Cakewalk

Mom said, "Wear something nice, and go down to Ms. Jerrell's. She won a cake at the cakewalk
last night at the fall festival; and she just called and asked if you could come share it with her."
"She won a cake?" I asked.
I walked three times the night before, handing over a ticket a walk, fifty cents a ticket. Tinny music played in my ears as I stepped carefully around the circle. Every time they called a number, I checked the paper feet I'd landed on...no luck.
Ms. Jerrell was a retired first grade teacher. She was my mom's first grade teacher, over at the same school where she'd won the cake. Mom said she had no idea Ms. Jerrell's age. Her last year in the classroom had been my mom's first. My mom remembered her fondly.
"She was a good teacher," Mom said.
Now, Ms. Jerrell lived alone at the other end of the street. I had walked past her house hundreds of times. If I saw her in the garden or on the little covered porch, I always called out a friendly hello; but I had never been inside.
I knocked on the door and waited. I'm not sure what I expected...bright colors, picture books, a rocking chair.
I heard Ms. Jerrell fumbling with the lock on the door. When she opened it, I realized she was barely a head taller than I was; and I was only 8-years-old.
"Come in. Come in," she said. She stepped aside and waved me over the threshold.
"Congratulations on your cake," I told her politely. "It's so nice of you to share with me."
"Oh. It's too much cake for one" she said.
She shuffled off to the kitchen. I surveyed Ms. Jerrell's parlor. Dolls and cross-stitched pillows covered every chair cushion. I sat down on the black bench in front of the old Baldwin piano.
"May I play a song, Ms. Jerrell?" I called after her.
"Oh yes. Please play a song for us," she said.
I played a song...maybe one I knew by heart; but more than likely, I fumbled through the wilted sheet music perched above the keys. I'm sure I missed a sharp or two. An audience of China dolls watched, wide-eyed, from the chintz-covered armchair. My dusty fingers itched to pick them up; but I dared not disturb them.
While I plunked around on the loose keys, Ms. Jerrell clinked about in the kitchen.
"Bravo!" She exclaimed, appearing suddenly in the arched doorway, shuffling a bit in her scuffs.
"The cake is ready," she said, smiling broadly.
I followed her through an unused dining room to a round table, wedged in a kitchen corner. I could see a tangle of bare rose bushes through the glass panes in the back door.
Ms. Jerrell sliced through layers of chocolate and, with a shaky hand, served me first. We ate our cake from china dessert plates. Ms. Jerrell forgot to fill my milk glass; but I wouldn't have mentioned it for the world. The cake was moist, anyway; so it didn't matter.
"You must be very lucky, Ms. Jerrell," I said. "This cake is delicious. It must have been the best one to win."
We talked about school; and I'm sure I told her about the maps we were making, using dried beans and rice and yarn. I'm sure we talked about Ramona Quimby and cursive writing.
I ate a whole slice; and seconds when she offered.
When it was time to go, I stood awkwardly under the covered porch.
"Thanks again, Ms. Jerrell," I said. "I had a lovely time." I sounded like a girl from a book, I thought. If Ms. Jerrell noticed, she didn't seem to mind.
"Thank you," she said, "for a lovely visit."
I turned to go. I was the lucky one. Ms. Jerrell had taught hundreds of children over the years; and yet I was the child she chose to celebrate her winning cake. I could still taste the rich, fudgy frosting. I was not sure why I felt so sad as I walked home.

The Slice of Life Writing Challenge has not a been a cakewalk; but without it, I may not have sorted through my memories for this slice about a winning cake. I may not have remembered this story about the teacher who taught my mom to read. 

No, this March challenge has not been a cakewalk. Some days, I found myself walking round and round, hoping to be lucky enough to come up with a decent idea. Sometimes, I worried that my slices were too dry or too plain. It has not been a cakewalk; but it has been something worth celebrating. I have loved offering slices to all the readers who have graciously visited Galley Street; and I have loved being invited to share a slice with all the writers whose blogs I've visited.

"Bravo!" I say.

It's so nice of you to share with me.

"Thank you...for a lovely visit."

I was the lucky one.

The Hare

This week is our spring break. I thought it would never arrive. I felt like the hare, from "The Tortoise and the Hare." I was going so fast; but I needed to "lie down by the wayside and rest." I was getting nowhere. We had three snow days in a row this year, in mid-February; but then we MADE UP the three snow days BEFORE our spring break, using those little built-in days off that would have made the long stretch from mid-February to the end of March more bearable. Teachers, kids, administrators...we were all WORN OUT by the time spring break finally arrived.
For weeks, I dreamed of this week. I built it up in my mind. It was going to be the BEST WEEK EVER.
Our family didn't have plans...so no frantic packing or traveling. The boys had no sporting events...so no uniforms to wash. We could just relax and enjoy our time off; we could actually enjoy a much-needed break this spring break.
Easter weekend was busy...with guests and Easter festivities; so I figured that spring break would start yesterday, on Tuesday.
I started the day yesterday by going car shopping with my husband (who is an administrator in our school district; and therefore also on spring break). Our older son, now a licensed driver, is ready to inherit my husband's faithful Honda Pilot. My husband is now on the lookout for a vehicle. I never know what to do in this situation. If I enthusiastically encourage my husband to buy a car, it could turn out to be a lemon. That's exactly what happened the last time I insisted on buying a certain type of car. It turned out to be a lemon. I realized that fact when I was driving to work and ALL the warning lights on the dash came on AT THE SAME TIME. That's how bad it was. Since then, I try to withhold most of my opinions about our family cars. My husband does a good job researching automobiles and finding good deals; but he is the tortoise. For hares like me, car shopping with him can become taxing. I want to run ahead, hopping from dealership to dealership; and when the going gets tough, I want to curl up in the warm car (that we already own) and read a book while he plods along slowly and steadily.
When we returned from a long morning of car shopping (without a car), my husband (who loves to work even on spring break) decided we should cut back the ornamental grasses in the landscaping in front of the house. Usually, he does not include me in these gardening jobs because I am TERRIBLE with any kind of plant. My older son was recuperating from strep throat, though, and my younger son had plans with a friend; so my husband needed an assistant.
I was a few minutes into my assignment when I became thoroughly convinced that the homeowners before us must have used a landscaping service. Otherwise, they would have done away with those ornamental grasses. I don't even know what they're called; but they are more trouble than they are worth. They grow in little mounds that have to be cut back every spring. There are exactly 115 (?!?) little mounds. In order to cut them back properly, I had to use these super-small gardening clippers, barely bigger than my teacher scissors. It was like cutting the hair of 115 chia pets. I unpacked my angry eyes about two chia pets into the job. I couldn't reach all the little mounds unless I crawled around in the mulch. After hours of crawling around, trimming that crazy grass, I was ready to go back to work.
When I FINALLY finished cutting back the mounds of grass, I decided I'd better finish off the day with an even more daunting task...finding our missing towels. I'm notorious for bagging up piles of dirty clothes and stowing them in the storage room temporarily (a very hare-like thing to do). I do this if we are having unexpected company and I don't want the company to see the dirty laundry spilling out of just about every room in the house. Apparently, I bagged up most of our towels a few unexpected visitors ago; and now I can't find the towels. We have been using beach towels.
I dug around in the storage room for a while...no sign of the towels.
Feeling defeated, I washed, dried, and folded all the beach towels.
I felt as if the BEST SPRING BREAK EVER was slipping right through my blistered fingers. If I didn't change things up soon, my spring break days would be as lost as our bath towels.

* * *

Today was a new day; and I was determined to enjoy it. My older son was feeling better; so he and my husband decided to play golf. My younger son decided to spend the day at the basketball court.
This is what I did (quick as a rabbit).

First, I spent $220. 98 at the local bookstore, using a purchase order that the librarian asked me to spend as a favor for her (more like the most wonderful gift for me). Although the books belong to our school library, I will get to read some of them before they are shelved.

Then, I met my best friend for lunch. After lunch, I helped her try on glasses. Unlike me, she has never had to wear glasses before; so she said she needed my opinion. We had a great time trying on different frames. I'm due for a new pair soon; so I got her opinion, too. The sales associate asked how the two of us knew each other. I said, "We've been friends forever!" The sales associate congratulated us. Congratulations are in order when you've been best friends for 28 years!

Finally, I ran in to Target to buy my favorite Make-a-Size paper towels. I ventured back to the clearance aisle, knowing I would find Easter candy. However, I convinced myself that I WOULD NOT buy any candy UNLESS they had my very favorite Cadbury white chocolate mini eggs...and they had ONE BAG LEFT.

Now I am home. I admit that I am the hare, high-strung, plunging head-long into work and life...then conking out before I reach the finish line. But today, on the second day of my spring break, I am on the couch, eating white chocolate Easter eggs; and I have been captured by Kathy Appelt's new novel Maybe a Fox.  I am finally taking a break on spring break, and it's everything I'd hopped (I mean hoped) it would be.  

"Chim Chim Cher-ee"

My mom grew up in a neighborhood called Orchard Heights, several houses perched around a hill. In winter, it was like living on a wedding cake. My grandparents' house sat on the middle tier. In spring, when the dogwoods were in bloom, it was a terraced garden; and I was a ladybug, climbing concrete steps and rolling down green slopes. Even the clothesline hung at an angle.
My grandma had a flowered umbrella.

I loved that umbrella; but I never dared use it in the rain. It was much too pretty, covered with blue and purple blossoms, a little gold chain dangling from the shiny black handle.
No, that umbrella was meant for more, I thought.
One spring day, I stood on the top stoop, outside Grandma's front door. Hands on my skinny hips, I surveyed the world beneath me. Aunt Marie, my Grandpa's sister, lived next door. A cinder block wall, crumbling in places, kept Grandma's yard from spilling onto Aunt Marie's. I skipped down the curving steps, stopping to jump flat-footed from the last step to the gravel driveway.
I turned and tested the breeze, holding my face up to the sky, eyes closed.
Today was the day.
I ran back up the steps and into the house, and I took that beautiful umbrella.
I was more cautious now, knowing my idea might not seem like a good one...to Grandma especially. She preferred I keep my feet on the ground and all my bones in one piece.
I made sure no one was watching from the picture window. What a picture that would have been! I unsnapped the umbrella's belt and released the handspring. The flowered umbrella bloomed in all its glory.

I wished I had a blue coat with white piping. I longed for a black hat with flowers pinned to the brim. If only Grandma had a sturdy carpetbag, I thought regretfully. I clutched the umbrella with my bare hand, pretending it was clad in a white cotton glove. I touched my throat and adjusted an invisible red bow tie. Then I stepped up, bravely, onto the highest point of the cinder block wall. The wall was pitched forward, toward Aunt Marie's; but I figured that would help with my launch.
I hummed "A Spoonful of Sugar;" because, in my excitement, it was the only song I could remember.
Then, in a Mary Poppins moment, I stepped right off the cinder block wall.
I hit the ground with my heels first; scraping up two long grooves of green grass. My behind hit next, pounding the hill so hard that the last of my breath leapt out my lungs, through my open mouth, and mingled with the breeze that had failed to lift me skyward. My crooked teeth, bottoms and tops, smacked together so hard, they felt bruised. I skidded a few feet, grabbing tufts of onion grass with my free hand. When gravity finally settled around me, I checked the ribs of the umbrella first, and then my own. Nothing broken. I did my best to wipe the grass stains off my jeans; and I used my shaking fingers to spread the clumps of dirt and grass back into the raw places I had furrowed out of Aunt Marie's yard.
Satisfied that I'd done my best to cover my tracks, I pressed in the top spring of the umbrella and slid the runner back in place. I clapped mud from my palms and smoothed the flowered fabric so I could snap the umbrella belt.
Defeated, but still delighted, I trudged around the short end of the wall. Maybe I needed a windier day, I thought...or a better song even...or a carpetbag. Yes, any one of those might have made the difference.
"Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey
chim chim cher-ee
a sweep is as lucky, as lucky can be."
(lyrics from Chim Chim Cher-ee, composed by Robert and Richard Sherman)

Hearts of Stone

I taught fifth graders for seven years. Fifth grade teachers monitored recess. Twenty-five minutes a day, as long as the temperature was above freezing and the weather was dry, we watched kids be kids.
Most students loved recess, but some did not.
All the running and chasing and choosing teams did not appeal to some of my fifth graders. Some of them would rather sit quietly than run. Some did not run fast enough to give chase; and some knew that when teams were chosen, they would be chosen last...or not at all.
The last year I taught fifth grade, the year before we moved to a new town, the year before I moved to a new school where I would teach seventh graders, I had several students who did not enjoy recess.
I watched and worried as they staked out various obscure spots on the playground.
If she was lucky enough, she'd make it out first to the swing set and claim a swing where she would drag her feet and study the ground. If he thought he'd go unnoticed, he'd sit under the covered archway, near the cafeteria doors, and scratch the pavement with a sharp stick.
One boy, though, lingered near the teachers' bench. We talked to him, tried to draw him in. Did he want our attention, to be included in our conversation? After a cursory word or two, he'd venture back out to the perimeter of our area. The teachers' bench was surrounded with landscaping stones; and this little boy would stand on the edge, dragging the toe of his shoe through the rocks.
Day after day, he stood and watched the other children play.
One day, watching him out of the corner of my eye, I decided to try something different.
"I collect heart-shaped rocks," I said, loud enough for him to hear. The second the words came out of my mouth, they were true. Suddenly, I was a collector of heart-shaped rocks.
"I'd love to have some for my collection," I said, "and I'll bet there are all kinds of heart-shaped rocks hidden in these stones."
The student edged closer. He was looking at the rocks carefully now, really seeing them.
After a few moments, I noticed him reach down. He walked over to me.
"What about this one, Mrs. Sheroan?" he asked, holding out a rock. If I turned my head just so, it looked a little bit like a heart.
"That will be perfect for my collection," I said. "Thank you!"
I carried the rock in after recess and set it on top of my computer.
The next day, he added a few more to my collection. Word spread. The day after that, the boy who usually sat under the archway joined him. The two didn't really talk to each other; but they talked to me. They found rocks shaped like dinosaurs, and rocks shaped like parallelograms, and rocks that kind of looked like crescent moons. They also found rocks shaped like hearts...lots and lots of heart-shaped rocks.
On days she couldn't get to the swings on time, the girl from the swing sets joined in. Before long, I had a cairn of heart-shaped rocks on my desk...my favorite, one with a shallow fissure down the middle...a broken heart for my collection.
By the end of the year, I had heart-shaped rocks as paper weights, and heart-shaped rocks lining the window sill, and several glass containers brimming with hearts of stone.
I remember thinking, as I cleaned out my classroom, preparing for the big move.
"What should I do with this collection?"
I remember asking myself that question, but I have no recollection of what I did.
I don't remember throwing the rocks away...surely I would not have thrown them away; but I don't remember boxing them up either. I had so many things to box and pack and move.
I like to think that I carried all those rocks back to the teachers' bench. I like to think that I scattered them there, a second chance for other kids, in years to come, who would not love recess. I like to think that I did not leave the rocks in a pile...a pile of discarded hearts; but the truth is, I don't remember.

Easter Album

Yes, that's me.
Age 14 months,
sitting on Grandma's chenille bedspread,
smiling at my Easter basket,
holding a chocolate rabbit by the ears.

I'm the one in the yellow gingham dress.
Granny made it for me.
Yellow is my favorite color.
I was 6, wearing a carnation wrist corsage.
My dad bought it at the florist's on Saturday
and kept it in the fridge overnight...
so it wouldn't wilt.
My knee socks are startling white.
If you look close enough, you'll see
my fingertips...still rainbow colored
from dying eggs the day before.
See me, holding the handle of my basket
with two hands?
I wanted to run and find some eggs;
but I was worried about scuffing my new shoes.

No, I wasn't happy that day.
I was 13 in that one.
See the Easter dress, blue and white stripes,
thin red plastic belt?
It seemed fine when I tried it on;
but on Easter Sunday, I knew I looked
like I worked in a seafood restaurant.
I did not smile for the picture
even though Mom said,
"Don't look so mad."
I couldn't wait to get to Grandma's,
change into jeans and a sweatshirt,
eat ham and homemade rolls,
and stretch out on her living room carpet
to watch my sister and cousin play hundreds
of hands of UNO.

I'm right there, 16 years old,
sitting on the back bumper
of the white pick-up truck.
That's Papaw, standing beside me.
He and I worked for hours,
writing rhymes for clues.
Papaw wanted to have
a scavenger hunt for Easter.
He said I was the best at poems.
He hid a hundred dollar bill
in a plastic egg;
and then the grown-ups
ran down Galley Street,
trying to find it first.
My poems led them here and there,
while all us kids, and Papaw,
watched and laughed.

That's me - right there...
the one dressed like Mary Magdalene.
Age 19, home from college
for spring break.
My dad, the preacher, asked me
to get up before daylight
and help with sunrise service.
I didn't mind.
I loved sunrise service...
so peaceful, so solemn.
My sister's friend
volunteered to be Jesus.
It was so early he forgot his lines
and stood there for the longest time,
looking terrified.
I couldn't help myself.
I was overcome.
I laughed so hard my shoulders shook.
From a distance it looked like crying.
I felt awful;
but dad said not to worry,
no one noticed.
It all worked out fine in the end.

(A poem inspired by Gary Soto's "Ode to Family Photographs")

Golden Egg

During college, I was a member of the Baptist Student Union. On weekends, we traveled to small churches in our state to help with their youth groups. Being a preacher's daughter, I knew sometimes youth ministers needed help motivating their middle school and high school students, coming up with fresh ideas that would keep their youth involved at church and out of trouble elsewhere.
I had fun, helping with weekend retreats, leading lock-ins, preparing Bible studies for small groups.
One spring weekend, my friends and I from the BSU carpooled to a small church in a neighboring county, each of us armed with an Easter basket filled with empty plastic eggs. We had more eggs in a shopping bag; and several more baskets stacked in the trunk.
The youth minister met us at the front door of the church and led us to the multipurpose room. We arrived early, before the youth group members, in order to hide the eggs. One egg was covered with golden glitter. I watched as our director, Amy, hid the golden egg. I knew it would be difficult to find.
No sooner had we hidden the last plastic egg, the middle school and high school kids began to arrive.
After a few get-to-know-you games, Amy announced that we were having an egg hunt. A few of the older youth group members groaned. One girl rolled her eyes. They thought they were too old for an egg hunt.
Amy explained that the eggs were empty...no candy inside. Now even more students seemed to disengage. Why would they try to find empty plastic eggs?
I felt a little nervous. We were losing our audience. Tough crowd.
Amy forged on. She was only 22; but she had a measure of confidence that could only have been Heaven sent.
Ignoring the teenagers' crossed arms and bored expressions, Amy instructed us to hand each participant a basket. Then she announced to the group, "In just a minute, I'm going to yell 'Go!' and you all are going to try to find as many eggs as you can in order to WIN THIS GAME. Each egg has a point value, which is written on this piece of paper I have folded in my hand. I won't reveal the points for each egg until AFTER the hunt. You need to know, there is ONLY ONE GOLDEN EGG!"
I'm not sure if it was her enthusiasm or the mention of a golden egg or the appeal to their competitive natures or an actual miracle, but most of the disinterested teenagers perked up a little.
By the time Amy shouted, "Go!," most of the kids were hurrying around the multipurpose room.
Some grabbed every egg they saw, piling their basket with a rainbow of plastic. Others were more selective, going after only certain colors...interesting strategy; but several kids ran right past colorful eggs that were in plain sight. At first, I thought maybe they had somehow missed the eggs; but then I realized, they were focused only on finding the golden egg. Their goal had become specific...win the game with the golden egg.
Of course, one youth group member did, eventually, find the golden egg, holding it high over his head triumphantly. The hunt continued for a few more minutes while other participants half-heartedly gathered the rest of the plastic eggs. After all, the coveted golden egg, had already been found. Amy gathered the youth group members back in a loose circle around her. Those of us from the BSU mingled in.
"Great job!" Amy said, enthusiastically. We all applauded.
"Take a look at your eggs while I read the points values," she said. She unfolded the paper in her hand.
"Pink eggs are worth two points!"
"Awwww!"  - this from one kid who had collected mostly pink eggs.
"Green eggs are worth five points!"
"Orange eggs - 10 points!" A couple of kids with orange eggs in their baskets high-fived each other.
"Blue eggs are worth 15 points!"
Amy continued to announce colors and point values. The kid with the golden egg looked smug. It was the only egg in his basket.
"And...finally...," Amy said, "Drumroll please..." We all slapped the tiled floor in an exaggerated drumroll, "the GOLDEN EGG is worth...NEGATIVE 500 POINTS!"
The kid who found the golden egg was holding the egg in his hand, a smile frozen on his face. Stunned silence filled the room.
This game had not turned out how anyone had planned. I was worried for Amy.
The kid with the golden egg didn't look stunned anymore; he looked angry.
Amy didn't miss a beat.
Other kids in the room were now recounting their eggs. A few asked Amy to read off the points again. Their yellow, and pink, and blue eggs now seemed worth counting.
The kid with the golden egg just stood there.
Amy walked over and gently took the golden egg. She stood beside the kid who found it. She held the egg in front of her.
"How many of you tried hard to find this egg?" Amy asked. Most of the kids raised their hands.
"I see that some of you only have a few eggs in your  basket even though there were plenty of eggs hidden in this room. Do you only have a few eggs because you mainly wanted this one - this golden egg?" More kids sheepishly conceded that yes, in fact, they thought that was the only egg worth finding.
The boy who had found the egg looked a little less upset.
"I bet most of you thought that the golden egg would be worth more points than any other egg. Is that correct?" the kids nodded.
"And someone found it...even though I thought I hid it pretty well." The kid who had found the egg was still standing beside her. She patted his shoulder. He stood taller. He was part of the lesson now.
"Of course you thought this egg would be worth more points than all the others. It was the only one of its kind - the golden egg," she paused for a moment.
"Life is like that," she continued. "We think certain things are of great value because everyone thinks those things are valuable; so we rush around, blind to other important, valuable things around us...searching for that golden egg that's just out of reach. Don't get tricked by the glitter," Amy advised. "Don't spend your lives looking frantically for wealth or fame or power...the fanciest car, the biggest house, the most money or glory or glitz. Don't spend all your time and energy going after those things that everyone else wants, that everyone else deems to be most valuable."
Everyone was quiet. Some of the kids were looking at Amy. Some were looking at the eggs in their baskets.
Amy's voice was quiet but clear, "Don't let that golden egg be the only thing in your basket when the game is over," she said. We finished the day with several other games, then loaded the eggs and baskets back into the trunk and headed back to campus.
Twenty-eight years later, I still remember Amy's words...the lesson about the golden egg. I stop and think, every now and then, especially when my basket feels empty. Am I running right past kindness and leaving joy and love hidden in plain sight? Am I overlooking important things around me while I look for the golden egg?

Listening to the Story

I have been reading Jennifer A. Nielsen's A Night Divided, a gripping tale of Gerta, a girl whose family is divided by the Berlin Wall. I became a Nielsen fan after reading The False Prince; and I was very excited when I realized our school librarian had ordered A Night Divided.
I have not been disappointed. Gerta's story has prompted me to read more about the Berlin Wall, the history behind it, what the people of East Berlin experienced, how the people in West Berlin were affected by it.
Great writing does that...prompts the reader to dig a little deeper, wonder more, ask questions that may or may not be answered.
I was several chapters into the book when I flipped to the back to read Nielsen's acknowledgments. I do that sometimes...well, all the time.
I read every word. I wanted to know exactly how many individuals and groups Nielsen credited with creating Gerta's story. Who did she thank? Who was in her corner? Who pulled Nielsen through when she felt stuck?
This is what I read:
"There was nothing logical about my decision to write this book. The timing was too tight, I was already contracted for a different trilogy, and, as was pointed out to me more than once, I wasn't a historical writer.
But Gerta was insistent, constantly interrupting my thoughts..."
I sat there for a moment; and then I reread Nielsen's words. Jennifer A. Nielsen, a published author, living the writer's life, still had to contend with that voice in her ear...pointing out that she wasn't that kind of writer. Really? I read it again.
And Gerta...her character, was in her corner, fighting for the story to be told. I was fascinated. I read the paragraph to my students. I share books with them often; but I don't always share with them a paragraph from the author's acknowledgments. Maybe I should do that more often...maybe always.
"Did you hear that?" I asked. "Did you notice how Ms. Nielsen had to NOT listen to the voices telling her she couldn't do this, that she was not a historical writer? What if she had given in...we wouldn't have this great book! We wouldn't know this character. Thank goodness Ms. Nielsen listened to the story...the story that needed to be told!"

* * *

I can't tune the negativity out sometimes. Those voices...
"Other work is more important."
"You don't really have time for this."
"You'll never get anything published."
"The market's too saturated."
"Who would want to read that?"
Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, I listen. I don't write.
But this month, I tried extra hard to listen to the story...and then the next story...and the next. I listened to the stories; and I wrote them. Some days, I had to hold my ears to shut out the words that would stop me. Some days, I could barely hear the story whispering; but sometimes, those stories roared!