I am not a car person. It’s so bad I can’t even remember the color of my current car, much to my children’s astonishment. My standards have never been high: I’m happy as long as the car is running from point A to point B.
I bought a Thanksgiving turkey on Election Day after casting my ballot. I had on my silly “I voted” sticker as I sorted through the frozen, plastic-wrapped, bulbous-shaped turkeys—so strangely removed from their real-life stateliness of puffed and upswept feathers.
When I went to college—oh so long ago—I recall waiting for the moment when the daily mail would be delivered. I could hear shuffling feet behind the wall of metal post-office style boxes in the mail room located in the dorm’s basement.