Archive for the 'Nonfiction' Category
Posted on February 1, 2001.
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by Randy Shore
There’s no avoiding spit when you live with a toddler. Salivary juices can also be a problem with lisping three-year-olds, but few organisms produce the vast quantities of fluid my son Dylan discharges in the course of a typical day.
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Posted on September 15, 2000.
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by Lauri E. Klobas
I am a quilter. I do all of my work– piecing, bordering, the big seam on the back and quilting– entirely by hand. It’s a deliberate choice on my part.
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Posted on December 15, 1999.
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by Dennis Rice
Fifteen years ago….
I talked to the man one time. I was standing in my back yard, he in his rented yard next door. He was telling me how he painted on the Golden Gate bridge, had fallen, and was now suing that company plus just about everybody he had met and planned on meeting.
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Posted on December 14, 1999.
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An essay by Kristie Escoe
Several years ago, my husband and I were newly married and fresh out of college (another way of saying dirt-poor and up to our eyeballs in student-loan debt). He had just begun his career as a junior officer in the USAF and we were stationed at our first assignment in Minot, North Dakota. Unable to bear the thought of our first Christmas away from home and family, and unable to afford airfare, we decided to drive home for the holidays.
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Posted on December 12, 1999.
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An essay by Robert Marcom
The heat of South Texas’ Rio Grande Valley is not to be trifled with. I moved to the Valley with my third wife (now don’t get me started on that–) and daughter.
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by Tami Coxen
Just when my life is zippity doo-dah’ing along, the reality of womanhood drops Mr. Icky in my lap.
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An essay by RJ Corradino
“…but it’s in your blood, honey. You see me drink it all the time. And since the time I was three or four years old, my grandmother would have the truck come and bring four, five cases of Coke to the house. Every week.” –Christina Corradino, my grandmother
Some months ago, I awoke with a terrible headache and stiff neck. Knowing that stimulants could cause such ailments, it seemed a wise idea to skip my normal caffeine rituals that day. I had already gone a weekend without a fix, just by accident. I could go another day. For several hours, I competed with pain in my head, neck, and shoulders, along with a growing craving for a certain caramel-colored, carbonated beverage.
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An essay by Nelson Shogren
We call it “Men’s Town.” Right at noon on Friday, four of us quietly switched off our computers, watched the screens flicker and go black, and headed for the door with no intention of coming back. A few co-workers suspected that the men wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and hiking boots were outbound for adventure, and they were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.
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Posted on March 20, 1999.
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An essay by Pamela Rice Hahn
Suppose, just suppose. …
A man strolls into a bank, walks up to the teller, and makes a polite request.
“Please put all of the money in this bag.”
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Posted on December 13, 1998.
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by Luanne F. Oleas
When the 1960s ended, San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district reverted to high rent, and many hippies moved down the coast to Santa Cruz. They had children and got married, too, though in no particular sequence. But they didn’t name their children Melissa or Brett. People in the mountains around Santa Cruz grew accustomed to their children playing Frisbee with little Time Warp or Spring Fever.
And eventually Moonbeam, Earth, Love, and Precious Promise all ended up in public school.
That’s when the kindergarten teachers first met Fruit Stand. Every fall, according to tradition, parents bravely apply name tags to their children, kiss them good-bye, and send them off to school on the bus.
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