Burnt Chocolate Stories

The first six summers of my life were spent in Union Pier, Michigan just over the Indiana border. I remember the air feeling like a warm blanket with cool breezes. I spent every day at the beach with my older sisters except for rainy, windy days. My father drove up on the weekends. The cottage we stayed in had literally two rooms and an outdoor shower. My mom swept the sand out in the morning and joined us at the beach with lunch. It was a mostly idyllic time. And here I am again, seventy seven years later, to see if what I remember is still true. The air and sunshine feels the same. We're in a three bedroom house with plenty of space to lounge, air conditioning and a screened in porch which my childhood self would have considered a palace. All those years ago, I ran down the wooden steps to the beach and threw myself into the water. Yesterday, I held the rail and worried my balance wouldn't hold on the sand walking to the water's edge. I brought two bathing suits that I do...

2019 I know I inherited my part of my attitude towards money from my Mom. Maybe my Dad too. They began their life together during the Depression.  A box in the roll top desk in the living room held envelopes filled with dollar bills to pay the doctor, dentist, rent, groceries. It was my mother's way of keeping track of what was owed. Nothing ever became overdue or was purchased on credit. When they retired and moved to Leisure World in California, my sisters and I were concerned they might not be able to afford the costs and we agreed if help was needed, we would all chip in. That's when we found out they had saved several hundred thousand dollars. How they did that remains a mystery to me but then they rarely took vacations or bought new furniture or clothing. What I never inherited was their frugality. Steve was successful in his career. I enjoyed buying new clothes, decorating at will, enjoying my leisure, traveling freely. I don't think I was careless or overly indulgen...

I've made a commitment to myself, my computer and most of all, to you. Every Saturday morning, I make a cup of coffee, enjoy my two pieces of raisin toast and sit down at my desk. Often I stare out the window at Lake Michigan, hoping some great idea will pop into my head. Rarely does that happen. On Wednesday, I begin to think about what I will write on Saturday, ponder many different topics, hoping one will stick.  Alice Munro was once asked why she only wrote short stories. "That's all I had time for," was her answer. With that in mind and all the time in the world, I thought I'd try my hand at a novel. It's been nearly a year now. I've had fun imagining different scenarios, making up drama, creating characters. But a knowledgeable editor has described my writing as too much telling, not enough showing, point of view problems and lack of dialogue. At first, I was crushed. In the past, I would have hunkered down to prove her wrong. It's been a few wee...