Burnt Chocolate Stories

From left: Ben, Matt, Becky, Sarah, Josh When the children were very young and my days were filled with diapers and car pools, school conferences and laundry, I pined for free time just around the corner when I’d have a few hours each day to myself. In 1976, I imagined writing great prose, getting published, doing book tours. Sometimes, at midnight, I’d get a few lines written that made no sense the following day. Most of the time, I scrambled to make space for my creativity that I believed lurked just below the surface, if only I could reach it. A neighbor was kind enough to loan me her porch where I could store paper, a typewriter and have some distance from the household chaos. One afternoon, I’d written half a page when I heard Ben teasing Sarah on the front lawn. I called and asked the housekeeper to put Ben on the phone. “Stop driving your sister nuts.” I scolded. “Where are you?” Ben’s voice held amazement. “Everywhere!” I said and hung up. Ben wandered down the

When friends and I meet for morning coffee once or twice a week, we talk about the usual stuff of politics, movies, travel plans. A few days ago it was wrinkles, face cream and the ravages of advanced middle age. That conversation made me think of an incident on a trip our family took years ago. We rode into the Yellowstone wilderness on horseback with our three sons, then all under the age of ten. The wranglers pitched our tents and prepared our meals. Looking for a family pioneer experience, we'd given no thought to the isolation, lack of medical facilities or danger. We rode forth in blistering heat, rain, then sleet and finally freezing cold. On day five, we reached the pinnacle of the mountain range. From our vantage point, we saw the rivers flow in opposite directions from the Great Divide. Along with the mules and wranglers, our group had stopped our horses in a long row to rest and enjoy the magnificent view. Hail, the size of golf balls, then pummeled us. I remember