In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Home Turf.”
- Babies: two rotten mini-mes. The sound of belly laughs and older/younger brother shenangins. Even the complaints that are born out of the same. Bright smiles and one of them missing a couple of teeth. Fair-hair waving as they run and sun-washed antics.
- Pets: Four dogs and two of the laziest cats alive. The most evil beagle ever to be granted the breath of life but you love it anyway cause of its personality. Horses and long trail rides. All a fortune to feed and doctor and anything else but you don’t mind the money.
- All Of My Junk: Books and DVDs and Blu-Rays and CDS and posters and art and pictures and keepsakes and a billion other curiosities both strange and surprising and spot on. Not a hoarder but a horde with a purpose— it says I have lived and do live. I have a past and maybe a future whatever that might be.
- Garage: projects started, completed and those that will never be completed. The smell of hot engines and oil in the Fall afternoon. Tools and equipment and feeling self-sufficiant and useful. The smell of wood chips and wood dust and varnish and plaster and paint.
- Trails: winding and twisting and cutting through woods and hills and valleys and across fields and pastures. Going everywhere and nowhere. Dewy trails in the early morning as you walk and try to have an idea for something you’re writing. Cool trails in the early evening as you run and try to keep up with your kids. Deer, foxes, racoons, rabbits, squirrels, elk, and stray dogs who will probably end up in your barn. The feel of gravel and dirt under the soles of your boots. Breathing. Living. Being. Wanting. Never giving up.