My neighborhood is probably fairly typical for suburban USA, but I always find things that strike my imagination as anything but. There’s a story wherever you look. Here are a few I found yesterday.
The house on the hill was once owned by a retired sea captain who could be spotted occasionally behind the iron parapet with a spyglass, looking toward Lake Michigan. Sometimes I hear him when the wind roars in the trees, shouting “Thar she blows!”
Mrs. McGillicuddy was hanging out the wash one day, when a German Shepherd came barreling around the corner of the house and ran right under her skirts. This sock flew out of reach and remains in the maple tree on Church Street to this day. (What happens to the story if I don’t capitalize the ‘s’?)
“Momma? Can we make a snowman family in the front yard? Please?” “Nonsense, children. That’s not necessary. I have one I ordered from WalMart’s Home Decor department right here. There! Now run inside and watch the TV until dinner.”
The meteorite streamed through the dark night sky, blazing a menacing trail of fire toward the quiet, white house on the corner where Carol & Ken slept. It whistled past the living room window, sending Fluffy on arthritic legs across the rug and under the sofa on the opposite wall. With a steaming hiss, it plopped into the snow. Ken snored loudly and rolled over on his left side.
Enjoy your Sunday amusements! The sun is shining, and I think we’re off on a hike this afternoon.