Second Chances

As the fifth anniversary of my being revived after a Sudden Cardiac Arrest happened (in 2010), I wanted to write about it. After all, we don’t all get a second chance at life. I wanted to commemorate the occasion. However, what I found was that I couldn’t write the story as a true memoir.

I don’t know if I didn’t trust my writing skills. I didn’t know if I doubted my ability to tell the story in a heartfelt and meaningful way. Or – most likely – I didn’t have the strength to dig down deep and acknowledge my true feelings and thoughts from life since that moment.

So, I did what any self-respecting ‘chicken’ would do. I wrote the book but told it in a fictional manner. I created Jenny and had her tell her story. So, although many of the incidents and thoughts are true, including pieces of my actual journal entries here and there, it’s told as a fictional tale in A Second Chance.

I had thoughts about writing another book, this time a true memoir. But it’s not going to happen this year. This year is already so horrendously crazy that I know it won’t happen. Plus…I need to find where I filed all my notes and journals from twelve years ago. You know, where I stashed them for ‘safekeeping’.

Here’s a snippet from A Second Chance.

In trying to narrow down what I really wanted to do with my life, I started examining my dreams and goals. When I talked to someone else, I asked them what theirs were. I guess I thought that in seeing what everyone else dreamed of, I’d find a clue to my own ambitions.

I asked my friends about theirs.

Carla wanted to travel. A lot.

Amber wanted to lose weight. And she wanted to meet a wonderful man and fall in love.

Nancy never shared her private dreams. If she had any, she kept them hidden deep within.

Wanda, she just wanted to be famous. Although she professed that her dream was ‘to help others’, she was more transparent than she thought and time soon revealed her true motives.

I asked people that I met around the neighborhood and while out on errands.

The postman, he wanted to win a marathon.

The cashier at the grocery store, her big dream was to complete her bachelor’s degree.

I asked my coworkers at Crafty Hands.

Diane dreamed of finishing her showpiece garden.

Leanne’s dream was to open her own animal shelter.

Jane dreamed of having a successful business – any business – that wasn’t Crafty Hands.

Marvin fooled me. I thought his answer would be a promotion to manager. Nope. His dream was simply to hang on through the next five years and make it to retirement.

Go to Fiji, work at a big cat sanctuary, learn to weave, learn to make soap…every person I asked had something different. Some desires were small and achievable. Some longings were lofty and seemingly unattainable.

Most could only be accomplished after many steps and sometimes a lot of effort. Patience and fortitude would be required before many saw their end result.

A marathon runner doesn’t go from nothing to a five mile run without repetitive practice and work. Every day, or several times a week, the runner is sprinting, gaining endurance, and building their muscles. Hot or cold. Sunshine or rain. The runner practices, practices, practices until the goal is achieved.

No one else’s dreams and goals helped me focus on my innermost desires. But, they pointed out lessons I still needed. Perseverance was a common denominator in most of the goals. Patience was another.

Practice was needed for almost all of them.

Thinking of the inner critic mentioned above, my thoughts traveled to: I should have done this. I should have said this. I should have added this. That dreaded inner critic of mine never shuts up or goes away.

However, this harping pesky critter, so annoying and obnoxious, often bore knowledge I needed to see or learn.

I’m not the best observer of details. I’ve admitted this for a long time. I’ve often joked that I’d be a horrible police witness. If someone asked me to describe a robber, I’d probably say, “Ummmmm…It was a guy. Just your average guy. Hmmmmm…What he was wearing? I don’t remember. T-shirt and jeans? Maybe a ball cap. Glasses? I don’t remember. I didn’t pay that much attention.”

This inner critic sat on my shoulder the other day, yammering away. As if it’s ever gone for long. It’s summer and the weather is beautiful. You’d think it would be off relaxing somewhere, on a tropical beach or someplace. But no! Here it was, hanging out with me, in the back of a huge air-conditioned building where you can’t even see a window or the glorious outdoors, watching me cut fabric. It sprawled across my shoulder, making itself comfortable.

“Psssst,” I heard a soft whisper in my ear.

I ignored it.

“PSSSSTTTT,” it got louder.

I tried swatting it off of my shoulder, to no avail. It can be so persistent, that inner critic.

“HEY!” it screamed at me. I swear, I think it moonlights wearing that tight little red suit, complete with gleaming horns, a pointed tail and pitchfork in hand.

“What do you want?” I answered back. “Can’t you see I’m working here?”

“You’re not very observant,” Ms. IC told me.

“Yeah, so tell me something I don’t know. Go away, I’m busy.”

“You don’t notice details.”

“Okay,” I admitted. “So…I don’t notice details. I’ve never been good about paying attention to little things. There are more important things in this world than seeing what kind of shirts and shoes everyone has on. So, what about it?”

Ms. IC straightened up her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Don’t you see? If you want to be fully aware of life, you need to pay attention to details. It’s the specifics that will add dimension. You can’t go around, cloaked in oblivion, in your own little world.”

Ah, the voice of wisdom. I stopped trying to swat her off my shoulder and stroked the top of her cute little head.

Minor, insignificant details; I need to pay attention to them. I realized that this will take practice. Maybe I should shoot for that marathon instead. No, I’ll keep muddling through with my other efforts. A bruised ego sounds less painful than hurting, aching muscles.

It’s a funny thing about life, I found. It’s odd to see how the lessons build on each other. Or, was it that the more aware I became, the more I saw?

Ten O’clock Scholar – nail

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘nail.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Peggy wasn’t in the car near as long on her eastbound trip home. Before she knew it, she was veering northbound on the 57 freeway, off of the 10, to detour to San Dimas.

A stop all alone! Just me, myself, and I. No kids. No husband. No homework or chores.

She was almost delirious with the anticipation of the upcoming visit to the farmer’s market. Peggy loved the old town atmosphere of San Dimas. She didn’t get to pop in there near often enough. Once she found a parking spot and was wandering the open stalls filled with barrels of fresh produce, most of it locally farmed, she felt the tension drifting away from her like spiraling smoke into the stratosphere.

Her reality check came as she saw the prices on the various bins.

Oh dear. I can’t afford that.

Goodness, that’s too rich for my blood.

Yikes. I sure can’t afford to come here very often.

She knew that everything here was better for the family’s health. Almost all was organic. No pesticides or residue. Farmed in a manner that was more sustainable for the planet. Oh, how she wished she could shop here every week and load up on every delectable item that called out to her.

Alas, she had to juggle that temptation with a pocketbook that didn’t allow for splurges like that. The poor kid’s piggybanks could attest to that. Clifford and Jonathan had no idea how many times she’d borrowed money from their Christmas or birthday monies to pay the electric bill before the power was shut off.

She almost decided to leave without buying anything. But then she rounded the corner of the aisle and spied the glistening butter-colored pears with their rosy sheened highlights beckoning.

Pears. Her classmate Carol had mentioned pears. And pears were one of Peggy’s favorites. If she bought some, she could make some Pear Honey from Grandma’s recipe. That had long been Peggy’s favorite treat since she was a little girl. She’d grown up calling it Pear Honey because that’s what Grandma called it. But once she’d grown up, she’d figured out it was more of a conserve, or a marmalade. But by then it didn’t matter. The name was ingrained and would always be that.

She grabbed a bag and started filling it with the fresh fruit, nestling them carefully together so as not to bruise them. She looked at the last one with a gleam in her eye as she laid it on top of the others.

Stroking the top pear softly, she spoke aloud, unmindful whether any other shoppers would hear her or not. “Rest carefully, my sweet. Because you’re not going to make it all the way home.”

She almost licked her lips with glee, thinking of how she’d enjoy devouring one in the car all by herself. She felt so light-hearted and happy, that even as she turned and snagged her purse on a nail that wasn’t pounded into the barrel properly, her mood didn’t dampen.

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – picture prompt snippet

Our current story is Ten O’clock Scholar. This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to a picture prompt. These snippets will be short. Each one is 300 words or less. There are several pictures to choose from and we each pick one to write to.

Enjoy the tale, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Feeling relieved to have a friendly face in front of her, Peggy smiled back and stuck out a hand. “Thanks for coming back and lending some moral support. I was feeling deflated after that. Especially after trying my hardest to be here on time. I never expected traffic coming into LA to be this horrid.”

“You haven’t driven in before?”

“Not driving myself. Actually…I can’t remember even being into LA so far. I think Pasadena is the furthest I’ve ventured west. Except for the beaches of course, but I always head south – towards Laguna.”

Carol nodded, her grin getting wider. “Love Laguna. But I usually end up at Huntington. It’s just easier with the kids.”

Peggy dropped her bag to the floor by her feet. “I don’t like Huntington. That’s where we always went when we were kids. I get bored there. I’d rather have the rocky cliffs and tidepools at Laguna. How many kids do you have?”

Holding up her fingers in a V configuration, Peggy answered. “Two. A boy and a girl.”

“Cool. I’ve got two too. Both boys.”

“How old are yours? My Olivia is four and Brian is three.”

“Right in between mine. Cliff is five and Jonathan is two.”

Carol held up her hand for a high-five. “Awesome! We should get together one afternoon for a burger and let the kids run around the play area.”

“I’d love that!” Peggy’s mood lightened the longer the two talked.

After pleasant banter back and forth, Peggy finally pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked the time. “Guess I’d better head out of here. I was hoping there’d be enough time to swing by the farmers market in San Dimas on the way home.”

“Love that place! Buy a pear for me!”

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – nasty

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘nasty.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

By the time Peggy pulled into the museum’s parking lot and found an empty space, she put the car in park and her shoulders sagged in relief. Heaving a huge sigh, she sat for a moment. As much as she’d looked forward to the tour, she almost didn’t want to enter the premises.

Not only was she arriving an hour past the tour time, after the unexpected tension from the congested drive, Peggy simply wanted to sit like a limp dishrag and not move for an hour. Or two.

But, knowing that she had to appear and at least catch the last segment of the tour, she rolled up the window, grabbed her bag and exited the vehicle.

Will I even find where the class is at this point in the tour?

She hoped that the tours followed a somewhat set pattern, so that someone at the entrance could give her an idea of what area her class may be.

Unfortunately, as Peggy entered, she hesitated in the front foyer area, looking around to get her bearings, she saw Mrs. Stone headed towards her, with three fellow students lagging in her wake. Peggy paled when she saw the nasty glare aimed in her direction.

“Mrs. Stone…the traffic…I just—” Peggy stammered.

“You should have made allowances for that.” The instructor uttered the words in a clipped, tight voice. She thrust a clipboard in front of Peggy. “Here. Sign the list. At least you made it here. Now that the tour is over.”

Peggy pulled the pen from the silver slip and signed her name before returning it to Mrs. Stone. “I’m sorry—”

“Doesn’t matter. Tour’s over. You’ll get partial credit for showing up. Make sure that next time you’re on time.” Mrs. Stone turned and headed to the door.

Two of the girls, looking to be barely out of high school stayed right on Mrs. Stone’s trail, following her out the door. They turned their heads and avoided Peggy’s glance. The third girl, seeming to be closer to Peggy’s age, at least looked her in the eye. She didn’t speak, but at least shrugged her shoulders as if in an apology before she too left the building.

Peggy stood in the now empty room trying to decide what to do. She walked over to the closest showcases to see what was inside. As she stood reading the placards describing the contents encased within, Peggy heard a rustle beside her.

Raising her head, she saw that the third girl had returned and stood quietly beside her. “Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come back in.”

A slight grin inched its way across the girl’s face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to come back and make sure you’re alright. Mrs. Stone can be a bit rough.”

“A bit?”

The grin turned into a huge smile. “Touché. More than a bit. My name’s Carol by the way.”

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – gray

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘gray.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Peggy stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble up and erupt. The joyful delight that infused her soul from overseeing her teacher’s mishap carried with her throughout the entire drafting class. The entire period she found herself tamping down the mirth. She doubted the stoic faced engineer-type teacher would find amusement if Peggy burst out in spontaneous glee in the middle of the classroom’s hear-a-pin-drop silence.

Days later, Peggy still caught herself chuckling aloud when the memory flashed through her mind. But by the time she dropped the boys off at Mary’s house and found herself stuck in stand still traffic on the 10 Freeway, headed to the museum tour, the merriment faded to nothing.

This must be why I never drive into LA. Other than the fact that I never have a reason to drive here.

Peggy spent more time idling and not moving than she did with the wheels in motion. Her eyes were not in constant motion – moving between watching the bumper of the car in front of her, traveling to the dashboard clock to check the time, then glancing at the gauges as the heat gauge inched upwards towards the overheated portion of the indicator.

Oh, good Lord, I’m going to be old and gray before I ever get to the museum. Mrs. Stone is going to have an apoplectic stroke because I’m late.

Ten O’clock Scholar – stoop

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘stoop.’ This week’s snippet is brought to you compliments of the inspiration of our fearless Tuesday Tales leader. One of her previous comments was so good that I had to incorporate it into a scene. Thanks for the puddle idea, Jean!

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Grabbing her bag, Peggy dashed out of the car to make it to her class on time. She got to the edge of the parking lot before she stopped.

Did I lock the car?

She couldn’t click the key fob to double check. It had broken months ago. Exhaling a huge sigh towards the heavens, she ran back to the car.

Needlessly. She had locked it.

With that, she took off at a jog, out of the lot, towards the drafting class. As she rounded the corner which would make her pass by the Interior Design classroom in about fifty feet, she saw the door fly open. Mrs. Stone scuttled out, her arms full of papers and binders. She turned without seeing Peggy, much to Peggy’s relief, and strode down the hallway at full speed.

Peggy slowed to a stroll, lagging behind so she wouldn’t catch up with the almost always irritating instructor. A ringing sounded from Mrs. Stone’s jacket pocket and Peggy watched her fumbling for a phone while trying to juggle the towering stack she carried.

Trying not to laugh out loud and bring attention to her presence, Peggy watched as Mrs. Stone perched the phone precariously up to an ear while trying to keep her grip on what she carried.

Mrs. Stone stopped to try to speak in the phone and balance the papers.

Peggy stopped to avoid getting closer.

Mrs. Stone’s words bounced off the concrete sidewalk behind her. “What? Now? You can’t be serious!” In an aggravated movement, her chin tipped lower towards the phone. Her ponytail bobbed as she jerked her head in annoyance.

And as if slow motion, the silver cell phone fell from her grasp and went spiraling down, landing in a puddle in the median area left from the early morning sprinklers.

Peggy’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling the laughter that wanted to come forth. She watched Mrs. Stone try to stoop to retrieve the phone, an unsuccessful attempt.

A mix of conflicting emotions raced through Peggy. After the initial response of wanting to laugh – fortunately she’d suppressed that action – Peggy felt bad and wanted to rush and help her teacher. But on the other hand…all the petty annoyances that she’d been feeling underneath the brash and unrelenting tutelage came to the forefront and she almost enjoyed seeing the comedic incident play forth before her.

It ended up that Peggy didn’t need to channel her inner do-gooder. A squeal sounded from further down the hallway. One of the young, blond, preppy cheerleader type gals that sat in the front row at every lesson bounced down the hallway towards where the flustered instructor stood.

“Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Stone…are you okay? Do you need some help?”

As the perky barely-out-of-highschooler got closer, she spied the cell phone soaking in the shallow murky mess. “Oh my goodness! Your phone!”

She bent down and retrieved the sodden mess. Holding the recovered, dripping phone carefully between her thumb and forefinger, she offered it to Mrs. Stone.

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – running

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘running.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

When Peggy dropped her tote bag in the passenger seat and settled herself behind the wheel, she breathed a huge sigh. She felt her shoulders relax and felt the tension leave her body. She didn’t realize that she’d been feeling so tense through the last class period. Even chatting with her friend in the hall and on the way to the car hadn’t relieved the stress. Until she sat alone in the quiet car. One lone car in the middle of hundreds in the east lot. Here, she felt anonymous and unseen. Here she could be herself – merely a mom struggling under her current load. Not the wonder-woman, super-student, having it all under control persona she tried to reflect to the rest of the world.

As much as she enjoyed this new pursuit, chasing a dream that had only recently revealed itself to her, she felt fatigued to her core. From sunup – actually before sunup – to way past sundown, she was running, running, running. Any spare moment she carved out of the day now went to reading textbooks, sketching out floor plans, searching through sample books for paint chips, carpets, and wallpapers that coordinated, and trying to figure out how she’d ever learn enough to pass the Computer Aided Drafting class when she’d never drawn a line on vellum before.

She debated for a moment – a very brief moment – about whether to spend the next little bit reading about the history of architecture from thousands of years ago or closing her eyes and catching a short cat nap. It wasn’t much of a debate. The cat nap won without any hesitation.

Setting an alarm for thirty-five minutes, she laid her phone on her lap, tipped the seat back and indulged in the quietness, letting it settle to her bones.

The sunshine streamed through the side window, toasting her arm in a gentle warmth. She smiled as she drifted off, feeling content and peaceful.

The shoreline wavered in front of Peggy, seagulls drifting through the air, their squawks  echoing around her like a scratchy, irritating blanket. Sunlight shimmered on the lake. Peggy strolled along the edge, dancing with the gentle lapping waves. She longed to wade out and immerse herself in the coolness. A jet ski raced by, spraying her as it passed. A cold iced tea appeared in her hand, and she was instantly seated at a picnic bench overlooking a desert cavern, vultures replacing the seagulls. Confusion overtook her as she tried to figure out how she’d gotten there without any awareness of travel. But then, it didn’t matter. She was driving a little brown Mustang down the 10-freeway, sweat pouring off her brow, trying to merge into three lanes of congested traffic-

The jarring piano riff jolted her awake. Groggy and disoriented, Peggy fumbled for the phone to turn off the obnoxious alarm.

Thank goodness! As much as I’d love to sleep more, that was the oddest dream.

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – rock

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘rock.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Wanda patted Peggy’s shoulder in a motherly fashion. “You’ll understand one day. Life is more than learning for a job. It’s the learning that’s the plus. Learning for the sake of learning. I strongly feel that when someone stops, sits down, and stops learning, their life is over. I never want to be that person.”

Peggy cocked her head and thought for a moment about her new friend’s words. Her fingers stroked her chin as she mused. She finally answered. “You know, I suppose I never thought of it in that way. I always thought that taking classes like this was always to meet some sort of end goal. I never considered that anyone would want to spend all the time and money to get a degree…simply to learn without an end goal in sight.”

Smirking, Wanda tucked her hand in the crook of Peggy’s arm and began walking towards the parking lot. “You’re still young. You’ll discover more about life as you muddle through it. Nothing is ever rock solid.”

Peggy threw her free hand over her mouth and stifled her laughter. “Young? You’re calling me young? And here I thought I was one of the oldsters in class. Have you seen some of those girls? Barely out of high school. Here I thought I was one of the matronly students.”

“Oh, you’re older than some of them by a piece. But you don’t have near the foot leather behind you that I do.” Wanda tweaked some of the short gray tresses tucked behind her ears. “Now this is old. Why I learned to type on a good old-fashioned typewriter. An IBM Selectric, thank you very much. Not like these children do on these keyboards, hunting and pecking, and sending emojis instead of full-on words.”

Peggy leaned over and nudged her friend as they walked. “You’re not doing all that bad. Here you are, cell phone equipped and toting around a laptop too. You’re not too far out of it.”

Wanda stopped and pulled her arm away, pointing to the opposite side of the lot. “I’m over that way. But don’t go thinking I’ve got this all handled. Why, you should have seen me the day when I came home with a new cell phone. I had to get my teenage son to come out and program in the phone numbers I wanted.”

Giggling, Peggy waved as she moved in the opposite direction. “At least you got it done. I’m over this way. But I have an hour before my next class, so I’m going to sit in the car and enjoy the solitude.”

“And the quiet, I’ll bet. You probably don’t get much of that at home, not with the little ones you have.”

Peggy sighed and shook her head. “Not a chance at home. That’s why I enjoy these brief respites. I can close my eyes for a few and try to recharge.” She pulled the iPhone encased in a dragonfly case from her back pocket. “And luckily with this…I can set an alarm and not oversleep and miss my class.”

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

Ten O’clock Scholar – picture prompt

Our current story is Ten O’clock Scholar. This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to a picture prompt. These snippets will be short. Each one is 300 words or less. There are several pictures to choose from and we each pick one to write to. This is the one I chose.

Enjoy the tale, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

A wave of curiosity overtook Peggy. “At your age, why are you starting these classes now? Are you going to try to work as a designer when you’re done?”

Wanda flinched and pulled back slightly, a frown filling her face. “Oh, my lord, no. I quit working a few months ago. I’m ready to slow down, spend more time with the grandbabies. No more day job in this lady’s life.”

Lines of perplexment etched themselves around Peggy’s eyes. “Then…if you don’t want to become an interior designer…why are you starting all these classes?”

“Because I want to learn. I want to know all about it, even if I never work a day in the profession.”

Peggy cocked her head and looked closer at her friend. “I don’t understand. You’re going to spend two years to get your certificate, but don’t want to work with it?”

Wanda nodded towards the door, where the teacher stood waiting for the two laggards to exit so she could close the room. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Better head out before the old battle-ax starts another tantrum.”

Giggling, Peggy lifted her tote on her shoulder and headed to the door, Wanda right behind. When they got outside and the door clicked shut behind them, Wanda resumed the conversation.

“I want to learn for the learning. And I can use this skill to beautify my home. You know, just dress it up a bit. Last year, hubby and I were on vacation in a historic old west town. We stayed at this lovely period hotel. Of course, the décor wasn’t a theme I’d like to live with every day. But it was such a delight that enveloped the senses, I came home determined to learn the art of interior design.”

“But…” Peggy trailed off.

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Ten O’clock Scholar – hard

This snippet is written for Tuesday Tales, where a group of authors write to a word or picture prompt each week. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘hard.’

Enjoy the snippet here, then go check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Mrs. Stone stood in front of the classroom; a frown burrowed across her brow until the classroom quieted. No one spoke. Not a twitter. Not a laugh. Not even a cough broke the silence that wound its way throughout the thirty plus students.

Once she had the entire classes rapt attention, the teacher picked up a stack of stapled papers from the corner of her desk. “Here is a revised syllabus. One of the scheduled speakers had to cancel. And I’ve added in a mandatory field trip to the LA County Museum of Art.”

One of the younger girls in the front row raised her hand. When the teacher nodded in her direction, she dropped her hand and fidgeted with her ponytail nervously. “Is a school bus taking us there?”

“No. We’ll meet there. Everyone is responsible for their own transportation.”

“But Mrs. Stone…I don’t have a car. I take a bus from Ontario. I don’t know how to take a bus all the way into L.A.”

“Perhaps you can ride with one of the other students. You’ll have to figure out how to get there. As long as you’re all there by ten o’clock sharp for our tour.”

Peggy stifled a giggle as thoughts of the children’s nursery rhyme book she’d read to the boys the night before ran through her head. She doodled on her legal pad — A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar – and encased the words in a huge clock with hands designating the proper time.

When Mrs. Stone turned and passed the stack of papers to the lone young man in the class sitting in the front corner seat, Peggy held up the paper to show Wanda.

Before Wanda could stop it, a laugh erupted, which she quickly turned to a cough to try and disguise the mirth which would not be appreciated by their fearless leader.

Peggy’s amusement simmered down and dissipated when she thought of the new field trip that was added to the classes’ agenda.

I don’t drive into LA. Thank goodness for GPS! That’s going to be a hard trip to fit in. I hope Mary can watch the boys earlier than normal so I can get there on time. That sounds like fun. I’ve never been to that museum. How am I going to get the extra gas money?

Her mind whirled about with conflicting emotions and when the lights dimmed for the start of the morning lecture, and a shot of antique pottery vases appeared on the screen on the wall, Peggy realized that she’d tuned out the teacher’s last comments. She hoped she hadn’t missed anything important.

Check out the other delightful tales you’ll find at Tuesday Tales.

Trisha’s Website

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