By Deborah H. Anderson The original draft of this was written in hunter green. I used to write words that came from my interior place, personal experience words, in mahogany. It’s a shade that looks deep red, like blood poured on the page. Life has gotten a little lighter, and those feeling words are like…
By Deborah H. Anderson Four times in my life I have been been given a particular hiatus, for 12 weeks. It’s an interesting fact, maybe more so a phenomenon. The first time was 12 weeks in the hospital in my hometown when I was nine years old, after being in a car that was hit…
By Deborah H. Anderson This time of year, when the temperature dips below 40 degrees, I think about my blue flannel cow jammies. Along with my blue socks and a black fake sheep’s wool blanket I bought at Thriftway, they kept me warm when it got really cold during the year that I slept in…
By Deborah H. Anderson “Do you see where the break is?” … The surgeon asks. Pointing to the x-ray, I look at the diagonal line of a femur once shattered in two places, now fused into solid bone. “Yes”, I tell him, nodding my head. “Now look at the other leg,” he continues, “See how…
By Deborah H. Anderson There is a Halley’s Comet watch party at Gaswork’s Park on my 110th birthday. I have let the appropriate people know they can roll me up to the top pf the hill in my wheelchair and then put me in the pine box and six feet under the next day. Now, hearing…
In junior high, 7th grade to be exact, I decided that Diane Fargo had the most beautiful cursive handwriting. Hers, with the perfect “F’s,” the top line swooping over the graceful, descending vertical, providing the exact structure for the carefully curved middle horizontal line. So beautiful. Deep sigh. Yes, hers was the cursive styling I…
Sheba the Brave captured my heart the first time I met her. A brown tabby who looked more ocelot than cat, we greeted each other, she on her stool and me on my chair, knees to front paws. Suddenly, she stood and crawled into my lap. Her foster mom exclaimed, “I’ve never seen her do…
By Deborah H. Anderson Finding the perfect cinnamon roll at the Edmonds Bakery was a moment of bliss. Huge, spirally, gently baked, lightly glazed, with hidden chunks of nut pieces in the inner fold’s perfection brought unparalleled mouth happiness. Saturday afternoon delight, for sure. Smithsonian Free Museum Day drew me to Edmonds. The drive to…