Mary Novaria

I could tell you it’s been one of those days... Then I’d remind myself that I don’t live in Moore, Oklahoma. I could say I’m exasperated, waiting for movers who still haven’t left LA, even though we’ve been cooling our heels in a Kansas college town for days. Then I’d remind myself that my daughter’s bike and bed and boxes are not in scattered in shards across the windswept plain. Her things are intact. Dry. Safe. Out of the elements. Hell, forget the stuff . We are dry and safe and out of the elements. We are not fishing through debris, panic-stricken and brokenhearted, listening for the jangle of tags on a dog collar. Sure, we met some challenges on the trek east, weathering rain and snow, lightning and hail through Colorado and Kansas. But we were never anywhere like Moore, Oklahoma. For eighteen years, we lived in Kansas and managed to dodge the twister bullet every time, surveying the aftermath in Greensburg, Kansas (May 2007) and Joplin, Misso...

Call me, maybe? There was a handwritten, cardboard sign in the front windshield. "For Sale: Call when you have cell service." A 203 area code. Had to look that one up later. Southwestern Connecticut, although the plates were New York state. If it belongs t o a Yalie, he must be one of those artsy, drama school types, not the Wall Street variety. Still, someone who appreciates fine vintages… in this case an old VW bus but definitely NOT a beater. Gleaming red and black, practically smiling at me, winking at me even, in the parking lot with the waves crashing in the background. Beautifully restored from the looks of it although, really, I know nothing of such things. I’m not a car person; I’m a romantic. And this just stirs up every running-away fantasy I’ve ever had. It wasn’t the only fantastic thing at the beach today, either. Actually, I think most everything at the beach is pretty darn fantastic any day, but there was a pod of whales today and it doesn’t get much bette...