INCONCEIVABLY BLONDE....

When I was just a little girl at the ripe old age of three, and precocious as can be, I'd spurned rag dolls and girlie things, embraced all things curiosity. I'd sit on the floor at Mom's feet while she was so busy working, talking while typing-- click, click, click! "Would you like to book an interview for So-and-So? I can mail you a press kit today." Tap tap tap, ding! Return. Return.. Well, I went to work myself, (both then at her feet and now) fishing out crumpled carbon paper wads from her dented little trashcan from the 1964-65 World's Fair, smoothing and smearing them all across the floor, always looking to decipher the mysterious type on the page. Slyly, slowly transfering the telltale traces off my hands and onto the walls while she wasn't looking, while trying to figure out with my eager little mind how to go about ever so innocently becoming half as brilliant and amazing as she. After al...

Lights out, visitors gone, it’s just you and me, no phone, no TV. Just us girls.   Hush now, don’t worry-- I’m right here, and I’m staying. It’s all right, I won’t leave you. Get some sleep, now. I’ll be here. Let me grab my nail file, trim your nails, file them down just a bit, nice and round, nice and smooth.  Those little things make such a big difference. (We girls understand that.) Trusting me, letting go, letting me take your hand in mine-- Once, strong, quick and nimble… Now, trembling and feeble, weathered and weakened by pain. Rubbing lotion in to massage away the strain of the day. Those beautiful hands-- so elegant and graceful, writing and typing stories, covering glories and events through the years.  Stories I could only imagine…. Those very same hands held us as babies, helped others, cooked, cleaned and worked us into the family we are. Those same hands that wiped tears from my eyes, picked me up when I’d f...