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Safe at Home

10/24/2020

by LEAH MUELLER

Room 8 by Squid Ink | Flickr

Dusk had already fallen when my husband and I pulled into the center of town. Its dusty street sat empty, shop doors padlocked, windows covered with plywood boards.

“I bet the motel is open,” I said.

Russ shook his head wearily. “No one answered when you called.”

“The room will be empty,” I insisted. “Everyone is afraid to travel. Except us.”

Russ and I had sold most of our possessions, fled Tacoma, and headed south. Washington’s economy had expanded like fast-rising bread dough. Even the pandemic couldn’t slow it down.

For decades, people moved to Tacoma when they had no other options. Now, 1500 square-foot bungalows sold for a million dollars. The two of us didn’t have that kind of money. We’d bought a dirt-cheap house in southern Arizona. Same town where my mother spent the last nine years of her life. Thanks, Polly.

Russ shrugged. “Worth a try, I guess.”

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The Rock in Your Shoe

10/4/2020

by DAVID HAMMOND

rock on by Eric Chu | Flickr

Hello, up there!

I'm the rock in your shoe.

But I’m not just any rock. I’m a piece of primordial chondrite, formed from stardust in the earliest days of the solar system. Days? Scratch that. There were no days back then, because there wasn’t an Earth yet. I’m that old. Think about that for a second while you chew on your Clif bar and look out over the Shenandoah Valley.

Do I have your attention? I’m digging into the arch of your foot, but you lift your leg and do a little dance to shake me into the toe of the boot. Your two-year-old son in the baby backpack awakens from his snooze and laughs. “Papa,” he says, “Papa, more dance.” Don’t worry, little one, I’m not done with Papa yet. I work my way around to the big toe and apply my sharper end to the tender spot just below the nail. The little boy laughs as his grumbling steed does another jig.

Safe at Home

The Rock in Your Shoe

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