Dear Ma, Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the day you left this plane. Just as you preferred, no tears, no debilitating Irish black funk. Whenever you came to mind, many times, I remembered this picture of you and Dad. And that, dear Ma, helped me to smile, instead of pouring out the remaining grief.Continue reading “Dear Ma”
Today, for the first time, I held in my hands, a book with my published story in it. A tribute to my mother, it’s a lasting memorial to the first person to believe in me. It was a tender yet bittersweet moment, since Ma passed almost a decade ago. She constantly badgered me to write,Continue reading “Success Story”
Back when television consisted of four or five channels, with midday programming limited to soaps, we depended on an active imagination to avoid idleness. My dad loved to hear me say “I’m bored”. It gave him a break, because he sentenced me to hard labor if I dared whine “there’s nothing to do!”. There was no recourse; if I said it, he had an instant cure for boredom: a long list of chores. Thanks to Dad, I learned to pursue creative endeavours and invent adventures.
I don’t know what to write. All I know is I should write something. Anything? No, just something. It’s better than nothing, ain’t it? Why write? Because that’s what I am. Homo sapiens-literatura. It’s not what I do, it’s what I am. Good or bad, we all have something creative within. No need to aspireContinue reading “Why Write and… Stuff”
As far back as Coomers are known, we’ve been farmers. Dad broke the trend, having taken over his family farm at 13 when his father died suddenly. He escaped farming, joining the Army in 1944. Just before my ninth birthday, we moved to Florence, Arizona. Smack dab in the Sonoran Desert, temperatures in the summerContinue reading “Tomato(es) Plants”
“He has suffered brain damage,” the doctor gravely told my mother after I was born. “We’re not sure about the extent, but he will never walk or speak. He’s probably severely retarded, and I suggest you find a suitable institution in which to place him.” That’s what people did with their “retarded” children back then.Continue reading “The Most Important Day of My Life”