I drag my feet at mammogram time, waiting months after getting a reminder letter before scheduling. Instead of an annual test, I end up biannual. I finally got it done last month, only to live in limbo awaiting results, wondering if another lumpectomy loomed in my future should specks be detected. Perhaps more radiation. Would I take any action? I’m nearly 68, older than I ever expected to be, so why not let it run its course? Que sera, sera. But the report finally came: an all clear, thank You, God. Maybe if I’m still around in two years, I’ll revisit that machine. Allowing, of...
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