Archive for January, 2013



The sky is the color of rain,
and the air smells heavy laden with it.
My nostrils flare and contract to take it in.
My otherwise strong bones feel suddenly moist,
and ache heartily down deep.

Telling me… Showing me…
as the most accurate of barometers.
There is the sweet fragrance of rain on the subtle wind
that touches my face like a gentle caress, full of promise.

Cooling drizzle falls, giving and renewing life,
and showers the earth with temperate droplets
that cascade around me like liquid crystals.

Cleansing downpours follow,
and wash away the stench of a
good but long day’s labor.

A delight to the child in me,
who once frolicked barefooted
in sparkling, reflective puddles.

Now, it refills my bird bath
and waters my garden
when I have carelessly forgot.

In my mind’s eye, lovers seek shelter
in dry and private places,
enjoying the rapture of it – and each other.

It is a masterful and perfect symphony,
tapped out on my roof throughout the night,
sedating the beast of worry and bringing sleep.

Rain has done all these things for me.
And, on dreary, cloud-shrouded days,
my memory fills in these blanks again,
and replenishes my youthful soul.


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Snow Angel

What started as light swirling snow had become a full-blown blizzard, and on the road for three hours, Karen still hadn’t reached the hospital, normally a ninety-minute drive.  Already tired when she left after working all day, she was becoming physically and mentally exhausted.  Most worrisome, she began to have doubts she was still on the right road; it was hard to tell under all the snow she was bumping and sliding over. Her wipers worked feverishly to keep some small bit of glass clear although there was no other traffic to see, nothing at all to see but snowflakes furiously assaulting her car.  It was dark, and what was usually familiar was now foreign, a strange and unrecognizable alien landscape.

The radio became a distraction.  She turned it off to improve her concentration.

Her mother told her not to come; said she had been admitted but was doing well.  Karen believed this was true, but she couldn’t fight an unfathomable urge to be with her tonight.  It was Friday.  She had until Monday to be back at work.  Her heavy coat, boots and overnight bag were thrown into the backseat and she had left at seven.

Suddenly a deer was in her headlights…so close.  She felt it bump the slow-moving car, and then she was spinning.  Pumping the brakes did nothing.  In an eerie kind of slow motion, her SUV careened down a bank she hadn’t even realized was there.  Now she was in serious trouble.  She supposed she had been going too slow to activate the air bag, and her head began bleeding when she hit the inside of the door frame.

The engine cut out with a whimper when the car stopped moving and wouldn’t restart. Stretching and pulling a flashlight from the glove compartment, Karen crawled over the seat, retrieved a scarf from her bag and tied it around her head.  She had no cell reception.  She struggled into her boots and wool coat, grateful for leather gloves she found in the pockets.  Forcing the door open, Karen crawled up the bank and looked around through the blaze of whirling white flakes that stung her cheeks.

Was there a light in the distance?  It was faint, but, watching for a minute, it seemed real.  Maybe half a mile?   Her decision was made.

Karen began walking.  Abandoning the road and aiming directly for the wavering light, she moved across fields broken up by dark areas that, upon reaching them, were copses of small trees.  She avoided these with their promise of some shelter from the wind fearing that animals would have already taken refuge there.  When she hit drifts, snow forced its way into her boots.

Initially gauging the distance, she had erred on the optimistic side.  The light was more than a mile away, but it was definitely real, and this elated her.

She was propelled the last hundred yards by thoughts of warmth and safety.  It was a modest-sized farmhouse.  On the porch, she stomped her frozen feet, knocked and called out for anyone to come.  The wind howled.  She knocked again, louder, and peered in the window, encouraged and cheered when a small dog appeared in what seemed to be the kitchen.  He was barking in an urgent but friendly way, tail communicating that he was happy she was there.  But no human came.  How could this be?  Had they gone out for the night and not been able to get home in the storm?

In desperation, she made a decision.  She could remain out-of-doors and probably freeze to death or break into the home and pay the costs and consequences after the fact.  Her coat was heavy, and she broke the glass with her elbow.  The little dog jumped and yipped, now wagging his tail even more vigorously.  Inside, Karen cried out again for help.  No answer.  There was mail on the kitchen table addressed to Eleanor Watson.

Mrs. Watson?  Eleanor, are you here?”


The dog, excited and still barking, ran to an open door that led to the basement.  Looking down, Karen saw his owner in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.  Karen hurried to her.  She was breathing; her eyes fluttered when Karen touched her.

“Are you Eleanor?”

There was a slight nod.

“I’m Karen.  Do you have a phone?”  Eleanor feebly pointed upstairs.  She had been lying on the cold concrete floor for two days, and she thought Karen was an angel.  She had been praying for an angel.  Karen  told her, “I’m going to call for help, and then I’ll be right back.   You’re going to be okay now.”

The ambulance took them to the hospital where Karen’s mother was in a room upstairs.  Karen’s head was stitched and, although it was late, she was given permission to see her.  Before leaving the ER, she stopped to see Eleanor who grabbed her hand with surprising strength, refusing to let go until Karen promised to return.

Outside the curtain, Eleanor’s doctor pulled her aside, “You saved her life.  She’s eighty-two.  She wouldn’t have survived another night on that floor.  I don’t know what on earth you were doing way out there, but she’s darned lucky you were.”

Karen laughed.  “I don’t even know where I was.”

Upstairs, her mother was shocked to see her and alarmed by the stitches and a single blackening eye.

“I’m fine, Mom; it’s nothing to worry about.  I wanted to be with you tonight.  I just really needed to come.”

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Both my daughter and I had separate but equally comical issues with texting this week. I told her these should be in a book to which she replied, “too late…there is already a web site full of them”. I had no idea; I’m always late to the party.

If you haven’t already visited and have been clueless to this outrageously funny site (like me), the web address is http://www.damnyouautocorrect.com and is filled with more funny texts than you have time to read. So, if you feel the need to laugh out loud, check it out, but before you begin scrolling through these, be warned they are highly addictive. You may also post your own texts, if you can stop laughing long enough.

You don’t have to be familiar with a smart phone to enjoy these funny texts. Just know that folks who depend on these phones for business or pleasure have all been tormented by auto correct – which simply means your phone is possessed by demons and may randomly change your words to something it deems more interesting, fitting, comical or truly obscene. It is especially dangerous when you use your microphone and speak to text…my favorite text method. Caution: Don’t hit “send” too quickly.

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Elan Mudrow


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