Stephenville Empire-Tribune, May 2018
​
I’ve always loved to sing. I would find myself singing everywhere—the shower, the car, the laundry room—always harmonizing, a perfect alto to any soprano. It was my artistic contribution to my family of artistic siblings. My sister and I brought tears to many eyes with a harmony so pure; it seemed to vibrate in the air...before my fall.

I slipped on black ice a few years back. The sun blazing after an ice storm, camouflaged the icy patch in a shaded parking lot. I was knocked out, taken to the hospital by ambulance and suffered from true vertigo, not at all like what Jimmy Stewart portrayed in the Hitchcock film, Vertigo, for a year or so afterwards. As I began the slow road to recovery, it dawned on me that I could not “hear the music” anymore, a fact that was both devastating and perplexing.

Having nothing to contribute at rare family gatherings, guitars always coming out after a shared meal, I shrugged it off and awkwardly but joyfully watched our family’s newest generations of musical artists perform. So much talent—composers, musicians and singers—in our family; I feel like I have lost my way.

It has always been in the back of my mind to write a book comprised of stories, some funny—some sad, of my childhood memories and our numerous moves, usually living in sketchy areas and on food stamps at one point, brought on by my dad’s “a rolling stone gathers no moss” philosophy.

I started a few times, but the writing just never flowed until last month, when a miracle occurred. As recommended by my daughter, I took melatonin to help me sleep just before bed, forgetting about the vivid dreams and nightmares it previously induced in me. I slept soundly but just on the edge of waking had an emotional dream I tried to express to my husband but couldn’t get out as tears flowed.

He had to get up and shower for work immediately following my tearful explanation so, pulling out my phone; I opened a doc file and began to type. The words poured out of me in one continuous flow to the point that I later owed my husband an apology for the curt “sshh" I directed at him when he asked, “Do you want coffee?”

It was a lovely short story (Star of the Show) that I submitted to The New Yorker Magazine at the urging of my husband. “It was worth the sshh,” he said. My heart has been opened and I can’t stop the words from flowing. This will be my artistic contribution to my family, memorializing the events that made us the strong people we are today.
​
I am reminded of the adage that rings true, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.”

By Lisa H. Owens
May 2018
Read "Star of the Show." 

Stephenville Empire-Tribune, June 2018

It is early, the sun barely rising above the rooftops of cookie-cutter homes in our Clearwater, Florida subdivision when I detect a noise coming from the kitchen and crack my bedroom door a sliver. Peeking out, my eyeballs rotate first left then right, trying to locate the source of the sound. I spy a shadowy figure…stealthy…opening a cabinet and then the refrigerator. The refrigerator interior beams bright, a stooped back with an arm reaching inside—almost visible, but then the door whispers shut as the figure begins a slow pirouette his face searching. Searching...
​
I close the door slightly as my brain begins to formulate a plan of attack aimed at the intruder. Cracking the door a hair wider, silently I tiptoe, barefooted on a mission. I freeze backing against a bare wall and then, dropping into an offensive stance, advance forward one tiny footstep at a time—baby steps now. Noiseless and empty, the living room seems endless, the kitchen miles away.

The intruder sensing a presence somewhere behind him, gently sets the object of his covert morning mission on the counter and whirls 180 degrees, hands raised in defense of the attack that he intuitively knows is coming.

Standing upright now and breaking the deafening silence with a “Keeeeeeeyaaaa,” I construct a series of “super slow-mo” Karate moves as I kick and spin at a snail-like pace toward the intruder...my dad, innocently fixing his daily breakfast, a bowl of Shredded Wheat Cereal with honey and milk.

He instantly counters with a series of defensive moves protective of the bowl—one hand guards as the other, in equal “slow-mo” fashion, lifts to block the clenched knife-like hand headed toward his unprotected shoulder.

“Keeeeeyaaa,” his voice answers, matching my own, as my hand finds purchase on his raised forearm. Dad grimaces and fakes a pitch backward into the kitchen counter, his hand still hovering above the precious now soggy wheat cereal.

We look at each other laughing. “Karate Chop!” we say simultaneously. He picks up the cereal and moves—at regular speed now—to the lonely dinette set, sits and raises the milk laden spoon toward his smiling mouth.

​My father, now 85 years old and living a five-hour drive away, always comes to mind in a particularly fond way every June. June...the month we celebrate our Dads, remembering a special moment we shared. Just the two of us being silly.

​(*Update: My father passed away on October 7, 2018, four months after this story was published. Read the story "Sing that Song" for more details.)

By Lisa H. Owens
June 2018

Stephenville Empire-Tribune, August 2018

College kids are beginning to trickle back into town. The population seems to quadruple in Norman during the week leading up to registration and classes. I am glad I will be a senior this year and will soon be blowing this popsicle stand. Headed for greener pastures.  Well, probably not greener. This suburban university community has more actual green pastures surrounding it than any other place I have lived.  A lot of cows too…I let my mind wander as I am sitting in traffic, trying to keep my mind off of the heat.

My foot is hard on the brakes, as I stretch across the bench seat, fingertips just brushing the window crank. If...only...I...could…I give up, sitting straight up behind the wheel, and turn my face to the open window on my left. I am sweating and could sure use the cross breeze. I flop toward the far window again, foot still pressing the brakes. Not gripping but pushing, pushing, pushing (righty tighty; lefty loosey) coaxing the knob at the handle base up and to the left counterclockwise. Wrong way. The righty-lefty rhyme not window-handle appropriate. Pulling now clockwise and, aah, a tiny crack but enough to feel a poof of air.

I sit upright as a horn behind me honks. The car with engine revving, zips around me, the back of a hand with a middle finger extended, plastered against the passenger window. “Move that bucket,” wafts back through my open window. Still, I sit with my foot on the brakes, my leg beginning to twitch and cramp.

Summers. They're the worst. And me just trying to get to work—a tease as I am within walking distance now. I feel a trickle of sweat make its way down my spine, the heavily-starched long-sleeve polo shirt starting to dampen under my arms. I will be carrying my tray laden with cocktails low. Can’t expose sweaty pit stains to my customers.

Another honk, swerve and glare. How much longer will my cramping foot endure this strain? I feel my kitten-heel shoe slipping down on the pedal and increasing the tension, turn my face away from the steady stream of cars now passing—exuding angry looks and harsh comments; if looks could kill…

The sun blinds me as I look over to see a shadow figure, back-lit by the sun, moving toward my open window; “Do you need assistance?” from lips, smiling, as his face lowers into the shade of my crippled car. He is quite handsome. A God-send. An angel? It is possible, since he appeared out of nowhere.

“My car shut off and I can’t get it to shift into park. The parking brake is stuck,” I say, concentrating on keeping my car from rolling back into the growing line of cars, waiting to pass.

“Quite a traffic jam you’ve created,” he chuckles. “Let's get you off this road.”

​I smile at the thought that I won't even be very late for work.

Thank you, stranger.
[Read more about Dino the Car]

By Lisa H. Owens
August 2018

Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, January 2019

It is cold, the threat of snow a remote possibility. The Weather Channel…always a backdrop in our household…is spouting off random facts related to barometric pressure and cold fronts and rain mixing then changing to snow in our area. I hear the joking camaraderie that is part of the charm of this group of meteorologists, as one of them launches into the history of weather patterns and record-breaking highs and lows in Texas and then, for some odd reason, compares our highs and lows with Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan’s. Weird and not really relevant, but typical.

My sense of urgency increases as I hear the theme song from “The Game of Thrones” swell in the forecast’s background and I think, “Winter is coming.”

I rush to dig my dusty hat, scarf, gloves, and a down coat rated for sub-zero temperatures out of the back of the closet. Then, walking through the kitchen, stash two bottles of water and a granola bar in my overnight bag to place in the backseat of my SUV, just in case...

"The list” lies front and center on the kitchen counter and is almost forgotten as I maneuver around my dogs, who are anxiously watching me approach the door to the garage. Three dog faces look toward leashes willing me to include them, but as I reach for car keys, they know I am leaving solo and begrudgingly go three separate ways to sulk and sleep.

Opening the kitchen door leading to the garage, I anticipate a blast of frigid air swirling into the kitchen and clutch my coat close around my chest and throat. I slam the door shut, jog two feet to my car, and toss the overnight bag in the backseat. Dropping into the driver's seat, I crank the engine and start to back up only to discover the garage door is still shut tight—possibly the reason that I never felt that blast of anticipated frigid air. The garage door rises at the touch of a button on the opener attached to my visor and I begin the short journey.

There seems to be a small traffic jam at the stop sign down the hill from our home and I wonder if all of my neighbors have the same destination in mind. They all turn right—but I turn left to bob and weave through back streets in the hopes of cutting them off at the pass. It is crucial to get there early before the crowds arrive.

The parking lot is full and I join the queue of cars circling like vultures waiting for a parking spot to open up. Luck is with me, as I spy reverse lights just in front of me and wait while they back out, then neatly swoop into the vacated spot. I feel loathing from still circling motorists but this only urges me on with renewed passion.

I walk with purpose and step up to the automatic doors. They swoosh open and my worst nightmare is realized. Laden shopping carts are pushed by panic-stricken Texans and the grocery shelves are depleted of staples necessary to ride out this cold spell.
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Pulling "the list” out of my purse, I look at it with a more rational point of view and notice four gallons of milk is the first hastily scrawled item, followed by six loaves of bread. What was I thinking?

In a household of three—with one of us lactose intolerant—this seems excessive by any standards, especially when you factor in that we never use milk for any reason, unless we run out of coffee creamer. As for the bread, we often find unopened moldy loaves stashed at the back of our bread-box.
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It is only then that I notice sweat pooling on my body beneath the cover of wool and down. I am hot. The temperature is well above freezing and as I turn to leave the store I notice, there is not a cloud in sight. I remember the new loaf of bread in the freezer and the full pint of creamer in the refrigerator and, ripping off my arctic outerwear; I step out into the warm winter Texas sun.​

​
By Lisa H. Owens
January 2019

“I’m trying to concentrate over here!” Without fail, it occurred when I was deeply embedded in a story—the lines flowing like river-rapids—lines I could never recoup with my post-menopausal brain: the phone rang, the dogs barked, or there was insistent knocking at the front door. This particular day, it began with a knock. 

I felt certain this month’s column would be a homerun if I could just get five minutes of peace and quiet. I was dotting that last “i” and crossing that last “t” when I was jolted by unrelenting pounds on the front door. My three dogs leap-frogged-it to the entry-hall, barking ferociously. My irritation built, as I tiptoed to glance through the peephole. The bubble-lens distorted everything. A disheveled cowboy hat above a grizzled rippled face, and in the distance, a panel van with—from what I could tell—one word stenciled on its side. “MEAT!” Wow, those meat-people are persistent. I thought back to the last time a meat-man knocked on the door and how it prompted me to finally install the peephole.
                                                                                                                          ***             
It was mid-morning on a weekday, a popular time for door-to-door sales calls, when the knock came. I opened the door to find a handsome young man standing there.  He immediately launched into his sales pitch:

“Good morning! I was in the area delivering meat to your neighbor and had extra steaks in the truck. My boss will probably fire me for this; but just between you and me, I can sell you some steaks at cost.”

I looked down the hill to see a white panel van, void of graphics, parked alongside the mailbox. I was suspicious.

He continued, “Your neighbor just got out of the hospital. This vacuum-sealed meat is great for people wanting a quick and easy-to-prepare meal.”

“Which neighbor?” I was concerned I’d missed some of the neighborhood gossip. He pointed in a vague direction. The vagueness of his pointing was suspect.  The vague-pointing must be the gold standard of salesmen. They all used it. It must be incorporated into initial training classes,  Meat-Sales 101 & Four Keys to Success:

1. Always tell ‘em the neighbor bought meat. 
2. Never invent “neighbor-names.”
3. Use “the boss may fire me” line.
4. If all else fails, vaguely-point.

I was on to his shady tactics. “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know Karen was in the hospital! I’m going to make her a casserole.” I softly closed then locked the door. The last thing I saw before the door clicked shut, was a bewildered expression on his face.

He was confused how his sales-pitch went so wrong—so fast. I walked around to the kitchen window to watch him shuffle down the hill to his meat-van. He looked so dejected that I felt a little sorry for him.

 ***  
       
They changed their routine this time around. They added “MEAT!” to the van to deter suspicion related to buying curbside steaks. They also sent a seasoned salesman. At least, thanks to the peephole, I avoided the irritation and never opened the door. I tried to imagine any scenario that would entice me to purchase meat from an unknown source out of the back of a windowless panel van. Not picturing any, I tiptoed back to the sofa, knowing my concentration was hopelessly bungled, and attempted to get back into The Writing Zone. Sheesh! Interruptions! Eventually, the knocking fizzled and peace was restored...until next time.
​
Later, I headed out to check the mail and found a flyer hanging on the doorknob. Just one word “MEAT!” followed by, “Sorry we missed you."


By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events in the life of a writer just trying to concentrate.
​Recreated for the 5-Minute Memoir series on Writer's Digest

Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, April 2019

It was very hard being raised by a former NASA rocket scientist. I could never say to my dad, “It's not rocket science,” because it just...was. Every aspect of our lives being dictated by logic, he once got out his T-square to hang curtain rods. No “eyeballing” it for us. This was also the reason we usually lived in homes without curtains. It was quite exhausting to live with a perfectionist.

I remember one time when my dad was helping me with math homework; I contemplated an alternate solution to the problem at hand. My dad's eyes lit up with hope—maybe another engineering mind in his household.

Running to get a pad of the graph paper he always had on hand, he sat furiously measuring and drawing and erasing and redrawing with the mechanical pencil, usually housed in the pocket of one of the short-sleeved button-up shirts he wore to work. (The ensemble was typically completed with a clip-on tie and clear plastic pocket-protector.) He then maniacally thrust the pad of graph paper toward me, “Here; draw this as if you are looking at it bisected.”

“Erm, what?” I asked, beginning to question my sanity at trying to speak mathese with my dad.

“Cut in half,” he explained.

“Oh, yeah. I knew that,” I laughed, then frowned, looking down at the graph to find a complex multi-faceted pyramid-like structure. There were angles, little diamond and octagon shapes, and shadows turning this 2-D drawing into a seemingly full-on 3-D structure.

“Looks like a spaceship?” I questioned. My dad was nodding furiously, the hopeful gleam still in his eyes.
I was boggled by this challenge.  My mind didn’t work this way and I could not see beyond the penciled drawing in front of me. I tapped my forehead, come on, think, think. Crickets chirped and the silence became deafening.

“I can't seem to…”

“Just try,” he pleaded.

“OK,” I nodded with eyebrows furrowed.

Taking up the pencil, I tried to imagine being an astronaut inside of that tiny space shuttle—a quick flash of claustrophobia—then haltingly began to pencil what was in my imagination. First the flat edge where it had been bisected. Next, little diamonds, octagons, a couple of weird angles, and a shadow here and there and I might be close.
​
I handed it back. I saw the light dim a bit in his eyes and he chuckled, “It’s pretty good, but it's not rocket science. Now getting back to this math problem; how many times have I told you? You have to show your work.”​

By Lisa H. Owens
April 2019
https://www.yourstephenvilletx.com/opinion/20190407/its-not-rocket-science

Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, June 2019

Do you hear music? I mean really hear music. I am not talking about recognizing a song from a popular band on the radio and then singing the lyrics. If you are anything like me, you mumble along with the song on the verses until the chorus comes along. Then you belt it out word for word and note for note, only to return to mumbling along when the next verse begins.

Or you might be absolutely certain that you know every word to your top song only to find out decades later, when you hear a slower acoustic version, that you have been singing it wrong—not just a little bit wrong. Nonsensically wrong, inventing words, butchering and changing the meaning until it is unrecognizable.
A few years ago, returning from an outing with my sister and her family, one of my longtime favorite songs began to play on the car radio and I mumbled along to verse one then sang out loud and proud on the chorus…

"We all jam in a lighthouse,
Don't carry me too far away.
Oh, oh, oh, we all jam in a lighthouse,
Cause it’s here that we want to stay."

My nephew turned to stare from the front passenger seat with his mouth hanging open and looked at me with a mixture of horror and confusion on his face. My sister burst out laughing; only stopping when she couldn't catch her breath and gasping for oxygen, she said, "That’s not how that song goes.”  She began to belt out the real lyrics…

“Big ole jet airliner,
Don't carry me too far away.
Oh, oh, oh, big ole jet airliner,
Cause it's here that I've got to stay.”

I felt like an idiot especially since the words were actually in the title of the song...Jet Airliner by The Steve Miller Band. However, being skeptical, I said, "Next you’ll tell me that I've been singing Bennie and the Jets wrong."

"Well everyone sings that one wrong, but how do you think it goes?" my sister inquired.
"Like everyone else, probably,” I break out in song:

“She's got electric boobs.
A Mahazoo.
She’s got a rabbit and a Pakistani."

"What the heck is a Mahazoo?" asked my brother-in-law. I thought it was a type of machine gun. I will never live that one down. It wasn't until Pink's more clearly pronounced version of Bennie and the Jets came out in 2018 that I truly understood the lyrics. ([actual lyrics!] She's got electric boots, a mohair suit, you know I read it in a magazine...B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets...)

​One afternoon as we were lounging by the pool, I decided to come clean to my musically inclined daughter, letting her in on some mistakes I regularly made with the lyrics of pretty much every song I sang. She was always well-spoken for her age and as early as three years old, she pointed out to me, "This is the song where Ariel grew her legs," as we listened to The Little Mermaid soundtrack on a record. I never even heard music playing in the background of the movie. I only really noticed music when someone was actually singing!

More recently, we gave my daughter two tickets to "The Music of Ramin Djawadi," creator of the music for The Game of Thrones and Westworld. She really hears and appreciates music. She took a friend who also hears the music.

After my confession, she shook her head and looked at me with concern.. "Don't beat yourself up, Mom. We can't know the words to all the songs. I thought Bennie and the Jets said 'She's got electric boobs' until the Pink version came out.

By Lisa H. Owens
June 2019
Published on My NZ Dream Blog - July 27, 2021

​Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, July 2019

Kayaking sounds fun and relaxing. I always pictured a lovely placid lake without even a hint of a ripple when I heard people talk about kayaking...but that was before I tried it. My first experience in a kayak was not on a placid lake, but instead on a river in Maine appropriately called the Crooked River.

River kayaking is a different animal altogether. There are factors to consider such as annual rainfall, proper gear for a full day, and the actual length of a river named the Crooked River—things we (my husband, my daughter, my son, and I) considered in hindsight.

We were all excited for the day to begin and awoke early, packing sandwiches for lunch along with four bottles of water and Deep Woods Off mosquito repellent. Since this was in the days before cell phones, we had already mapped where Nana would drop us off and a designated pick up point—just before the dangerous waterfall. We unloaded and set the kayaks at the water's edge, generously doused our bodies in Deep Woods Off, and waved goodbye. “See you in a couple of hours, Nana,” we shouted up the hill, and then we were on our way. 

The water seemed a little shallow for the time of year, early summer, when the snow-melt along with normal rainfall would typically have it full to the top of the river banks. It was well below that level but it didn't daunt our enthusiasm at all as we paddled and enjoyed being surrounded by nature—birds, trees, and peaceful sounds of four paddles as they slapped and splashed the water in synchronization with the wind and buzzing bees. 

Things were going great until we rounded one of many curves and spied a pile of brush blocking the entire width of the river, the water so shallow at that point, that we were scraping sand and rocks with the kayaks’ bottoms. We had to step out into the frigid, ankle-deep water dragging our kayaks up onto the bank and around the dam of branches. It was exhausting, in cheap water shoes, to slop through sand, muck, and poison ivy to bypass the blockade and then relaunch on the other side.

This set the tone for the rest of our trip. Early on, we had consumed our food and water, and my daughter and I were slowly lagging behind my son and husband after circumventing multiple shallow dam-like areas and miles of low-watered, crooked terrain. The kayaks were heavy and our arms were shaking from the effort of paddling then carrying those bulky monsters. 

At one point, my husband excitedly yelled back to us, “Hurry. A mama moose and her baby!” but by the time my daughter and I arrived, we caught a glimpse of the backside of both mama and baby as they were disappearing into the woods. My son and husband were so far ahead by now that my daughter and I could barely make out their silhouettes through our tears. A drink of water had been the most important thought in my mind for seemingly hours and the thought of thrusting my face and slurping up the shallow sandy water entered my mind more than once, but fear of flesh-eating parasites quickly squelched that idea. My daughter and I even stopped sweating as dehydration began to set in. My husband and son could be heard in the distance laughing and enjoying the exercise while the two of us cried and prayed that the pickup point would magically appear in front of us. 

Finally, after one final kayak drag around rocks, we heard water rapids in the distance indicating the dangerous waterfall hazard was ahead. We laughed and cried in hysterics as we realized that this kayak-trip-from-hell was ending. We could see my husband and son already safely onshore and Nana's truck at the top of the hill. 

The waterfall was getting louder and we heard shouts from the safety of the bank, “Paddle, paddle harder. This way! Don't get close to the falls.” They began to sound frantic as my daughter and I, with arms as weak as kittens, struggled to get to the safety of the bank. We were just a few feet from death and dismemberment and this gave us both surges of adrenaline needed to make it ashore.

​We were so happy to still be alive but also so thirsty we could barely speak. “Wow! Kayaking is fun!” exclaimed my husband and son.

By Lisa H. Owens
July 2019
​Published on My NZ Dream Blog - June 28, 2021

Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, August 2019

If you’re gonna’ attend a North Carolina Southern Baptist Church covered-dish-supper, bring your A-game. You don’t want to take the “walk of shame” with a dish, still full of food, at the end of the night. This was a fact my Aunt Sue had apparently forgotten after years of living in Dallas, working as a flight attendant.

According to a Mebane, NC urban legend, she created a monster trying to make a calorie-conscious version of her mother’s famous Apple Brown Betty; using healthy ingredients (more than likely expired) from a health food store; then a crazy lady stole it, Pyrex dish and all. Town speculations of the reinvented Betty ran amok, at one point not even including “apples” as an ingredient.

Wanting to hear the real story, I cornered her at my Uncle Bill’s house following the funeral of Uncle WT (pronounced Dubya T) a few years later, where the family reconvened to reminisce and share a meal. Uncle Bill, always aggravating his four sisters, immediately hit her with “Bring us some of that Apple Brown Betty, Suzie-Q?” So diving in, not wanting to miss a perfect opportunity, I simply stated, “Tell me."

Aunt Sue immediately debunked what I’d heard through the rumor mill by stating that apples were indeed in the compromised recipe. Sweet tea in hand, we sat in a quiet-ish corner, rare in a family of loud interrupters, while she filled me in. I already knew some details:
​

• She was home on a visit, a much-needed vacation from flying.
• Her visit coincided with a monthly church covered dish supper.
• She decided to replicate a “healthy-yet-delicious” version of the traditional southern dessert, always mindful of her Daddy's diabetes and expanding waistline.
• The experiment was a failure.

She began, “Bill took me all over town trying to find whole wheat flour. The recipe was just like mother’s; only missing white flour, sugar, and butter.” (Not the same at all, I thought.)
​
"I couldn't find exactly what I needed, so I decided to just wing it." (This was beginning to make sense...)

“I baked it in a Pyrex dish. It was surprisingly dense and a weird gray-brown color.”  (Gross, but I nodded and smiled.)

“I put it on the table with all the fattening desserts: ambrosia, pies, banana puddings, strawberry shortcakes, and pound cakes.” (I felt the beginning stage of diabetes but my mouth still watered at the mental image.)

“We all lined up to fix our plates and I was toward the back with Vicky (Sue’s childhood best friend) and her mama. My plate was pretty full by the time I got to desserts.” (An understatement since 102-pound Aunt Sue typically ate her weight in food at these events.)

“I’d just picked up the spoon to put a dab of the Brown Betty on my plate, and that’s when it happened.” (Images of a hero throwing himself on the table to save her from “The Betty” ran through my mind.)

“Vicky’s mama said, ‘Ewww, WHAT is THAT?’” Sue, reddening at the memory, continued, “I threw down the spoon and said, “I DON'T KNOW BUT I DON'T WANT ANY.”  (Sweet tea shot out of my nose and mouth. Sue looked puzzled so I said “I saw a bee,” swatting at nothing.)

“Naturally, I pretended to get another napkin later so I could get that little dab without anyone around, and honestly, it wasn’t that bad.” (“Honestly" means a lie will follow…)

“Your Uncle Bill and I had to hang around for over an hour so I could get my dish off the table without witnesses because—IT WAS STILL FULL.” (I pictured her in sunglasses—a scarf covering the lower half of her face—slipping the full dish (only missing the one  little dab) into a plain brown paper bag.)

“I needed the Pyrex back, but I don’t think there were any witnesses.”
And so, a mysterious “witness” started the legend of the healthy Apple Brown Betty and how it was stolen by a stealthy lady in sunglasses and a scarf.

*I've always had a hunch that the witness was Uncle Bill...

​
In loving memory of Aunt Minnie “Sue” Fox. [1945-2016]
By Lisa H. Owens
​August 2019

Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter, January 2020

​I can feel the eyes staring at me. The eyes are accusatory. The eyes are judgmental.  I avoid looking in their direction. In fact, I have tried to keep my eyes averted from the uncomfortable stares for a few days now. I quickly pass through the living room...my eyes peering straight ahead...on the way to the kitchen.
​
The eyes of dozens of crafty school-made Christmas ornaments are staring me down. Attempting to weaken me.  Willing me to give them my full attention.  I glance over to see the little cherubic Christmas Angel with my son's kindergarten picture's face hot glued to the winged body. I recoil but then meet the eyes of my daughter's second-grade yearbook picture, forever encapsulated in a tiny clear acrylic Christmas tree frame, hanging near the top of the tree; her gaze looking longingly somewhere off in the distance. A full-body shot of my son in his Dallas Cowboys tracksuit stares at me for a long time until  I notice his sweet smiling face begins to turn sinister.
​
The Santa hats on tiny heads and construction paper peppered with strands of green and red yarn, along with foiled-gold pipe cleaners—surrounding tree-shaped frames—are making my head spin. In my mind, I hear a chorus of voices pleading, "Take us down. Take us down." Little lispy preschool voices. More demanding first and second-grade voices with an authoritative fourth-grade voice mixed into the works. I am ashamed that it comes to this every year, starting on New Years’ day and continuing on until mid to late January—on occasion.
I give the sulking tree one last look as I resign myself to the fact that it is time. I head out to the garage to pull down the dreaded attic stairs and begin the long process of gathering up the ornament storage boxes. Soon the memories of Christmases past will be quietly nestled away in cozy little plastic bins...each ornament with its own corrugated cardboard partition...until next year, when the merry cycle will start over again.​

By Lisa H. Owens
January 2020