Anastasia78

My son was the only one who received the alert. Owen turned around and looked at me completely ashen and afraid. “Mom, I think we’re going to be bombed,” he said. Now, these are words I’ve never heard someone speak, not in real life, and certainly not in MY life. “Owen, this is just some kind of hoax. It’s not real, don’t worry.” But that white look of terror remained on his face. “Mom, this alert is from Apple. Apple doesn’t send jokes.” The message on Owen’s phone read, “Emergency Alert. BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” My heart sank. This is really happening. We turned the car radio on and the message replayed over and over, “Ballistic missile threat. Seek shelter. Go indoors. Stay away from windows.” ... read more

As told through my daughter: I was too young to see the obvious differences in our lives, but old enough to know how I felt about her. I loved when my mom brought me to play at Janeth's house. Her house was so different than mine and that made it exciting and fun; an adventure. Janeth's house always smelled so good. Her mom would be busy in the kitchen making tortillas, mashing avocados, slicing onions and cilantro. It was the most delicious Mexican food I'd ever eaten. I loved her tiny bedroom, just big enough to hold her bed, dresser and a window with a sun-catcher of a butterfly dangling. There was a hole in the wall, big enough to peek my head through and see into her brother's room. Janeth and her brother would shout ... read more

I stood in the beautiful old barn, the only female under fifty, along with six hundred grinning, gesticulating, enraptured men surrounded by the thing they felt most passionate about—woodworking. Woodworking doesn't particularly interest me. Its this thing my husband loves and always talks about. This thing that fills my garage with saw dust and piles of wood. This thing that keeps him standing in the cold, on a concrete floor in January til 2 a.m. This thing from which emerges something beautiful, personal and completely unique. I'm familiar with the vocabulary woodworkers use. I know words like hand plane, jig saw, dowel and spokeshave. I know the difference between a dovetail and a miter joint but that's about it. Road trips to Iowa and displays of hand tools don't particularly get my pulse racing, but meeting ... read more

I hadn't put hot rollers in my hair in ages. You see, I've got about two feet of red-ish, brown-ish, curly-ish, wild-ish hair. I usually let it fly untamed and tangled like I was tapping my inner Chewbacca. But this night I was going to meet one of my greatest travel heroes; the man who helped me plan numerous trips to Europe, Rick Steves. I slept where he told me to sleep. I ate where he told me to eat. I walked where he told me to walk. I believe his guidebooks are invaluable for planning a trip to Europe. I took out the hot rollers my little brother had gotten me as an eighth grade graduation gift twenty years ago. I plugged them in and was delighted to feel the cold plastic rollers slowly turn ... read more

I remember stepping onto the train and looking for a seat. I knew I had to be strategic about this decision. After all, I'd be sitting next to this person for the next few hours. I made a quick scan of the back of heads trying to determine which one held the brain of the person I'd like to talk to. I tend to gravitate toward the out of place, seemingly lonely, foreign or extremely over or under dressed person. They have the most interesting stories. To my left I noticed a young black man starring blankly out of the widow, wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head and hiding most of his face. The way he sat curled in his seat it was if he was almost hiding from something. “Do you mind if ... read more