Welcome, May!

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The past few weeks have been stressful. Training new employees, dealing with difficult customers, not sleeping well, not exercising (I’ve gained 20 pounds in the last two years), getting through family drama (two life-threatening events in the same day, 2000 miles apart: my dad’s heart attack in NM and a 9 year grandchild starting the rest of his life with Type 1 Diabetes) . . .  My CrossFit lifestyle withered into oblivion when I lost my job at the University in 2020, as Covid got going. Deep depression brought me to a standstill as I took a few months to try to reset. Since then, my physical status has been on steady decline. Now my daily schedule looks something like this: Work 3-11 pm (on a good day), Go to bed at 4 am, get up between 10:30 am and noon, get booted up and go back to work. If I get one day off a week I’m fortunate. At least I don’t have to work all night for now. That was the worst.  So I haven’t had time or energy to do much, even read, much less write. And since my

Gen. Bradbury's Chicken

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The pain was unspeakable. His body jerked and different parts of his body seemed to take on peronalities of their own. He imagined his limbs were like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

In one simultaneous response, his mouth clamped shut so he could not scream; his eyes clamped shut and tears gushed from under his eyelids--or his eyeballs were melting. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear his wife call his name, "Honey . . .?"

The fire roared in ears. He could hear the crackling of the timbers as his bones were being consumed in the bonfire, the flames licking at his chest, his throat, his face. Behind his soldered mouth he grunted in excruciating pain as his ears vanished like match-tips.

"Sweetheart . . .?" he could hear her voice imploring.

He turned his head to one side and managed to open one eye to a slit. The moisture that streamed from his eyes blurred his vision and he could only discern swimming swaths of color all around him. He tried to swallow as the fire torched in his head.

"Are you ok?" She asked.

He wasn't sure, though he knew. She knew. He could just picture the flames shooting from the top of his head where his hair used to be combed to one side on the top of his head.

He managed to move his fisted hands and pointed with one to his mouth, the other opening to cover his scorched lips. He choked.

"Are you ok, honey?" She started to slide out of the booth, placing the napkin on the table.

He reached over the plate and found the icy red glass already sweating for him. Forcing both eyes open, tears streaming down his face, he took large gulps, the waitress already crossing the floor with the refill.

She stood beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, are you alright? Do you need a hiemlich?"

He glanced down at the noodles and stir-fried chicken, wondering how it happened himself.
Gasping for breath, he opened his mouth, "ok," he said weakly.

"Did you choke on something?" she asked, touching his face with a napkin, mopping sweat from his brow.

"The mustard. I did'nt mix enough sweet-n-sour into the Chinese mustard," he apologized. "I'll be alright." He bent his mouth into a weak apologetic grin.

The waitress smiled as she filled his glass. Again.

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