My Writings

- Funeral Plans
“Every time I see you it makes me happy.” We call him Spitfire. This five-year-old’s real name is Michael Gene. We’d come to the funeral of my aunt, his great-grandmother. The exuberant greeting came in the viewing room just hours before Aunt Alma’s funeral. | read more

 

- Chicken Feathers
“Marty, I can’t use these feathers. They’re too wet and smelly and dirty.” | read more

 

- Ebenezer Was No Scrooge
I’ve heard the name twice: In Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol and in one of my favorite hymns, “Come Thou Fount.” However, I cringe at singing words and phrases I don’t understand. The rest of the song speaks volumes to me. But who—or what--is Ebenezer? | read more

 

- I Sing, for I Cannot be Silent
I’m a singer—not a professional singer, not even a good singer—just a singer. That’s what I do. I’m an Evans—We’re Welsh. Welsh people sing. We sing in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. We sing at church, at work, at the market. We must make music. A fellow worker once told me I was the only one she knew who could type, whistle and tap her foot at the same time. | read more

 

- To Sweep or To Vacuum
Our company was coming from New Mexico in three days. Everyone knows to expect a cool blue backyard swimming pool in sunny California. Since I’m the resident people pleaser, I decided to do my part to get the pool ready. Until then, my husband, David, and I had an agreement. He kept the pool maintained. I swam in it. This worked for me. | read more