The weather that affected my life most recently happened on April 7th on my flight out of Tampa in a lightning-and-thunder filled rainstorm.
I am flying American, not my usual standby, Southwest. I love Southwest. I have their credit card and like their offbeat humor. But I change because my Coast Guard son is flying in from Cali and we want to meet up in Richmond at 4:15 p.m., then drive to Gloucester, our final destination. On Southwest, I would get in at 11:50 p.m., an unseemly hour, so I find an alternate flight on Black Friday. Perhaps that should have been a sign. It’s American Airlines, one way, for a great price.
I’m in line outside TIA. I’ve just checked my bag when the lady behind me asks, “Did you hear our flight’s been delayed two hours?”
Xerploo and Zanyplex were relaxing in a secluded greenery bower. They were of the opinion that the gardens on planet P-56 were much more lush and the breezes sweeter but here they were, currently assigned as celestial guardians to Earth. Given the relatively immature character of this planet, their work was cut out for them and they dare not rest for long.
Their mission was to maintain the existence of this orb, which daily seemed under threat from secular and religious discord. Our guardians believed…
OLLI Connects continues its annual celebration of National Poetry Month with a selection of poems by four different writers. Thematically linked through images of flight and trees, this edition is entitled “The Aviator, The Fledgling and The Crow.” Please click on the button below to enjoy the poems of Pindie Stephen, Linda Dunk, Morrey Grymes and M.A. Sinnhuber.
Jack and Jill went up the hill – but not to fetch a pail of water. Oh no! They had another plan in mind. You see – there was a big hedge just beyond the crest of the hill. They had discovered it, unseen from the well, on their last trip up the hill. But Jack and Jill had found more than a hidden hedge; behind the hedge was a perfect place for discovering each other. As they giggled and teased, searching for just the “right spot,” Jack suddenly stopped and looked around.
“Do you hear that?” he asked Jill. Jill stopped, listened, and said, “Yes, it sounds like music, and it’s getting louder.”
“Oh, no!” said Jack. “It’s the Pied Piper. I hope he’s not leading any rats up here!”
Jack ran towards the sound of the music and spied the Pied Piper on the side of the hill. Sure enough, there were about (more…)
Many years ago I sold a piece about bass fishing to the New York Times Magazine, describing my never-ending quest—along with fishing buddy Geoff Ward—to outwit the wily denizens of the deep.
The Times wanted a photo of me fishing to run with the piece—the expectation clearly being that I would catch a fish—so a photographer named Karen joined us one day on an angling expedition. The pressure was on big time—I now answered to untold millions of readers. (More…)
Marilyn Myerson leads and mentors creative writing groups, encouraging them to push the envelope of their imaginations while staying in control of the theme. She frequently has them to write short stories that explore a specific idea. And she leads by example.
Today’s two stories are both by Marilyn. One puts a twist on a hoary cliché. The other speculates on what could happen, if the leader of a creative writing group were not quite who she seemed to be. –Editor
Cliché: A Shaggy Dog Story
Myrtle van Crapen, resident of Tampa, Florida, shared her abode with three dogs. Two of her canine housemates were Bucky and Bolty, Heinz 57 mutts who nonetheless spoke quite passable English. (More…)
OLLI Connects is almost three years old, and in its short lifetime, we have shared a wide variety of your fellow OLLI members’ contributions: powerful stories, rich personal experiences, fascinating nuggets of history, and humor. We’ve taken you on trips to other parts of the United States and journeys to other parts of the world. We’ve shared technology, book reviews, poetry and more. We’ve had posts that were all photographs with no more words than were needed for context.
But we’ve not had a post that was almost all video. Until today.
Theresa D’Aiuto Sokol has shared two of her blog posts, and now she shares some of her video work. (More…)
As the Olympics drama unfolds in Tokyo, a lesser known, but still dramatic event is taking place closer to home. Yes, it is the Backyard Squirrel Olympics. I know, you will not find it in your cable guide. Nevertheless, it’s here!
Let me give you some context. When I put up my Covid-19 backyard bird feeder system, I did extensive research about how to deter unwanted critters. What else did I have to do? I read articles. I watched squirrel videos on YouTube where people attempted to deter the acrobatic critters. Based on my research, I measured out distances squirrels can leap with my yellow, Stanley 25’ Lever Lock tape measure. Feeling confident, I installed my feeder system based on expert research.
Now that I’ve reached the age of 80, a milestone year if ever there was one, I thought it’d be a fitting time to revisit some moments from my life as a writer—for better or for worse.
Let’s bypass the rave reviews I received from my parents for a play I wrote and starred in at nine, Detective Dick, and skip along to 1964. I’d just graduated from the University of Chicago with a B.A. in Humanities and was living with a friend in Berkeley, California.
I decided to launch my freelance career by writing poems and greeting card ideas—two surefire money makers. Some poems got published, most suffered a less happy fate. As in: “Sorry we won’t be able to use your poem, but we did like parts and particles of it.” The word “the” in the second line of the third stanza, I surmised, the third syllable of the eighth word in the fifth line of the second stanza, the… (More…)
Intro: Pyschotherapy takes many odd twists and turns, but even by those standards the author’s relationship with his therapist in India was—well—a bit wacky.
By shamelessly pulling a lot of strings in 1966, at age 26, I landed a trainee management job with a large philanthropic organization in New Delhi, India, for which I was totally unqualified. To add to my guilt, the job came with a house and four servants: a cook-bearer, a gardener, a sweeper, and a night watchman, who’d sit outside the front door all night guarding my precious, fraudulent being.
I was in over my head big time, not only at work but home as well. My elderly cook-bearer, Chand, usually out-maneuvered me in battles for control, once pointing out—with a wide grin—that I looked like one of the Beach Boys on an album cover. The message was clear: I was a Boy, not a real Sahib. (More…)