Being a writer and a lover of words, it’s no surprise I am a collector of books. Old books, new books, spiritual books, cookbooks, fiction, non fiction,reference,picture books. In essence, I love them all.
I suppose even the most perfect of fathers have their faults. When I was a child, I couldn’t get enough of the TV show “Leave It To Beaver”. Not having a father, I hoped there were profound words of wisdom I could glean from Ward Cleaver. They were, in my young child’s eyes, the perfect family.
-Linda Lee Lyberg
My mother’s hospitality
Is the only true reality
That’s never, ever faltered
Through these many years.
You go through two-thirds of your life thinking you are Italian and with one little vial of spit, all you thought you were changes.
And while I am astounded by the advances we have made in science and genetics, I now have a new identity. And one, I might add, that surprised me.
Are you ready for the DNA breakdown of who I am? Here it is in all its numerical glory.
The cool dark interior of the antique shop is a welcome respite from the summer sun. As the door closes behind me an insistent voice whispers inside my head, ‘Come to me, I want to tell you a story.’ I turn around, expecting someone behind me. No one. I dismiss it as my overactive imagination.
So many people are of mixed heritage; everyone is from somewhere else. “-G. Willow Wilson
In January of 1973, my father changed his name. Not only his first name, but his entire legal name. In the district court of Harris County Texas, the man who was once William Clark Polley became Anthony Joseph Pollizzio. The reason according to court records? ‘The causes which induce him to desire a change of name and to adopt another are: That the name which the applicant desires his name changed to was his grandfather’s name and most of the members of his family are known by the Pollizzio surname, as is the applicant, and that it is for his interest and benefit to change his name and adopt another for the reasons aforesaid.’ The court granted his request.
The date, forever inked in crimson on her soul like a tawdry tattoo. November 6, 2012. Election day.
Two hours since the call.
Motorcycle accident, trauma center, broken bones, blow to the head, no helmet. I’m okay, he says.
She does not believe him. She is across the country, twenty-two hundred miles away.