Mini-Poirot in the making…

When I came in, dad greeted me from the kitchen and asked how playing at Crystal's was. He hadn't asked any questions, and I hadn't told him where I was going. It drove me nuts when he'd do that. This was a game he played with me. He could nearly always tell me what time I'd gotten home, what I'd done while I was there, how long I'd been there, and where I'd gone if I left. All without asking any questions. When I pressed him about how he did it, halfway convinced he was psychic, he'd just shake his head and say I could do it too, I just needed to pay attention.

Quiet Memory

Here I am for the first time in nearly 20 years at this place that I loved as a kid. I spent so much time here writing, reading, and otherwise being someplace quiet and surrounded by books. I had glamorous ideas of my future writer's life and for whatever reason, I imagined hours spent in libraries - when I wasn't in the custom-made writer's den/cabin I'd of course have somewhere, with a giant weeping willow outside and nearby brook. I'm a little surprised to remember now that I had that image of writing in libraries, since in my adult writing life I don't think it's even occurred to me to go to a library to write.