Re: Another New Hobby

I came across this post today and felt serious resonance. I dare not list all my hobbies and I’ve determined I have to cull the space-intensive ones as there is no opportunity to put a new Sandra’s Hobbies wing on the house.

I’m strongly curious. Often I can’t settle for admiring a hobby; I must put my hands in it and on it.

At the risk of adopting more for myself, what are some of your hobbies?

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Small Safety Reminder Time

Keeping others as safe as we keep ourselves is a topic on my heart for years. Good read.

CaptainAwkward.com

My friend told me a creepy story this weekend. A clean cut man with a clip board knocked on her door and asked her questions about one of her neighbors. He asked my friend if she knew the neighbor, and when my friend demurred because something about it felt off – “I just moved here, don’t know anyone that well” – he pulled out a picture of the neighbor from a manila envelope and was like “are you sure?” My friend held fast and eventually he went away.

She asked the neighbor (who she does know) about it later, and the guy is a stalker. Fun!

So, safety reminder time:

  • Just because someone knocks on your door it doesn’t mean you have to open it or engage with whoever it is. If you’re not expecting anyone, and they sort of catch you out as being home, “It isn’t…

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Let the Word Out

Three short stories in and I’m closing the Nook. I enjoy reading; I am a writer. One love does not diminish the other, only informs it.

I lost an adult lifetime of writing somewhere in the ones-and-zeroes of computer files. Journal, fiction, nonfiction, poetry—all of it is gone.

Before admonishments for digital redundancy march up through the comments, Continue reading

Some Sort of Mother’s Day

I have no children, so each mother’s day I consider the many mother’s I have, as I’m sure you have as well.

I was four when my father asked my brother and me whether we would like a woman he had been dating as our Mom. Both my brother and I were overjoyed. It isn’t easy to step into the life of a man with two small children. My stepmother will always be Mom. Three years later, Mom brought our sister into our lives.

My biological mother came into my life when I was 22, 19 years after she left in hopes we would be in better care. With her reintroduction came two new sisters and a niece. In 2001, she moved 930 miles closer and became my friend. I call her Momma.

In all these years I’ve had my grandmother, my aunt, two blessed mothers-in-law and numerous other mother figures who provide guidance and comfort beyond simple friendship.

Each of these remarkable women had and have no obligation to reach out, to settle themselves into their roles in my life. I can’t imagine who I would be without them; I am so thankful.

Perhaps mother’s day isn’t a Hallmark moment. There may be anger, grief, guilt and myriad complex emotions tied to the title of the day. And then there are other mothers, temporary or forever loving figures who, mistakes and all, have fulfilled some motherhood.

And you…you may have no idea how you’ve fulfilled the role of mother in the lives of others.

Kinship Down

We cope with waiting. Some people have religion. Some people chew their hair or bite their lip. I have words, sometimes writing. For the little blue-eyed blonde we both love so much, and to you, [edited].

Little Girl
Taller than you, her shoulders are broader too. Tears in her voice leave no time to measure the blue since her eyes first saw you.

©2015 Sandra R Davidson

Urban Wash to Red

The pant legs of his jeans are drawn darker with gravity down to the black punctuation of each sports shoe. His shuffle is ancient along the algae-slicked tiles of the local Pizza Hut’s famous red roof as the heavy pressure washer hose edges its way waterward. Winter in the Pacific Northwest is sluiced free while spring becomes the crisp logic of hard lines.

©2015 Sandra R Davidson

Merging Lanes Ahead

It is elder Sunday at the store with the lowest prices in town. Some are unnatural odds tossed against stained pleather powered by a body able to drive; some are simple couples. Sometimes the Whiz stands alone.

Glazed donuts, a photo by Jessica Gale found on MorgueFile.com“I wonder if these are any good…,” his voice trails off until I glance to my left. There’s a box of nine large donuts with sugar glaze. Nothing wrong with his peripheral vision, “I mean, I’m hungry. These look good.” He laughs to be caught talking himself into donuts.

I offer chastisement with with a generous smile to a man easily 30 years my senior, “Oh, I know better than to shop when I’m hungry.”

Both of his hands grasp the box firmly as he appraises their possibilities.

I gesture at his nearly full cart, “Oh, I see! You have been shopping while you’re hungry.” We laugh a moment until he moves off toward a woman in a wheelchair.

I continue puzzling over bagel A or bagel B because the sort I prefer aren’t in stock at the moment and my husband chides me for planning to buy a bagel for the drive home. “I’m hungry.” His eyes are expressive and he’s happy to fetch an apple we didn’t grab while we were in the produce section.

This is a bag-it-yourself sort of store. As we leave, Hungry Man isn’t experiencing a hardship while sacking his box of donuts; the box is neatly wedged in the otherwise unused child seat of the cart. I skitter from my husband’s side long enough to say, “Now, you’ll have to tell me if those donuts are any good by the next time you see me.” Our spouses look puzzled when the Hungry Man and I snicker at the end of the checkout belt.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson

Traffic Patterns

Two weeks ago I drove past houses that suddenly are the main exhibit now that construction has finished and traffic is rerouted. There is a little-needed traffic signal light where a four-way stop once regulated the crossing of two roads. Bright pink sneakers, new enough from the looks of them, carried more than six feet of height and close to 300 pounds of weight from toe to heel, toe to heel as a man in his mid forties pushed a shopping cart of assorted belongings between the crisp, white lines of the crosswalk. Perhaps crosswalk tells what there is to tell.

©2014 Sandra R. Davidson