Stephenville Empire-Tribune, May 2018
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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.
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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...
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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.​

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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.
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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