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…