Pamela Wight's Blog, page 5

What’s Your Voice?

My high school photo.

My voice has lowered over time. Not purposely. Age has made it softer and, if I talk for too long, hoarser.

I used to be a good public speaker; in high school and college when I had to perform for pageants and plays, I used my voice as my talent, reciting well-known poems and stories with verve and veracity.

This speaking talent was born and enhanced when I was a child. I’d hide under our dining room table and watch my dad practice a speech for the next day at wor...

One Bent Ear

I peer down at Hank as I pet the top of his soft brown head while wondering, why had I never noticed this anomaly before? 

For some reason, this morning I chose to walk slowly down the long hallway that leads to my bedroom. A dozen photos hang snugly on the walls on both sides: my great grandparents with their 14 children; my grandparents with their four; my parents with their two, brother David and me.

In each photo a beloved dog sits on the oldest child’s lap.

The pho...

Carrots and a Cat = Destiny

Denise had two things on her mind: carrots and Carl.

Carl loved carrots. Carl hadn’t talked to Denise in two weeks, three days, and 14 hours, and the only thing on Denise’s mind was to bake a carrot cake that would make Carl come back to her. 

Where did their problems begin? Well, when they first dated, Carl seemed like the catch of the season, and she was almost beyond her own season at 42 and unloved. Denise was a successful engineer with a degree from MIT and a job that paid her...

Winging It

We’re told by philosophers to “live one day at a time.” To not worry about the future nor think about the past. These admonishments ring true, but that’s not how we humans seem to be wired.

I often hear family and friends reminisce: “remember when we…,” and “I wish we still could…”

 Conversely, I hear, “In a few years, I’m afraid I won’t be able to….” Or “what will happen if…?”

I used to do this useless worrying also, but thanks to meditation and, as Carl Jung would suggest,...

Last Request

“In fact, if you could forget mortality, and that is less easy here than in most places . . . you could really believe that stories change you, enliven you, even send you off: off to a different world; off from your troubles and problems; off to a place where you don’t feel your age, or arthritic pain, or the devil chasing you from behind.”

“Okay, Granny, okay!” I interrupt, “I believe you!” My Great Gran, 94 years old, or as she says, 94 and ½ friggin’ years, begins this lecture to me a...

When I Write . . .

When I write I become a svelte, long-lashed, long-haired, long-legged young gypsy.

Well, less gypsy, more fortune teller/spiritualist.

When I write, the white-lined paper is my crystal ball. The pen is my finger hovering over the ball,

answering the question . . . What If?

When I write, I jump through a sliding door and choose fantasy over reality.

What if life is a dream, and the dream is life?

When I write I swirl my head, my long bouncing cur...

Question-able Fun

“You wanna do something fun?” my irascible, twinkly-eyed 10-year-old grandson asks.

Panic ensues on my end. What Neville calls fun is called alarming in my mind. Saying “yes” to him is like opening a can of worms. Worms that scoot out of the can and wiggle their way into the crevices of mischief.

“Like what?” I ask, voice trembling.

“Let’s make stickydoodles but bake them in shapes instead of circles.”

Neville came up with the name stickydoodles instead of snickerdood...

READ-Y

When Julie opened the cover of the ancient book in the attic, the first page glowed opal, and letters began to float off the page, circling her like fairy dust. (Part I, The Ancient Book)

Julie should have been afraid, closed the book, and raced down the narrow ladder, quickly closing that attic ceiling door.

But instead her body relaxed as dozens of those letters surrounded her and buzzed like happy bees. The sweet soft buzzzzzz turned to whisperings from Spirits long gone and still he...

The Ancient Book

The book lay unopened for centuries. Julie didn’t know that, of course, when she clambered up Auntie Murphy’s attic steps to see how bad it was going to be.

Auntie’s will had been read just yesterday, and she’d left Julie everything in her 180-year-old house – the house she’d lived in, as well as her mother, and her grandmother, and her ….

When the attic door above Julie creaked open, she released a nervous exhale.

A small slant of light shone from the window in the rafter. Dust ...

Momentous

It’s just the three of us. My boyfriend, his best friend, and me.

We are a threesome. I love Jim, I think. He’s handsome, athletic, and he treats me like a flower.

But I really like John, Jim’s best friend and roommate. He’s a thinker, a philosopher, a Henry Thoreau look alike, only better looking.

So, I have the best of both worlds. And on this lazy Saturday evening, when most of our college friends are at the frat houses drinking beer and dancing to the D.J., John suggest...