Whaling Days

Last Saturday, my boyfriend, Nathan, and I went to the annual street fair in Silverdale, WA which part of the festival called "Whaling Days". It was the first time I'd ever gone to Whaling Days, and I had a good time even if it was too hot! Nathan kept bringing me into the shade because he was worried I'd get heat stroke. I did get a head and stomach ache, but both went away, and I was fine long before we left. Here are some photos I took.





A view of the street fair with its rows and rows of booths.








A ray of sunlight shining down on the fair-goers.













These booths were near the shady area where we spent most of our time eating and listening to some of the live bands.










This booth ended up being the source of all our food. First, we both bought lemonade and gyros. Next, Nathan bought an ice cream cone. Before we left, I just had to buy an elephant ear. The little wooden machine in the middle of the picture is used to flatten out the elephant ear dough. It has two metal rollers that are hand-cranked as the dough is feed through it. The huge piece of dough was fried and covered with a lot of cinnamon and sugar.











A glimpse of the Ferris wheel moving by. It was behind the top of one of the booths and the roof of a building.









A complete view of the Ferris wheel.








Nathan bought me this adorable toy gecko. It's stuffed with sand.








I've propped the geico across a bar in my hallway, so that it hangs above my head and stares down at me.







The day ended with the most beautiful sunset. I took many, many shots. Here are just a few.























Until I type again,

Kami

The Cutest Boy In School

"Victorian Love Letter" Photo courtesy of http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/Valentines_Day_g135-Victorian_Love_Letter_p5746.html

***This is an original, previously unpublished fiction story that I wrote. Like a lot of my writing these days, Sandy's experience in school is loosely based on a similar incident in my own life. I hope that you enjoy the story.***

“The Cutest Boy In School”

Sandy had liked Pete for two years now. Ever since he’d first transferred into Mrs. Kennedy’s fifth grade class and sat down at the desk in front of Sandy’s own, Sandy had decided that he was the cutest boy in school. His hair was a shaggy mop of dark brown waves. His eyes were also brown, just a few shades lighter than his hair. It was his smile though that Sandy most adored. It was broad and toothy and endearingly crooked. Every time she saw that smile, Sandy felt a tingle from head to toe.

Did Pete also feel tingly when Sandy smiled? Dearest reader, if you had asked Sandy that question anytime over the last two years, she’d have sadly admitted that it was very unlikely. It wasn’t that Pete was unaware of her existence. Oh, no. He and Sandy had briefly spoken to one another on several occasions. He had even addressed her by name. Each time he spoke to her, Sandy felt a flicker of hope. Usually this was a brief flicker, since when he came across Sandy walking her dog before school each morning; he demonstrated more interest towards her dog than he did towards Sandy.

Her dog was a dachshund, one of those cute little wiener dogs that you see scurrying around like a relative to a caterpillar. Sandy’s dog seemed especially caterpillar-like, and she sometimes wondered if he didn’t really possess more than the standard four legs. A few times, when she’d watched him run, she could have almost sworn she’d seen a half dozen more legs pop out. Only when he slowed did the legs seem to vanish once again.

The first time he’d seen the dog, Pete had asked her its name.

“Mustard,” she replied with a blush.

“Mustard!” Pete had exclaimed. “Why do you call him that?”

“Well. . . He’s a wiener dog, and I only like mustard on my hot dogs.”

Pete laughed, gave her his crooked smile, petted and played with Mustard a little. He didn’t hang around her very long. He left with a wave and a quick. “Gotta go. See ya!”

Was it any wonder that Sandy had good reason to doubt Pete had any real interest in her? She had no reason to think that the feelings she harbored for him would ever be shared. At least, for the past two years, Sandy had no reason to believe this to be the case. Recent events led her to believe otherwise.

Notes had begun appearing in her locker at school. Love notes. On these notes were written things like “I like you”, “You’re the prettiest girl in school”, and “I saw the shirt you wore yesterday, and you look nice in green”. The notes were all signed “Your Secret Admirer”.

Sandy was so surprised by these notes that she would have thought they’d been slipped into the wrong locker if her name wasn’t written on the outside of them. She puzzled everyday over who they might be from. Of course, the first person she’d think of was Pete. This wasn’t, as has already been explained, because she had any real reason to think that he liked her. It was because Sandy couldn’t think of any other boy from whom she’d liked to get such notes.

Vicki, as girl in Sandy’s math class, asked her about the notes after she read one over Sandy’s shoulder. “Oooo,” Vicki almost squealed. “A note from a secret admirer! You’re so lucky! Do you know who it is?”

“I have no idea.” Sandy admitted. She went on to mention that there had been other notes before this one.

“Really? Someone must like you a lot.” Vicki responded.

Sandy hardly heard Vicki’s last comment Pete happened to walk by at that moment. Vicki didn’t miss Sandy’s clear expression of longing while watching Pete. Perhaps, if this timing had played out differently, then the events that happened next might not have taken place. It’s difficult not to wonder this when looking back on things.

Later that same day, Sandy received the last of these notes that would be put into her locker. This one read: “Hey, beautiful! Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Instead of the usual signature, “Your Secret Admirer”, this one was signed “Pete”.

To understand Sandy’s feelings at this point, picture yourself as a thirteen year old girl with a long held crush on the cutest boy in school. Imagine how you’d feel if the boy you’d secretly adored, gave you a note asking you to be his girlfriend. As you might expect, Sandy felt as if she were floating amongst the clouds. Only a bird could touch her now. It was as if someone had plucked her greatest wish out of her head and turned it into reality.

Bubbling over with joy, Sandy saw Pete approaching. She stood in front of her locker, note in hand, grinning broadly as he walked toward her. I wish I could report otherwise, but Pete did not even glance in Sandy’s direction. Thinking he didn’t know she was there, as he began to pass her, Sandy called out to him.

“Hi, Pete!”

He looked over at her. “Hi, how’s Mustard doing?”

“Good! He’s good!” She replied in an overly loud voice.

“Cool.” He stood there a moment, staring at his feet, before quickly turning away. “Gotta go. See Ya!”

Sandy wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring after him with what was no doubt an expression of shock on her face. Gradually, she became aware of the laughter of a nearby group of girls. The group consisted of Vicki and three other classmates. They were looking at Sandy and were laughing heartily.

“Hey, Sandy!” Vicki shouted over at her. “How is your secret admirer? I don’t think he likes you anymore.”

A sick feeling flooded Sandy’s stomach. Dread was making itself manifest. She thought that Pete hadn’t acted like a boy who had been sending that girl love notes or like a boy who had just asked a girl out and was still waiting for an answer. He hadn’t acted like her admirer, secret or otherwise. All of the notes had been in the same handwriting, so, if Pete hadn’t given her the notes, then who had? Who, in particular, would have given her love notes and signed his name to the last one?

Sandy hadn’t told anyone except Vicki about the notes, but it was obvious that Vicki’s friends, those three girls that she was with now, must know about them too. Horrified, she realized that Vicki, or one of her friends, had written the notes! That’s why they were laughing at her after she’d talked with Pete. They knew the notes weren’t from him!

It was all a cruel practical joke! Boys didn’t pay much attention to Sandy; these girls knew she wasn’t popular. So, they’d decided it would be funny to write her love notes to get her excited about someone liking her. Then, they’d figured out that Sandy liked Pete, and they had signed his name on the last note. They thought it was especially funny to see Sandy’s expression when Pete walked away.

These girls knew that Sandy was disappointed, confused, and hurt. As she realized the notes were a joke, she was also embarrassed and humiliated. Hurting their classmate this way had been Vicki’s idea, but the other three girls had known about it all along. They considered hurting Sandy, a classmate they hardly knew and who had never done anything to them, merely a form of entertainment.

Looking back at this, years later, can I tell you, sympathetic readers, that these girls eventually learned their lesson? Did they learn the error of their cruel ways and grow up to my kind, sensitive adults? Alas, to my knowledge, I can not tell you that is the case. As far as I am aware, they grew up to be adults with as much empathy as a bunch of toads. Fortunately, I do have some good news to report.

The year after the final love notes incident, Sandy’s family moved, and she started attending a different school. Thus, she didn’t see Pete again until they ran into each other one day when they were both twenty years old.

“Hey, how’s Mustard doing?” He asked.

“Mustard died two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sandy. He was a good dog.”

“Yes, he was. I’m thinking about getting another one.” She told him. “A dalmatian.”

“Let me guess. You plan to name him ‘Spot’.”

“No,” Sandy replied with a smile. “I’d name him ‘Stripe’.”

He laughed. Pete then went on to tell Sandy that he used to be grateful that he could use Mustard as an excuse to talk to her. It turns out that Pete had always liked her as much as she had liked him. He used to get so nervous when he spoke to her that he could only do it a short while before his anxiety overwhelmed him. That’s why he’d always say “Gotta go. See ya!” and then leave so abruptly.

Older and less insecure, Pete was over his anxiety when speaking with Sandy. Pete hadn’t gotten over liking her nor had she gotten over her crush. The two started dating, and fell in love. During this time, Sandy told him about the mean practical joke that Vicki and the other girls had played on her in seventh grade. Both of them appreciated the irony that they had really liked each other the whole time, though neither had been aware of the others feelings.

Pete and Sandy were married. On their first wedding anniversary, he gave her a handwritten note with her gift. The note had Sandy’s name written on the outside and read “Hey, beautiful. You’re still the prettiest girl I know. I love you.” It was signed “Your Secret Admirer, Pete”. He wrote her an identical note every anniversary thereafter for the many years that they were wed. Sandy kept every one of them.

-The End-

Until I type again,

Kami

Ireland

"Clover" Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=6051

I've been so tired this week that I've not had much time or energy to blog. I slept better last night, so here I am! My internet connection has been really poor lately also. I've been putting off getting a better connection for so long now, that my boyfriend is telling me that he's ready to start paying for it himself, if I don't fix the problem. So far, I've not agreed to let him do this. I might feel differently if we lived together, and he were paying for something that both of us were using, but I think that I shouldn't get better internet service unless I'm willing to pay for it myself every month. It's very sweet of him to offer though. He knows how frustrating it's been for me to get and stay on-line, and it's difficult for him to watch my frustration without wanting to try to relieve it.

Today, I found some beautiful pictures on-line that I'd like to share. I've never been to Ireland. Some of my ancestors are from there, and some of my family have talked about how wonderful it would be to take a trip to Ireland, but we've never gone. Sigh! Who knows, maybe I'll go to Ireland someday. . .

"Carrowmore" Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=6015

"Glengesh Pass in Ireland" Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=5932

"Rock of Cashel" Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=6080

"Deerpark" Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=6047

"Ireland" Photo courtsey http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=6064

Until I type again,
Kami

The Sun

Photo courtesy of http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=5702

“The Sun”

The Sun shines so bright

That she fills the world

With her light.

Her smile glows from above.

The brightest star

Gives our planet love.

From happy days at the park,

To the longest hours

Of deepest dark.

Winter, spring, summer, fall,

She’s the source of life

Throughout it all.

The Sun likes her job a lot,

But when she works too hard

It gets wayyy too hot!

Until I type again,
Kami

The Waters Of Grief

Photo "River" courtesy of http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=5320

GRIEF IS LIKE A RIVER

By Cinthia G. Kelley

My grief is like a river,
I have to let it flow,
but I myself determine
just where the banks will go.

Some days the current takes me
in waves of guilt and pain,
but there are always quiet pools
where I can rest again.

I crash on rocks of anger;
my faith seems faint indeed,
but there are other swimmers
who know that what I need

Are loving hands to hold me
when the waters are too swift,
and someone kind to listen
when I just seem to drift.

Grief's river is a process
of relinquishing the past.
By swimming in hope's channels,
I'll reach the shore at last.

Last night, I learned of the recent death of a wonderful woman who played an important part in my life. She was my mother-in-law, the mom of my husband, Chris, who, himself, died in 2007. She was kind and generous, practical and honest. She gave me both love and respect. She told me that I was the best thing that ever happened to her son. I feel this is the ultimate compliment that anyone could receive from their in-laws. In short, she was just the opposite of all those bad mother-in-law stereotypes.

A lifelong smoker, she died of lung cancer. I could easily make this blog a lecture on the hazards of smoking, but really, is there any point in that? Does anyone not know about the dangers of smoker in this day and age? It is a powerful addiction, more difficult to beat than heroin, according to some opinions that I've heard. I'm not a smoker, but I have loved smokers, and I do appreciate that it's a very, very hard habit to kick.

I've learned firsthand that grief is complex and confusing. It makes me see the preciousness of life and the bittersweet gift of loving people. When my grandpa died, my family deemed his memorial service "A Celebration Of Life". This seems to be the way I most react to death. I want to laugh in the face of it. In the midst of my sadness for the loss, I also feel the need for humor. I want smile, to giggle, to sing, to dance, to celebrate as much as I want to cry.

It has been said many times that laughter is the best medicine. I believe that this is true. Searching the Internet for humorous material, I recognize that I am looking for more than a distraction. I'm seeking balance, comfort, joy and appreciation of the goodness to be found in the universe. It's out there. Even when loss enters our lives, the rest of the world doesn't disappear. Life goes on. Love and joy and hope and laughter are eternal forces. I think of the times that I have laughed so hard that it brought tears to my eyes, and I think of the times when I have cried until it turned into laughter. They are opposite, yet, they are also the same. Yin-yang. Together, they represent part of a whole. To have full, complete lives, we can not avoid pain, loss and sorrow. It is through these experiences that we can most learn to find our own path to beauty, awe and happiness.

I leave you today with a scene from the movie "Anger Management" because, even though I've seen it several times, I still laugh each time.

Until I type again,
Kami

To Change Or Not To Change? A Look At The Question

We are all different. One important way in which people can greatly differ is in how comfortable they are with change. For some, almost constant change is desirable and highly sought after. For others, like myself, change is mostly undesirable and typically avoided. It's not that all change is either good or bad, right or wrong. It's more about that fact that some people frequently seek out a variety of new stimulation, and some people prefer it when life feels mostly predictable and orderly. One person's idea of boring is another person's idea of serenity.



Of course, when it comes to making some major changes, such as dealing with things like phobias, addictions, co-dependency, illness and death, these are hard for anyone, irregardless of whether an individual tends to like or dislike change. It takes both time and effort to change some things or to accept those things we can't alter. This reminds me of "The Serenity Prayer", beloved of 12-Step programs everywhere. (Keep in mind that it the word "God" can be replaced with that of Goddess, Buddha, Allah, Mother Earth, Father Sky, Great Spirit, Universe, Higher Power, etc. etc. Personally, I don't bother changing it when I say it because I know what I mean.)

"The Serenity Prayer"

God, grant me the serenity

to accept the things

I can not change.

The courage to change

the things I can

And wisdom to know the
difference.

For me, I have difficulty not only with those changes that are hard for all of us, but also with other changes as well. It's certainly not that I dislike the new and different. It's just that it takes me some time before and after; time to actively make changes and time to adjust afterward. I like it when I feel a certain sense of harmony in my life. Change tends to give me some tension, anxiety and a feeling of disorder. This is interesting to me since I've gone to foreign countries, by myself, hopped on the public bus and explored. So, it's not as if I always avoid new experiences. Yet, I'm limited in my spontaneity. I might go explore a foreign land on my own, but I usually do so with language books, maps, guidebooks, and money in different forms. I'll have likely researched, planned and studied that foreign country, including those bus routes, beforehand. Change is harder for me if I don't have the luxury time.

Originally, I was thinking of change in terms of big and small changes, but I find, for myself, that change usually comes only in plus-sizes: Large, LARGER, EVEN LARGER, and OVERWHELMING LARGE. My difficulty with change tends to make me view change in these big quantities. That's why, whenever I choose to try to change something in my life, the first thing I need to do is to hit whatever it is with a hammer. I need to hammer it until it shatters into smaller, more manageable pieces. Then, I can try to change those pieces one by one.

When it comes to some types of changes, this approach might be very practical. When it comes to others, like, say, changing my socks, the best approach is not to hit my feet with a hammer until they are shattered into pieces. (Ouch! Good thing I realize this!) It is more practical to alter some things by taking a simpler, and in this case, saner approach, such as only mentally breaking them into pieces.

Sometimes, it's most rewarding to face changes from outside the desirable, comfortable place from which we normally would approach them. If making changes is easy and frequent for someone, there can be much growth and knowledge gained by not changing something. Instead of always looking for the fresh and new, gains can be made by staying still, sticking with something and, then, seeing where it takes you. There are somethings that are worth holding onto and some that are better off being left alone.

On the other hand, if changes are difficult and done infrequently, much growth and knowledge can be gained by pushing forward, following through, and, as the Nike ads say to "Just Do It!", despite any reluctance. By doing what might normally make us uncomfortable, by pushing pass our usual boundaries, all sorts of discoveries could be made. This is not to say that we should act contrary to our own standards of right and wrong. Instead, I ask how many times do we resist taking the different, less comfortable approach, not because it is wrong, but only because it's not what we usually like to do?

Some things are beyond our limited sphere of control. It's a fact that not everything falls into our personal realm of responsibility. Like it or not, there will always be many, many things in life that are beyond our individual capacity to alter, even if it we try our hardest to do so. I believe that happiness can be found in discovering our personal balance between when when to change and when not to change.

(The photos I included are a few that I recently took. I seem to take a lot of pictures of flowers and of the sky.)


Until I type again,
Kami

Dragonfly Dreamer - A Poem & Pictures

These are some photos I recently took and a poem I wrote today.

Drop of dew on a blade of grass.

Raindrops sparking like bits of crystal.

Away, away she flies.

Gone into a sky wide.

Open your eyes and your mind.

Nurture and nature together blended.

Feel the brush of a wing.

Loosen your grasp.

Yesterday fades into memory.

Dawn still far, far distant.

Reach out your hand.

Exit the fog.

Awake to a clearer dawn.

Move along, holding onto her tail.

Endless twirling, spinning, soaring.

Riding through and past the storm.

Until I type again,

Kami

Welcome Home U.S.S. Stennis!

Yesterday morning, while I was on my way to work, what should I happen to see sailing by?

It was the U.S.S. Stennis on its way to it's home port at Naval Base Kitsap in Bremerton, WA. The Stennis has been out to sea for six months, and there were a lot of happy family and friends in Bremerton awaiting her arrival. I was glad to have my camera with me so that I could capture some shots as she sailed past. It's the first time I've seen an active-duty supercarrier at sail. It's a really big boat, and it moves surprising fast! As far as the size, to give you some perspective, all those small white dots surrounding her deck are actually it's crew, lined up and dressed in their white navy uniforms.

From Wikipedia:

"USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74) is the seventh Nimitz-class nuclear-powered supercarrier in the United States Navy, named for Senator John C. Stennis of Mississippi. She was commissioned on 9 December 1995. Her home port is Bremerton, Washington."

For the complete Wikipedia article:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_John_C._Stennis_(CVN-74)

Until I type again,
Kami

Foggy-Headed Day

Greetings! It's been difficult to find time to blog this week. Work transitions have been stressful and my allergies have given me sinus problems since last Sunday. This, in turn, is upsetting my stomach. This morning, I first handwrote this blog entry into a journal that has become a composition book for this blog, and, right now, I'm at work typing it up in the break room before my call-center shift starts. I'm having a difficult time trying to be coherant because not feeling well kept me from sleeping much last night. I feel very foggy-headed.



I think it's this foggy-headed feeling is interesting. It's a medicated-without-being-medicated drowsiness that seems to wrap the world in a thick, cotton wool. I want to curl up and take a nap but part of me says "Hey, when you get off the bus and arrive at work you'll need to wake up!" (As I mentioned before, I'm at work now, typing this, but I still feel really foggy).



Currently, I'm rather enjoying some minutes of this cloudy, floating feeling. It's a pseudo-trance. There's something safe and comforting about it. It's as if my body is in a natural protection mode. My body is telling me something. It's a matter of whether I choose to listen to it or not.



My body is saying, "You don't feel well. You didn't sleep enough. Let's go into a low-energy, power-save mode. You're like an organic computer, and I'm activating the screen-saver. So, relax. Take it easy. I would have preferred that you called in sick and went back to bed, but, since you didn't, well, don't expect too much from yourself. You won't be able to operate at one hundred percent today. It's not happening. Today, your personal motto will have to be 'Chill out, baby. Chill out.' "



Speaking of mottos, someone has posted a handwritten sign on a bus I got onto this morning. I don't know if it's the driver or a bus maintenance worker or even a passenger who posted it, but since I just read it, it's on my cloudy mind. I have no idea who originally wrote this, so I apologize for not giving proper credit. The sign says "On your longest day, life's too short." Well, that is really good to know, since I think today will probably feel like a very long day.




The first photo I included is called "Misty Landscape" and the second one "Somewhere Over Sibera". They are both courtesy of http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/


Until I type again,
Kami

The Stove

**** This short story, "The Stove", is an original, previously unpublished, fiction story that I wrote. The story is fiction, although I do live in an apartment with an old stove that is much like the stove in the story.****

It was electric with four burners. Three of the burners were small and one in a larger size. Having only one large burner made it difficult to cook a proper meal on the stove, but Ann was used to the inconvenience by now. A person can get used to almost anything, given enough time.

She’d been cooking on that same stove over thirty years now. It was narrow with the oven built into the front of it, and it would have been more suitable in a little apartment than in the three bedroom home where it was located. Ann figured that, if her home was any example, the people who built houses in the 1970s never expected the kitchens in them would get much use. Why else would they have made her kitchen so tiny and put in only a small stove?

Obviously, her kitchen wasn’t designed for a couple raising three children. Yet, it had been used by such. Countless meals she’d cooked on that stove! Burners had gone out and been replaced. The oven had been repaired. The drip pans had worn out and new ones put in. Still, it was always the same stove, always narrow and inconvenient.

Ann had asked her husband, Ray, for a newer, bigger stove many, many times over the years. He’d shake his head every time and tell her, “There’s not much point in getting a new stove. It’s not going to make your cooking any better, is it?”

A brand new stove like the one Ann wanted to buy. Photo courtesy http://www.sears.com/

Ann tried not to let it hurt her feelings too much when Ray insulted her cooking. She wasn’t the best cook in the world, she knew, but she thought her food usually turned out fine. The kids hadn’t complained about it, but, then again, they had eaten most of their meals at the same table as their father, and they knew better than to complain about anything in front of him. Mostly, they tried to stay quiet during meals. They’d figured it was safer that way.

The children were all grown now. They’d moved out as soon as they were old enough to support themselves financially. Ann knew that all of her children were barely getting by, but they’d never ask their parents for help. Certainly, they’d never ask to move back in with mom and dad, no matter how bad their financial circumstances became. Ann could hardly get them to come over for a visit. When they did come, it was usually on a weekday afternoon, while their father was at work. They’d leave not long after Ray got home. He made it clear he preferred them not to linger long enough for dinner.

So, these days, Ann stood at the old stove and cooked meals for either the two of them or for herself alone, if Ray was at work or had gone out to eat with his friends. Ann didn’t work outside of the home, and Ray didn’t like her to go out without him, unless it was to grocery shop or run a household errand. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken her out anywhere. Ray said preferred his friends company to hers when he went out. He told her that he had more fun when she wasn’t there, hovering around, worrying about this or that.

If anyone had asked her (not that anyone she knew would ever ask), Ann would not have told them that she was unhappy with her life. Even in her own mind, she didn’t think of the feeling as unhappiness. Maybe, she’d call is discomfort or disquiet or dissatisfaction, but, no, she wouldn’t have said that she was unhappy. She cooked his steak (which Ray only liked served medium-rare) until it was black and tough as boot leather. She boiled him some white rice, scooped out grains while they were still hard and crunchy, and placed them on a plate next to Ray’s overdone steak. On the stove, she cooked up a large pot of lima beans (something Ray absolutely loathed) and dumped a pile of them on the plate next to the burnt steak and the undercooked rice.

Shortly after Ray got home from work, he called out to Ann. When she didn’t immediately come out of the kitchen, he didn’t think much of it. He figured that she was doing her usual last minute fussing over dinner. He’d told her many times not to bother. Her cooking was terrible. It had always been terrible. Why did she waste her time when it didn’t make any difference?

The stove was a perfect example. Why did she keep nagging him about buying a new one? Hadn’t he told her and told her, over and over again, that it wasn’t worth the money? If he gave her a new stove, what would she expect next? That he’d hire a chef to come in and cook it for her?!?

Ray sat in his regular chair at the table in the dining room. He unfolded the newspaper, read awhile, and started to feel a little thirsty. “Hey, Ann!” He bellowed. “Get me a beer!”

He was surprised when his wife didn’t respond right away. Normally, she would have been scurrying into the room by now, beer in hand. Come to think of it, he realized, he didn’t hear her usual clattering in the kitchen. In fact, the house had been oddly quiet since he’d walked through the door.

“Ann! Ann!” Ray briefly glanced in the kitchen, saw it was empty, and began to search the house for her. He called out her name as he went from room to room, but Ann wasn’t in any of them.

“She must be out in the yard.” He muttered to himself as he returned to the kitchen.

Intending to cross the kitchen to the back door, he stopped short when he saw the plate of food sitting on the stove. Burnt steak, undercooked rice, and lima beans! What the...?!? Then, Ray saw the note. It read:

"Dear Ray,

I’m leaving you. I took some of my things, the car, and half the money in our bank account. Enjoy your dinner! I know you hate my cooking, so you’ll be relieved to known that it’s the last meal I’ll ever cook for you.

Ann

P.S. You can keep the stove.”

Photo courtesy http://www.pdphoto.org/PictureDetail.php?mat=&pg=8259

Until I type again,
Kami