Tag: children
member name: Birdie Jaworski
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September 06, 2006 02:46 PM EDT --
My favorite skirt ripped last night as my son, 11, helped me take the clothes off the twisted rope hanging across my backyard. It caught on the rough tin edge of the garden shed as I swung it from line . . .
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September 08, 2006 06:15 PM EDT --
In honor of Star Trek's 40th Birthday, I want to post a little story of something that happened at my youngest son's school last year:
Hey, Klingons have feelings, too!
I got a call from the . . .
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September 28, 2006 11:56 PM EDT --
The Church of Scientology constructed an elaborate underground bunker to store the works of L. Ron Hubbard just twenty miles from my home. They cut it in secret, deep into steep sides of a scrub-tiled . . .
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January 16, 2007 08:13 PM EST --
My son, 12, invited six friends to attend his birthday party. I made the invitations, hand-wrote Who, What, When, Where, Why, Pizza and Cake! I added careful script, respondez, s'il vous plait, our . . .
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August 04, 2006 08:05 AM EDT --
I had serious Avon Apathy this late summer. Sure, I knocked on doors, left satin smooth brochures and samples of beauty promise on beach cottage porches, under doormats, stuffed behind screen doors, balanced . . .
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August 28, 2007 09:53 PM EDT --
A young man I know fell off an outcropping of granite this summer, fell eight vertical feet, fell into a six-week land of cast and crutch and exotic metal pins. Shattered tibia. Surgery. June plans as . . .
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August 02, 2006 07:38 PM EDT --
I'm not a Believer, at least not the kind that attends church and casts silver hopes to the heavens. I ran away from home the day after I turned sweet sixteen. I tossed my rosary beads out a bus window . . .
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September 12, 2006 04:28 PM EDT --
I live with two birds. Ramses the African Grey is a free-range parrot. He thinks he's a dog. He follows Suzie around the house, perches on one leg at the edge of the dog bed, grooms Suzie's long . . .
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February 05, 2007 09:58 PM EST --
My youngest son, 9, dragged my sewing machine across the living room floor. I heard it before I saw it, heard the bump and lurch of white metal scrape old oak.
"What are you doing! Hey! You're . . .
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February 13, 2007 09:02 AM EST --
My boys made homemade "Sweethearts" this weekend:
This Sunday I heard a ruckus in the kitchen.
"Hey! What are you doing out there!"
I tried to move, but pain shot . . .
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March 20, 2007 10:46 AM EDT --
My son, age 12, noticed it first. He pointed with his fork as I placed a plate of stirfry on the table in front of him.
"Mom. Your stomach is pooching out."
I glanced down at my midriff, at . . .
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April 02, 2007 08:06 AM EDT --
The Las Vegas People's Flea Market runs every Saturday and Sunday morning through the year, regardless of weather. My son, age 12, calls it the Communist Junk Swap. Once a month I haul bags of forgotten . . .
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August 14, 2007 11:49 PM EDT --
A Hopi kachina watches my computer screen from over my right shoulder. He wears a sanded leather loincloth over ochre skin, collar and cuffs of soft maple rabbit. He stands two-feet high, but he feels . . .
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August 04, 2006 02:03 PM EDT --
I parked under a sterile pecan tree,
in the lot of a broken wood gas station
that owned the intersection between Socorro and Carrizozo.
My right hand hurt from shifting
past sun cast spruce deer
lurch . . .
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January 30, 2007 08:31 PM EST --
Read Part 1, then read Part 2 first!
"I don't want to move. I like it here."
9 murmured, his voice as velvet as the antelope wind. I shifted down, fifth gear to fourth. The car shivered, . . .
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May 10, 2007 01:00 AM EDT --
The walk to school is long on days when the prairie pulls wind from the mountains. I leave home early, take the long route, bend to pet each stray dog and mangy cat that crosses my path. Sometimes I see . . .
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August 03, 2006 01:42 PM EDT --
Written July 21, 2005
James Doohan died yesterday. My two young boys would tell you he played "Scotty" on the Star Trek original series. They would tell you he ruled the Engineering department, . . .
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April 24, 2007 12:20 AM EDT --
A man walked across a desert wash. His black boots hit dry ground. His hand didn't hover near his holster. He let it match his stride, let it swing in a carefree arc that spoke of contentment, of . . .
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