Bent Fork At Last–Yankeeland in Rear View Mirror

And what a road it has been.

Today I finally got back from Sherman, where I picked up my mother and my little dog. I actually went to retrieve the dog–the old bats (Mama and aunts) were having fun bickering and picking on each other, and could have gone on until the weekend. But my dog thought he’d been given away, and was quite happy to be put into the car and brought to beautiful Casa el Dumpo here in fascinating Bent Fork. He didn’t even care that I don’t have the Christmas tree up or the large suitcase unpacked.

I am too exhausted. We got home on Monday night as scheduled, but then Tuesday I had a lot to take care of, and Wednesday I went up to Sherman to get everybody and tell all about the trip. That was tiring, though, and we were glad to finally get out of the relatives’ hair today around noon. I know they were relieved to have their peace and quiet back!

No time for a “real” post now, but I’ll be doing an extended trip report soon. If you get a chance to ride Amtrak, do it, but don’t make your first trip a 26-hour jaunt that leads into another 28-hour jaunt. You’ll be ready to climb off the train at the next stop and just start a new life. Anything to be off the train and to quit riding!! So try a five-hour trip your first time. And get a roomette or larger if you can swing it, as that’s the only way to . . . rail.

Coming up: the very belated thank-you post.


Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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