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?
I finally did it!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.