In the 1930s, when Delhi, Louisiana, was a kind of boom town, a man named Art Artichoke wrote a weekly letter to the paper. He complained about all sorts of things, and once, during a big snowstorm, he had his son walk his letter all the way to the paper's headquarters.
I cannot hear the Righteous Brothers' song "Unchained Melody" without hearing my mother crying. We must have listened to that song a million times the year my father was in Saudi Arabia, fighting in the Desert Shield war. The first day, in the last moments before dawn, in our blue Toyota Camry watching as a convoy of duffle-bag-filled humvees wound their way toward the airport, she played the song, sobbing the entire time, then rewound it immediately. Every day after, it was the same. And ti-ii-ime goes by so slowly. For me, that song made my dad's absence go by even slower. Would he ever come back? Would she ever stop crying? Would I ever hear any other song again?
My favorite thing to eat in college (besides all that sugary cereal they keep in bulk) was a concoction of spinach and three cheeses, melted all together in the microwave.
When I was young, I desperately did not want to learn to cook. Sometimes, when my mother forced me to watch her in the kitchen, I would make up stories in my head instead of listening. Later, when I moved out, I realized I actually needed this information and have now spent 10 years calling and asking her questions. It's not so bad, though: I actually am a pretty good cook.
We lived by "woods" several times when I was growing up. One of these miniature forests was in Georgia next to a trailer park we lived in. One day I ventured out alone and came upon a flock of wild turkeys. They were about the scariest thing I had ever seen, and I was surprised later when my mother told me turkeys are actually quite dumb.