I was hoping to find what the Bible refers to as “hidden treasures of darkness.” The property we bought included a run-down mobile home and a metal shed. Both very dark and both packed, I say packed (some boxes since 1999) with the left-behinds of what was once a family. Or maybe it was several families—siblings who used the place to store the mementos of a former life.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Monday, February 15, 2016
“I’m not mean,” he says. “We just think differently.”
“Nope. You’re mean.” I hold my ground, but after thirty-something years’ of marriage he can tell I don’t mean it. We had long ago concluded we thought differently about, well, just about everything.
This current discussion concerns a problem about a piece of property we’re supposed to close on in a few days. Seems that even though decrepit mobile homes in SC are as abundant as roadside boiled peanut stands, the situations concerning the removal and disposal of them are so complicated my attorney suggested we discuss our options off the record.
Friday, February 12, 2016
If dreams are any indication of what is occupying your subconscious, it wasn’t boding well for the situation my husband and I just gotten ourselves into. Zombies were chasing someone right up to my house—(the one we just bought in in real life.) I wasn’t particularly afraid of them but was holding the door open, hoping the person would make it in time.
Unfortunately I will never know because the scene switched to the basement of the dream place where we discovered a room that had been a gift shop. It was still full of stuff but someone told me that underneath the place were wind tunnels whose constant screeching drove people crazy. And I still wasn’t worried (?!)
Now the setup for this dream isn’t that far-fetched because the person whose real-time property we bought had just walked away. Family was concerned and came to get him. Left his beer can on the end table, bills piled high. Rusty Coleman stove on the kitchen counter and pictures on the wall. Said he didn’t want a thing.
Marcia Moston Think about a place of your childhood. What do you first see? Whether it’s the family kitchen, the grandparents’ woodshed...
I know she’s around here somewhere, and beautiful as she is, I don’t want to inadvertently stumble on her. (Why do those adverbs sound bette...
Marcia Moston Image credit My father used to play baseball in high school, in a semi-pro league back in the thirties and later, afte...
Marcia Moston Photo credit Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here...
Marcia Moston The interest in any story, yours included, is not so much what you did, but what you made of it —what you learned, how yo...