Let me confess right here. . . .
All in A WOMAN'S BRIEFS
Well into the wee hours, I watched, captive to fire flying through the sky. Meteors. Perseid meteors.
What my four-year-old uncle did is what young children do without hearing it—
Here's the reason I am writing about this trip. On Wednesday, July 17, 1957, I bought a Hawaiian Holoku dress.
“Stand here. Watch this,” said Drake to hen. “I’ll quack (taking the initiative), and she will toss us some mixed grains.”
It’s all good here at the Pine house. Cookies are baked, Christmas tins are arranged by the door, most “must do” stuff is done, and Mannheim Steamroller holiday music accompanies my desk work. THEN . . .
If what I read is right, this celebration seems not so suitable for children. Worse for sleep than the candies consumed by modern Trick-Or-Treaters. I mean, think about it.
We are in the week when Earth blunders its way through a cloud of meteor debris the Comet Swift-Tuttle scatters from its tail during its annual orbit of the sun.
I’m not sure how to respond to having just watched the movie “Everything, Everywhere, All At Once.”
One second! That’s all it took. POW! One second, plus perhaps a zeptosecond or two . . .
I thrust my hand out as a warning. Palm forward. I was serious. “I am in a good mood,” I said, “don’t mess me up.”