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Toxic Shame and You Can Too
It’s around noon on a Sunday. I’m 14 years old, sitting in my dad’s Chevrolet work truck, which (and I don’t mean to brag too much here) is equipped with some fancy modern technology that I’m currently using. An 8-track tape player. Don’t be jealous. The speakers are vibrating with the comedic genius of a couple of dope-smoking hippies. I’m laughing and having an awesome educational enlightening time when quite unexpectedly, a short and very angry woman appears at the passenger door. She stands (as best she can at 5 feet 2 inches) at the truck and proceeds to pound on the window. I pause the tape player and slowly…
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Coinage from Heaven
I’m six years old. And like normal six-year-olds, I am fidgety, shifting my little body back and forth in a wooden church pew in a community called Plateau, which, by the way, most people mispronounce. I’m clutching coins in my hands. They’re mostly pennies, a few nickels, and some dimes. But, no quarters. I would have kept those. A minute earlier, my mom had handed me the now tightly clutched coins in preparation for, “The Collection.” This was not a particularly joyful occasion. Judging by the looks on peoples’ faces, I’d say it was more like a romantic breakup. “Goodbye. I’ll miss you, little dollar. Write me!” Then, the obligatory…
