Mighty Moments

While I’m working on getting my novel, Whit’s End, published, I’d like to talk about memories. How do we remember certain times in our lives?

Second Edition

I finally did it!

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Released from Purgatory

The people involved in the repair and recovery of my husband’s shattered feet had left us to fend for ourselves. We no longer could tolerate the miscommunication and lack of compassion. The two of us put our heads together and decided to be more assertive, in other words, pushy … in order to get something done.

Feet Tale Two

From the emergency room, my husband was admitted to the hospital. He was in and out of sleep from pain medication. Since 2:30 in the afternoon we waited for a surgeon to repair his shattered feet, but by 10pm, there was no sign of one. Is it still an emergency after almost eight hours?

A Tale about Feet

On April 15, 2014, my dog, Max, had a quarter-sized lump removed from his side. We had to wait for test results to come back and have his stitches removed in ten days (this is relevant for later).

On April 17, 2014, my husband called me from work just to say hi and let me know he was thinking of me.

Ten minutes after we hung up, around 2:30pm, my phone rang and I saw his number on caller ID again. Hmm. I wonder what he could’ve forgotten to tell me.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice I didn’t recognize said, “Hi. Is this Lori, Gary’s wife?”

“Yes.” My voice shook.

“Gary just had an accident at work. We called an ambulance for him.”

“Wha… Wha… What?” Fear shot through my veins and straight into my brain, causing logical thoughts to scamper and hide.

Jamaican Juju

Long before the hoarder house two doors down and the crop-circle house around the corner, a young couple lived next door to us. The man was an Arab, Muslim. His girlfriend, from Colombia, wore low-cut shirts freely displaying her bouncy double D’s. Hey, don’t ask me, I have no idea how that relationship worked with him being Muslim.

A Peek Inside a Secret Diary

During another era, in a different century, I got to meet my idol. I was nineteen years old. For a long time now, I’ve wanted to write a story about it but wasn’t sure I had enough material.

I wrote a diary when I was younger (now I’m young, then I was younger), and figured I must’ve written about it in there.

My Puzzle Piece

Have you ever felt out of place, like a puzzle piece in the wrong picture? That’s how I have felt since the year 1988. That was the year my husband and I moved from the Chicago suburbs to Florida.

A park in the center of the town where I grew up.

Wednesday Wisdom

In light of me visiting home this week …

Diners, Drive-in’s & Dives

I’m still on holiday/vacation in my suburban Chicago home town. For those of you who missed the other installments, check here.

Since we have mostly chain restaurants back in Florida, it’s the “mom & pop” places I prefer to frequent when I’m back home in Chicago. Some of you are familiar with Guy Fieri from the food network who travels to such places. This post will focus on one such place in the Chicago suburbs.

The Old Stompin’ Grounds

Perhaps you read about my road trip 1 from Florida back to my home town in the Chicago area. Well, I’m here and thought I’d show you the suburb where I grew up.

Even though there are suburbs on top of suburbs which makes it quite an urban area, my little suburb is called a village. Mom and I took a ride into the middle of the village, and I thought I’d share the photos I took.

This Time of Year

This is the time of year I start to get nostalgic, and sometimes melancholy.

Where I grew up in the Midwest, my family and I spent Sundays watching football. We were die-hard fans, even when our team was losing and the games were blacked out. We listened to them on the radio when that happened. Younger Bears fans probably couldn’t imagine Soldier Field not selling out and subsequent blackouts.

Hallway Angel

I originally wrote the following short memoir for a magazine I’d been published in before called Angels on Earth. However, I decided  to publish it on my blog instead of in their magazine. Here, I can write it the way I saw it without any editors forcing their influence into it. It fits into that magazine’s genre though, and every story there ends with a little “helping hand” so to speak. You’ll see why when you read it. If you know any young girls/tweens/teenagers with self-esteem issues, please share this with them. Thanks.

The Story of Lori’s Lane

I walked down the lane … I looked at the moon … the moon looked at me and …

Those words were the inspiration for the title of my blog … the title of my life.

It all began when I was … oh … two or three years old. Dad used to make up songs and sing them to me. I loved those songs. He made up the lyrics and the melody for the song above in italics. At the end when “the moon looks at me,” he would stick his tongue out and make the raspberry sound.

Mom’s Stuffed Artichokes

Since I write memoirs, and I discuss cooking with my Italian family in my memoir anthology, here’s some more talk on food.

Don’t know where my mom got this recipe, but I remember it from my childhood and now make it for us at home. It’s really easy to make, but it does take some prep time. This recipe is for two medium to large artichokes. If you’re making more, add ingredients and some prep time.

2 medium to large artichokes
1 garlic clove minced
1 1/3 cups seasoned bread crumbs
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
3/4 cup to 1 cup water
1/4 cup lemon juice
water for boiling

Everyone Writes

I’ve been writing since I was nine-years-old, but I wasn’t a writer.

As and adult, I used some poignant words that connected to some readers, but those readers were people I knew. I hadn’t shared it with too many others, probably because I knew deep down, I really wasn’t a writer … not quite yet anyway.

Everyone writes. Most people probably write in emails and at work every day. Oh, and texting, we’re such good writers at texting, aren’t we?

Grandma’s Thursday

I hadn’t planned on posting this Thursday, but then decided I wanted to share something special to me.

Some people might remember their loved ones who’ve past away on their birthday, or on the day they died. I tend to remember my Grandma on this Thursday every year. It’s not her birthday which is September 13th, nor is it the day she died, December 4th.  It’s also not this date, April 5th, that has any significance. It is today … a Holy day … the Thursday before Easter, that always brings back sweet memories of my Grandma.

Confession from a Novice Blogger

Hey, pssst, you regular bloggers out there … why didn’t you tell me this stuff was addicting?