I never liked garlic, and I certainly hated “garlic breath”.
The minute I walked into the tiny get-away cottage, I was overwhelmed by the garlic. Truthfully, the place reeked.
All of it went outside and the I opened the windows wide to freshen the place. With just one whiff of dinner, I knew I was going to live on bread alone despite the hostess going on and on about immunity.
Late the next night I met the only local that didn’t have garlic breath. Divine.
Awake once again, my aversion to garlic is worse. And sunlight. I should have listened…
Matt watched from his bedroom window as Ryan stormed away from the house. What did he say to Mom? Matt wondered.
Ryan stopped at the end of the drive, looked both ways, hunched his shoulders and then slowly walked down the road.
Ryan was in one of his moods again. When wasn’t he? Was that what 17 was all about, hatred and anger? Resentment of everything?
“Don’t try following me, you lib-tool snowflake!” Ryan had said. “And if you even think about going in my room, they’ll never find the body parts.”
All Matt had said as “Good morning,” and maybe something about being glad it was Saturday, but Ryan blew up at him. And what was with that stupid warning about his stupid room? Nick had said that he thought Ryan was making bombs or something there. Matt wasn’t sure if Nick was joking.
Edna sat down at her favorite bench, giving silent thanks that it was open. She had seen it occupied at other times of the day, but it was always open for her late morning breakfast and had been for years.
How long had it been?
She thought back. She had started to come down to the park the year after Ed died. Let’s see, that was in ’98. And it was two years later that she settled on that one bench.
So there it was, 18 years of sitting there with her lunch every day.
She spread some crusts out, as always, before getting up and doing her the bit of walking she did every day.
There were a few paths that curved around the lovely garden that she loved to take. Her favorite, though, went through a little hidden grotto. Not a cave, just a little nook in the wall.
“Hey boy, get me that crescent wrench. The middle sized one, now, ya hear, boy?”
“I’ve got a name,” Mark grumbled to himself as he dug through the pile of greasy tools trying to figure out which wrench was the “middle sized one”.
As Mark compared seven different wrenches, he inwardly cringed. Dad would mangle the car and make it worse. No use telling him that he needed the right tool, and that the crescent wrench, even the exact one he wanted, wasn’t right. He’d heard it before. Continue reading →
I was thinking Strawbery Banke in Portsmouth, NH. It is an old residential section turned into a museum. It has homes restored to look like different eras from the 1690s to the 1950s. One house had all of the periods represented as it had been lived in continuously for over 250 years. So this house that Liza liked was restored to 1919, but Dylan liked the houses from 1695 better….