Springtime has a strange effect on us.
Folks act crazier than usual. Kids run wild. Men are strange. Housewives turn loopy.
All by myself, yesterday, I went to a pond and played in the water like a kid. I caught frogs in the sunshine. Built dams in the stream. Threw rocks. But then a frog got squished and died.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, my Cell phone slipped out of my brassiere and went plunk into the pond water. Continue reading
Michael O’Neal is a country gentleman…broad-shouldered and fit and strong. He reminds me of a blond Michael Landon—but with shorter curls.
Instinctively, he seemed to know that my heart was fragile—-that it had been shattered a dozen times, at least. He told me not to worry. He only wanted an hour of my time. Just an hour for a picnic at the beach. So I obliged him.
That first meeting was a date extraordinaire. I’ve never had one like it…..
We met at Trinidad Beach…a long stretch of cliffs and caverns. Crashing surf. Archways carved in the rocks. I gazed about me, transfixed. It was so glorious…so heaven-on-earth…The most romantic spot I’d ever seen…
Michael brought out the picnic lunch and a large book. I eyed the latter curiously. It was a coffee-table book and seemed rather out of place on a sandy beach—but I soon forgot about it as Michael set out our lunch…a luscious spread of sliced turkey on sourdough. Avocados. Potato salad.
Michael fed the seagulls tidbits as we ate and talked. Squirrels and other critters showed up, as well. Michael was like Dr. Doolittle to them.