When I feel the weight of regret… I go to my happy place.
Bargain Mom Fourth of July 2012 Round-up: Events, Freebies, Deals & More. Best Short Story:. “Watermelon Weekend,” by Donna Carrick (from Thirteen, edited by M.H. Callway, Donna Carrick, and Joan O'Callaghan; Carrick). “Under Cap Ste. Claire,” by Jas. Petrin ( Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, October 2013).
When a ton of unfinished projects holds me back… I go to my happy place.
When my molehills become mountains… I go to my happy place.
I’ll pay for my mistakes. Still, I go.
I’ll sit with the evidence of my sin and weakness. Still, I go.
I’ll get bogged down. Still, I go.
In my happy place, I find…
…help in casting off my burdens.
…strength to purge the garbage from my life.
…guidance in finding a clear path forward.
Adventure Storywatermelon Gaming Chair
When I feel the weight of regret (and overspending)… I go to myhappy place (the landfill).
When a ton of unfinished projects holds me back (because they’ve collapsed in front of me)… I go to my happy place.
When my molehills (of trinkets) become mountains (of trash)… I go to my happy place.
I’ll pay for my mistakes ($48/ton). Still, I go.
I’ll sit with the evidence of my sin and weakness (impulse purchases, impossible projects, items to replace identical lost items). Still, I go.
I’ll get bogged down (in mud and trash). Still, I go.
In my happy place, I find…
…help (from the kind staff) in casting off my burdens.
Adventure Storywatermelon Gaming Pc
…strength (from a community of professionals and weekenders) to purge the garbage from my life.
…guidance (from fellow travelers) in finding a clear path forward (or backward, as my trailering skills are laughable, at best).
May you find a happy place in an unexpected setting.
Watermelon Seeds The year is 1970. That's me! The little girl with auburn pigtails, bobby socks and white canvas sneakers. I'm 9 years old. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Those wonderful smells. Scallions baking in the hot Kentucky sun. Dill and frying eggs on the stove. The smokey cigarette in the ashtray with my Grandma's cranberry lipstick on it. Stale beer and cigar smoke from the tavern next door lingering in the august air and woopie pies baking in the oven. Sounds, like these smells, are just as strong. A train making music on the railroad tracks behind the house. The high pitched buzz of a window fan and laughter and gabby men's voices coming thru the screen door. The height of segregation is near. My Grandma is the only white woman on the block and is well respected by everyone. My two best friends, summer friends, were two little girls my age named Rice Pudding and Boo Boo. We play for hours. Hop- scotch, jacks, jumping rope games. They are black and I am white. Every week the fruit truck makes it rounds to Grandma's. We race to pick out the biggest watermelon in the bunch. With our mouths watering, we set the table up on the front porch. Transformed we are. No longer little girls, we are 'ladies'. The watermelon is make believe lobster tail and we are dining in style. We talk of trips, jewelry and boys! Laughing as we spit the black and white watermelon seeds to the sides of our plate, we save these seeds and play tiddly winks with them. We are not black and we are not white at this moment in time. Like the watermelon seeds we just are. We laugh so hard are water logged bellies start hurting. We are the same on the inside only the outside is different. Watermelon Seeds.