1. every Wednesday, unless snow, rain or holiday (discuss rain as needed)
2. meet at 11 A.M.
3. cancel in temperatures or wind chill index below 45 degrees (Elmer has arthritis in hip)
4. cancel in winds greater than 18 knots (Rory will check his weather station at home)
5. no keeping score
6. no betting
7. walk the front nine, rent a cart for the back nine

Bill, Elmer, and Rory had retired within a few months of each other, and Skeet just told his son one day, “The company is yours come Monday. I’ve had enough,” because he was long past retirement age. They would meet occasionally on the course, and played together in odd pairings until one day Skeet called them each and said, “Meet me for coffee at the drugstore tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

He proposed that they meet every Wednesday for golf. No wives, no kids or grand kids. No doctor’s appointments or trips to the city could interfere. It took very little time for the men to talk through the rules and come to an agreement, and they shook on it.

They carried those skinny little bags, with a clutch of clubs, to cut down on the weight. Bill was a beginner, but the others never offered him advice on how to play the game. If he wanted lessons he could play with the club pro (and sometimes he did). Rory was the best, with a smooth easy swing that made you think of Freddie Couples.

But none of that was important. All that mattered was the course—mean and treeless, carved out dry creek breaks on the hard prairie—with fast greens, devious sand traps, and elephant grass that was wild and native.

They played for over year, with very few missed games. Not all the wives understood. Bill’s wife took it hard, and a half year was gone before she realized that on the issue of his Wednesday game—she could force no issue.

Rory’s wife didn’t mind at all. Wednesday was her beauty shop day, and grocery-shopping day. She’d married Rory for better or worse, but not lunch every day. On Wednesday each week, he had a late breakfast at the cafe, then hit the links with his friends. It was ideal for her. He came home rosy-cheeked and hungry; she came home prettied up, with a special supper planned.

On the day Elmer didn’t show up, it never occurred to them to begin without him, and the weather was marginal anyway. Bill and Skeet had driven out to the course together, and because Bill felt a sense of unease, Skeet detoured by the hospital on the way back into town. He didn’t see Elmer’s car, but he spotted Elmer’s son’s pickup in the emergency room parking lot, on the backside of the hospital.

Rory, Bill, and Skeet were pall bearers at Elmer’s funeral, and afterward Elmer’s wife wrote each of them a sweet note thanking them, and to tell them how much the Wednesday game had meant to Elmer.

The next Wednesday, Bill, Skeet, and Rory played but it was too soon. Their rhythm was off, and the game went too fast. But they pushed themselves to play; no way was Bill giving up his hard-won Wednesday, and Rory couldn’t bear the idea of pushing the shopping cart around, or waiting while his wife took five minutes deciding if she wanted Amaretto flavored non-fat coffee creamer or the hazelnut.

The next few weeks were lumpy and bumpy, and not much fun actually. Standing in the club house on a misty October morning, the course manager asked it they’d like a fourth player to join them. Warily, the men said yes, and were introduced to Mr. Donald Moffett, newly moved to town to live with his daughter.

The men fell silent when Donald began speaking, not believing their ears at first. Because Donald’s Scottish accent was a thick as Skeet’s Texas drawl. Rory stepped in, believing himself the most capable of communicating with Donald, himself but four generations removed from the old country, because he could see on Skeet and Bill’s faces—they couldn’t understand a word the man was saying.

Donald, sensing that the manager had blundered by pushing them together, quickly explained that they probably would not want to play with him because he was too old to keep score and he didn’t like to bet—with Rory translating. Skeet began laughing and pounding Donald on the back. “Bill, you stuck the rules in your bag. Show Don here the rules.”

Donald didn’t tell them that he was a retired professional golfer. There was time enough for that.  And they moved out on the hard course, with the cold mist falling, because that was not at all the same as rain.

Mr. Hobart suspected the boys were cheating, but he couldn’t figure out how. For one thing, their desks were too far apart. “Little devils,” he thought.

Jesse and Charlie Ben both scored exactly the same on the history test. And not just that—their bonus credit answers were almost identical, and the questions covered topics he had not lectured on in class. He expected that Jesse would have read the extra credit materials, but no way in thunder Charlie Ben did. All that boy read about was baseball.

He decided to watch them another week, but then he found a folded note on the floor underneath Jesse’s desk. He studied it, but could find no meaning in the series of numbers and symbols strung across the paper, broadly printed in Charlie Ben’s strong hand.

17.33.10@39.08.92#59.44.33.17.43.77.17.63$43.08.10.77.32.01.43

He held them after school. “I think you boys are cheating, but I don’t know how,” said Mr. Hobart, studying their faces for clues. “What does this mean?” he asked, unfolding the note. Instead of looking scared or shamefaced, Charlie Ben was nearly bursting with excitement, though Jesse was solemn.

“It says … ‘Can you practice tonight?’” said Charlie Ben.

“Practice what, Jesse?”  Mr. Hobart wanted to know.

“Catching. Charlie Ben is teaching me how to catch baseballs.”

This was not the answer Mr. Hobart expected, but he knew the boys were now neighbors in that new subdivision on the edge of town.

He turned to Charlie Ben, and said, “Name five economic factors that have contributed to the growth of our town and this county.” This was the bonus question on the next history test, the one he planned on giving the following day.

Charlie Ben looked at Jesse, who by the barest of nods, seemed to encourage Charlie Ben to answer the question. “The buffalo skinners established a camp here, because of the supply of buffalo and water. The railroad built a line through here, because of the existing habitation and the reliable water source. It was a good land to farm, so the settlers came and grew crops, which they could ship to market on the railroad. Then they drilled and found oil and gas.”

It was Jesse’s answer, and Jesse’s phrasing, coming straight out of Charlie Ben’s mouth. The teacher sat with his chin in his hand, his elbow on the desk and stared at the boys.

“Jesse, have you been tutoring Charlie Ben?”

“We study together. I catch for him one hour, and then we study for one hour. If he’s going to be a big league pitcher some day, he has to practice now.”

“You boys haven’t been cheating?”

“No Sir.” They both spoke instantly and in unison, and he knew it was true.

“Charlie Ben?  How did you know the answer to my question?”

“Because after we read the extra credit stuff, Jesse thinks up what questions you will ask, and we figure out the answers.”

Mr. Hobart rubbed his face then covered it with his hands. “Then why are you passing notes written in code?”

“Oh, that’s just for fun. Jesse thought it up. It’s not his first, but he thought the others were too easy, so he came up with a harder one,” said Charlie Ben. Jesse shot him a warning glance, but it was too late.

Mr. Hobart wrote a short note on a piece of paper and handed it to Jesse. “Write that in your code and give it to Charlie Ben.” Jesse wrote carefully and handed the message to Charlie Ben. They waited while Charlie Ben transcribed it, which took a little longer than it had for Jesse to write it. “What’s the answer Charlie Ben?”

“Blue pants, plaid shirt.” That was correct, because the note asked “what is Mr. Hobart wearing?”

“What is the code?” he asked in a voice that was more curious than demanding.

“You won’t tell anyone?” Jesse asked.

“As long as you never use it to cheat, and you stop passing notes in class, I promise to never tell.”

“It’s the Periodic Table of the Elements,” said Jesse.

“What?”

“Each set of numbers is the atomic number of an element, whose first letter is the letter we want to use. A is 33, for arsenic, which is easier to remember than 89 for actinium.”

Charlie Ben was fairly hopping by now, in excitement.

“You memorized the Periodic Table of the Elements?” stated Mr. Hobart.

“Not the whole thing, just twenty-six letters,” said Charlie Ben. “But Jesse knows ‘em all. He’s awful smart.”

“You converted the alphabet to the atomic number of corresponding elements,” said Mr. Hobart.

“Well,” said Jesse, some I had to make some up. No element starts with J, so I gave it the number 00, since hydrogen starts with 1. I put zeros on single numbers so they’d all have two digits. And there’s no Q, so we use 79—gold, because the Queen wears a gold crown. I picked 74 for W, the letter symbol for Tungsten. We put a dot between each set of numbers, and symbols at the end of sentences, to make a new sentence. We don’t use the numbers for real numbers, like phone numbers, since that would look suspicious. Everything is spelled out.”

Mr. Hobart looked at Jesse. “How did you get that big bruise on your arm?”

“Sometimes Crazy Ben throws wild,” he said, smiling for the first time, “that’s why he has to practice.”

“What else do you guys do?” he wanted to know.

“He gets me to run with him, and we chin on a pole my Dad put up in the back yard. Every time I take out the trash, I’m suppose to stop and do as many chin-ups as I can.”

“How many is that Jesse? asked Mr Hobart.

“Forty-five.”

Eleven years old and he can do forty-five chin-ups, thought Mr. Hobart. He looked at Charlie Ben with raised eyebrows.

“Mr. Hobart, Jesse don’t weigh nothin’. Sure he can do more than me—twenty three, last time I did it.”

Mr. Hobart was stunned. What an extraordinary pair. Exuberant Charlie Ben—friendly as a puppy, big and handsome—good-natured. And Jesse—shorter, thirty pounds lighter, dark and intense, driven by an intelligence that Mr. Hobart thought he understood, but had still under-estimated. Actually, he had under-estimated Charlie Ben too.

Suddenly he was very grateful—relieved and filled with joy, that Jesse had made a friend in Charlie Ben, who would drag him from his shell and make him a whole person. And for Charlie Ben, whose new-found friendship and admiration for Jesse would take him into unimagined territory.

He sent the boys home, and sat for awhile at his desk, realizing he’d just seen into the future.

When the Wall fell, Danny called his friend, but he was drunk, laughing and crying, and singing a bawdy bar song in German.

Mother made it from looking at a photograph in Vogue magazine. She sewed two hours a day, five days a week. When the two hours were coming to an end, she finished the immediate part of what she was doing, like a seam or pulling out pins, then stopped. She would drape a big sheet over the sewing machine and her work table, and walk away. It made me crazy that she could turn her back on what she was doing, when another hour would have finished it, but she was resolute.

It was a terrific lesson in patience and discipline, knowing what could be accomplished in two hours each day. Mother took turns sewing for me and Shelly, and our closets were full of beautiful clothes.

Mother learned how to sew from her mother, Adele, a couturier seamstress who had worked at one of the big fashion houses in Paris. Papa Lou brought Adele home after the war, back to Texas. Grandmother Adele taught her only daughter how to design and sew as magnificently as she did, and Mother was so good that she sewed for the public before she married Dad; after that she only sewed for herself and we girls.

After Shelly graduated in May, she took a job at the 24-hour restaurant down on the interstate. Dad said it was ok, because the restaurant didn’t serve alcohol and Shelly worked the breakfast shift. She made good tips, and was off work in time to spend afternoons at the swimming pool and still go out in the evenings.

She saved most of her money, but she did have two indulgences: expensive sunglasses (because she’d learned that pulling them off at precisely the right moment could have devastating results), and designer hand bags, both of which she bought used from a ritzy consignment shop.

The state was widening and rebuilding the interstate, and very early each morning some of the contractors and engineers would come into the restaurant for breakfast, and Shelly would wait on them. She got their orders right, kept the coffee cups filled, and deftly turned aside their flirting They tipped her well, and after a week, Shelly knew everyone’s name, and they knew they’d never get anywhere with Shelly. They were all too old anyway, except for a highway engineer named Farber Crenshaw, but he barely said a word to her anyway.

Shelly and her girlfriend Lynette had a big double-date planned with Lynette’s brother Allen, and his college roommate, Gregory Pierce. Gregory had been dying to take out Lynette, and no male with brains at all would have passed up a chance to take out Shelly, even one who’d known her since she was a Brownie Scout with a lisp. Only now Shelly was tall and slender, with a world-class bosom, and a great cloud of sable hair that fell around her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of lemon drops and she looked a lot like Grandmother Adele—a look that was distinctly feline.

Shelly was almost two years older than me, but she’d been born in mid-September and I’d been born in late August, and that put us one year apart in school. Her looks were striking. My looks were kindly described as “the girl next door,” with hair the color of Karo pancake syrup and green eyes. And all my inches—both up and down, and all around, were a lot less than Shelly’s. People always did a double take when they learned that Shelly and Addy—I was named after Adele—were sisters.

My sister saw this dress in Vogue, and wanted one like it because the big date was a Fourth of July dinner dance at Gregory’s parents’ country club in the city. The dress Mother created was a perfect copy of the one in the magazine. She used some material that I’d had my eye on, but never said I wanted, and then it was too late.

It was this amazing sundress with a tight bodice and a pouffed skirt, in a polished cotton print of orange hibiscus on white, with little touches of black. If you’ve ever eaten a Creamsicle, that’s what color the orange was, and Shelly looked just as yummy. Mother sewed on shiny black buttons where the straps attached to the bodice in front, and bought a thin black patent belt to finish it off.

The boys, when they came to pick her up, looked thunderstruck and I felt a little sorry for Lynette, who looked like a pre-teen Dolly Parton, all fluffy in pink and white. Shelly looked like she’d just stepped off the runway at a fashion show.

When Shelly arrived at the country club wearing a Versace copy, Chanel sunglasses, and carrying vintage Kate Spade, Gregory Pierce’s mother was very confused, because she had a magazine subscription to Vogue too, and she’d been told that Allen’s date was a waitress.

Mrs. Pierce was also two drinks ahead of everyone else. And though the girls weren’t drinking, their dates were. Mrs. Pierce got more weird as the evening went on, and Mr. Pierce kept asking Shelly to dance. For all her sophisticated looks, Shelly was non-plussed by Mrs. Pierce’s extremely personal questions about who her “people” were, and what did her father do, and finally, where did she get that dress because the nearest place to buy a Versace was Neiman Marcus in Dallas, and they were a long way from Dallas.

Nearly in tears, Shelly bolted for the restroom, and didn’t see that Mrs. Pierce was following her. What happened next is confusing, because Shelly says Mrs. Pierce pulled on the back of Shelly’s dress, like she was trying to fish out the label. Shelly jerked away, and Mrs. Pierce who was completely drunk, slipped and fell in a wet spot on the floor, taking the back of Shelly’s dress with her.

Horrified, Mrs. Pierce scrabbled about on the slick terrazzo floor like a downer cow, and Shelly dashed out of the restroom, running headlong into Farber Crenshaw, who had just arrived at the dance. Farber immediately pulled off his jacket and put it around Shelly’s shoulders, and escorted her to his car.

When she was sensible enough to tell him what happened, he went back inside to find her purse and sunglasses, and informed Lynette, Allen, and Gregory that he would be taking Shelly home, and that they should probably head that way themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce were no where in sight.

It was a little after ten when Shelly came in with Farber and I was sitting on the sofa in my pajamas, eating a root beer float. Farber told me to get my parents, which I did, then Mother took Shelly upstairs while Farber explained the story as best he could to Dad. Farber looked at me and asked if there was anymore root beer and ice cream, and instead of saying yes, I just fixed him a serving in the biggest glass we had.

After that, Farber came by now and then, even after Shelly left for college. Finally one evening, Dad took Farber aside and gently told him that Shelly was a lost cause, but Farber, man-to-man, carefully explained to Dad that he wasn’t interested in Shelly: he was keeping his eye on me.

Dad let out a whoosh in surprise, and said, “Son, you’ll have to wait a long time—.” But Farber, who could explain things better than any man I ever knew, said that in his world progress was measured in feet, not miles, and getting in a hurry was pointless. He was patient, and he had all the time in the world to wait. I guess they came to an accord, because it wasn’t until I graduated from high school that Farber asked me out.

Of course my sister never wanted to see the dress again, and Mother uncharacteristically threw it in the trash. But I found it, and carefully took it apart (Mother’s dainty, perfect stitches!) and salvaged the skirt. I washed and pressed the fabric and put it in my cedar chest … my hopeless chest I’d always called it.

A few years later, when Farber and I announced our engagement, and I was checking the contents of my hope chest, I found the orange hibiscus print. From my sister’s dress, the one that brought the prince. So I did what any good designer would do, I made an apron out of it, cut with style and panache. I cut out one of the flowers to make a pocket, and embroidered it with silk floss in black. It was gorgeous, and the most unlikely apron you ever saw, but I think Versace would have approved. If Farber ever recognized the material, he never said so, and as for me … I did my best cooking in that apron.

Maybe you don’t believe the dress had anything to do with it, but Cinderella and I know better.

Music floated over the neighborhood, from the nearby high school band in marching practice. Darla smiled, hearing the tom-tom drums and thought about football games and homecoming, with spicy-scented mums, cold and silky against her cheek. She’d worked up an appetite and though Mike insisted on big suppers, she was tired. She wanted chili and Fritos, with lots of grated cheese and fresh green onions to sprinkle on top.

Darla quickly showered and washed her hair, combing it into a sleek ponytail at the back of her head. Just a touch of mascara and lipstick. Soft old clothes now—a small T-shirt, once red now faded to coral, and gray jersey warm-up pants, cast-offs from Mike.

She made banana pudding first, carefully layering the vanilla wafers and sliced bananas with the pudding and whipped cream into a crystal trifle bowl, a wedding present rarely used. When the pot of chili was simmering, she measured out the dry ingredients for corn bread. She’d add the wet ingredients when she heard Mike’s pickup in the driveway. Twenty minutes to bake, just long enough for him to bathe, then sit down at the table at six o’clock on the dot, the way he wanted.

Mike brought home two old buddies—Tom and Richard the Yankee. They’d shown up at the shop just before closing time. The chili, hearty and fragrant, was a hit and Richard agreed with Darla that chili and Fritos were a perfect combination. Tom pretended to faint when she presented the picture-perfect banana pudding for dessert. It was a happy evening, full of stories and laughter as the old friends caught up with each other. Darla was secretly pleased that Mike drank very little the whole evening, and that the guys left at a decent hour.

On her way out of the kitchen, Mike grabbed Darla by the ponytail and slammed her face-first into the door jam. When she bounced back, he hit her square in the nose with his fist. The pain was white-hot and paralyzing. With each blow he yelled at her for embarrassing him in front of his friends.

For the crappy meal. “Damned pudding,” he screamed at her. “Babies and old women eat pudding,” For touching Richard’s food. The house was messy. She looked like a refugee and had acted like a tramp all evening, laughing at everything Richard said. His anger rolled off in waves, punctuated with blows to her breasts, back and thighs. As she curled herself into a ball, Mike kicked her in the head and on the soles of her feet and when he was done, he slammed out of the house, roaring off in his beautiful white pickup.

She crawled to the guest bathroom. He’d torn off her shirt and the pants were big enough to kick off. Darla let the cold shower spray away the blood and vomit, slobber and tears. Then she filled the tub with cold water and soaked until the water was room temperature.. Exhausted and shivering, she took a handful of aspirin, and filled two bags with ice.

Darla’s eyes were swollen shut when she woke up. She could open her left eye just a slit, enough to see her way to the kitchen. She refilled the ice bags and returned to the bathroom. From beneath the vanity she retrieved a nearly-empty pint of grain alcohol that she used to concoct her face lotion. With shuddering gulps, Darla drained the bottle then went back to bed, and put the ice bag on her face.

When she couldn’t feel her teeth with her tongue, and she could pinch her cheek and it didn’t hurt, Darla staggered back to the bathroom. She tore off long strips of surgical tape and stuck them to the edge of the counter, and found an old nose splint. She took two wooden tongue depressors and laid them along the sides of her nose, and pushed it back to the center of her face. She taped the nose splint down, then took another tongue depressor and splinted the little finger on her left hand.

Darla spent the rest of the day in bed. She thought about calling one of those shelters. She’d looked up the number before and saved it, because this wasn’t the first time he’d hit her. But if she left now, it wouldn’t be a surprise to Mike. And more than anything, she wanted to control her leaving, with a carefully thought-out departure when Mike would least expect it.

She made her plans. First thing, she would pack a small bag and stash it someplace where Mike wouldn’t find it, and she could grab it quickly. Then she would save money. Mike’s money, never let her forget. Oh yes, when she left Mike it would be on her terms, and when the time was right.

Hiding money turned into a game for Darla. It was almost too easy. Mike didn’t like checking accounts, so he gave her the same amount of cash each week for groceries and household expenses. As long as her frugality didn’t affect Mike, it was easy for her sock away the money. So she scrimped and saved, and sold off some of her things that Mike would never notice, like books and jewelry.

Darla prepared a second purse, and obtained a duplicate social security card and driver’s license, and she put money into it, sometimes only a few dollars at a time, and hid it with the bug-out bag, a backpack. She didn’t have a complete plan, but was trying to think of essentials.

For Christmas she bought Mike a super-detail auto cleaning for his pickup. He demanded to know how she paid for it, so she told him that she’d saved for it out of the household allowance. “For a stupid bitch,” he said, “that was pretty smart.” Mike still hit her occasionally, but not like October, because he’d noticed a change in her since then and while he couldn’t quite figure it out, he liked the new Darla.

June rolled around, and no one thought much about it when the rain came, because it rains all the time in Houston and just because Tropical Storm Allison had a name, it wasn’t a big deal. Darla took Mike to work that Friday morning, the only day he let her use the pickup for her weekly errands and shopping. By Friday evening, the waters were rapidly rising and the news people were out with their cameras and crews, telling people to stay home or where they were because the rain was still falling and the creeks and bayous were overflowing their banks. The streets, freeways, and underpasses were flooded and every TV station in town was airing videos of submerged cars. Picking up Mike from work would be a problem.

Darla crossed a low spot in the road, now flooded with water, barely making it to the other side. She stopped and checked for traffic both ways before hopping out with her backpack, and hid it in the bushes beside the road. She clambered back in, wedged her purse tight against the console, shifted into neutral and got out; she left the door open. Darla pushed hard against the fender, and the pickup began rolling backwards, down into the water. Slowly it filled with water and sank deeper, then drifted off the road and snagged on a culvert, water rushing over the hood.

Darla was soaked when she finally made it to the crowded truck stop, but so was everyone. She hitched a ride with a determined trucker heading north. Told him she’d lost her car in the water, but that she had to make it back to Dallas—said her husband would figure out what to do about the car. The truck driver stopped his big rig on the outskirts of the city, and Darla bought him a meal, thanked him for the ride and pretended to telephone for help.

After the trucker left, assured that help was on the way, she rented a room in a nearby motel. Darla stood for a long time in the steaming hot shower, washing away the grime. Then she fell into bed and slept until the next afternoon. Her backpack yielded clean but wrinkled clothes. Silk trousers and matching sweater in all-purpose taupe. When she finished making herself presentable, Darla walked across to the same restaurant where she and her rescuer had eaten at the night before.

Two cups of coffee left her ready to eat so she ordered a California burger, fat with thick slices of avocado. Mike hated avocados and made such a face when she ate them herself that she’d quit buying them.

The cashier ramped up the volume on the TV for the six o’clock news and they watched in silence at the top story, the flooding in Houston. It was eerie for Darla, seeing the familiar made unfamiliar by tons of water where it shouldn’t be.

The Dallas affiliate showed video from their sister station in Houston, of a screaming man, “My pickup! That’s my pickup!” Bystanders tried to hold him back, but he jumped into the water and swam through the swirling muck and debris to his pickup. He sank, and then surfaced again, clutching at the custom chrome headache rack on his beautiful pickup. The cameraman zoomed in on Mike’s angry face, then the pickup shifted, and the filthy waters sucked them under.

She worked nights, her quiet measured pace and steady presence a comfort to patients and reassuring to the staff. “I want that nurse in white,” some querulous old woman would demand, and they would send for Mary, who wore white like it was the very distillation of the sun—pure and incandescent.

And she would tuck and straighten, whisper and soothe, ‘til all was quiet on her floor.

What she didn’t figure on was her husband coming home from work early, and meeting the postman in the driveway. Or her husband handing her a thin envelope, and waiting—all curious and expectant while she opened it. Or finding a check for $67 because the magazine bought her story.

Rose Martha had a lot of confessing to do, but her husband was proud of her, and said she needed to open up a savings account with it.

They went to the drive-in that night for supper, and after the car-hop brought their food, and they began to eat, he turned to her and said, “You won’t believe what I heard at work today—about the girl in receiving.”

On pretty days, runners pass in and out of the grounds, mindful of where they are, but grateful for the heavy shade of cypress, willow, and live oak. Sometimes they see a flutter of bright color—flowers and a flag—so they stop to read, and try to remember, ” … now who was Anson Jones?”

A photographer from the newspaper took his picture, and the local bank sent the clipping to him, laminated and framed. Charlie Ben was eleven and it was the best day of his life, and for a long long time, nothing else could beat it.

SanLeon.net languished until February 2006, when I started writing Glove Box Stories. Forty-eight short stories later, I stopped writing to devote my energies to another endeavor, and my last posting here was January 21, 2007.

In the eighteen months since, much has changed. My husband and I started a business, an online flag store—Flags Bay—and we moved. Previously we lived in San Leon, Texas, on Galveston Bay, and now we live on Canyon Lake, a resort area on the southern edge of the Texas Hill Country.

The Daily Flag is an adjunct website to Flags Bay. At The Daily Flag, I write about flags, flag etiquette and protocol, flags on postage stamps, the Boy Scouts, and anything else that interests me. I love writing at The Daily Flag, but I’ve missed the adventure that comes with writing fiction, and I am ready to write at Glove Box Stories again.

Glove Box Stories has a new look. Convinced (finally) by my husband, that a smart new theme would let him do the things I wanted, I chose RockinBizRed 2.0 by Nathan Rice. And as long as I was changing to a new WordPress theme, I knew I wanted to use a photograph of an open glove box in the header.

Aj Martin Bocola—Marty—of Automania in New Braunfels, Texas, gave Larry and me the run of the showroom, which was filled with gorgeous vintage automobiles. Choosing among the photographs that Larry took was a hard decision, but I kept coming back to the dashboard shown above—from a 1956 Chevrolet—which Larry tweaked a bit at my request.

So I’m back. To kick things off for Glove Box Stories, here are five new stories, which I shall post two hours apart. After this, I plan to post at least one new story a week, maybe more. Enjoy!