It’s that lovely time of year when strawberries are ripe. Until I moved to the San Joaquin Valley of California, I’d never had such delicious—or huge—ones.
I try to stop at the field stands a few times during each season. And then I make sweetened shortcake and whipped cream and we have a meal of dessert—a child’s dream. Spring is a perfect time for child-like behavior. Spring is a child, don’t you think?
On Sunday, my family celebrated the twentieth anniversary of our Kaitlyn’s birth. I can’t quite wrap my brain around that because she’s my granddaughter. Today, is my third son Joseph’s birthday. He claims he’s thirty-eight, but that’s impossible. Since everyone else is clearly lying about their ages, I’ve decided to be forty-five this year. Yeah, that sounds about right.
Anyway, if you know me, you know I never wear shoes unless forced. As I started to leave for the party on Sunday, I realized I had forgotten to put on glasses and shoes. Unfortunately, I stopped off at my darkened closet before I retrieved my glasses.
Confession: I’m a clutterer. I have a shoe rack, it’s mostly empty because either my shoes are wherever I stepped out of them or piled in front of the shoe rack. So, on Sunday, in my haste and blurriness, I simply slipped my feet into sandals lying next to each other. Obviously, I’m oblivious. This is what I left the house wearing.
Yeah. I did. When did I notice? After I came home.
You know that absent-minded professor stereotype? Does that apply to writers too?