The junk drawer is a time capsule of leftover screws from semi-successful furniture assemblies, dice cubes from childhood games, and pens with defunct business names and questionable writing quality.
Andrea’s daddy cradled her with fierce gentleness as he climbed the porch steps. The screen door swung open, they stepped inside and his eyes offered warm reassurance to my worried face. I felt his answer before I heard it.
Boxers look OK on the guy on the underwear package, but they remind me of something Popeye would wear to the beach. I also think of handlebar mustaches and barbershop quartets. Not my idea of modern manly wear.
Mom was always excited at the prospect of the Sunday drive. Without a driver’s license (a condition almost incomprehensible nowadays), she depended on Dad and friends for every trip she needed to make.