I write stuff down. writer • humorist • activist
Back seat of the shit-brown Datsun pickup, squeezed in where groceries, chainsaws, or dogs should go, not children, tiny fingers wrapped tight around the steel rods holding the headrest upfront, glimpses of the road from either above a sister’s head too small in the front only a ponytail tied with hard plastic marble-sized fasteners, reaching above the back of the seat, or perhaps, I’d be bumping and weaving, a bobblehead
Forget magicians, ponies or face-painting. Nothing says happy birthday like a foul-mouthed grandpa driving a fully loaded, shiny black, fast, ultra-performance two-seater completely un-child-friendly Chevrolet Corvette convertible. When my kids were small, this was how we did birthdays. Everyone wanted an invite. We heard it before we saw it. Like fireworks in reverse — engine roaring to make a grand entrance, the Corvette rounded the bend toward the house, Grandpa
Like the sheep we are encouraged to be, we head to the basement for fellowship after the memorial service for my Future Farmer of America Father-in-Law, who was lucky enough to die weeks before covid lockdown, so friends, family, farmers, Methodists, teachers and students could gather around the crockpots to pay respect, share stories, and say good-bye. Church ladies hurry and worry about having enough creamer for the coffee, plates
Below is a writing prompt from June 2020: ‘what are you sick and tired of?’ One year ago my list was endless. This year, in honor of the 4th of July, I’m posting this look back to see how far we’ve come. Because we’ve come far. We have a long, long way to go, but we are moving in the right direction. * JUNE 17, 2020: I’m sick and tired
Kissing myself full on the lips in the bathroom mirror was a learned skill, one I was quite proud of as an angsty tweenager, until I discovered many decades later, apparently not everyone did this. I assumed everyone practiced these all-important milestones – a coming-of-age-first-kiss, just me and my mirror image, doing our homework so if and when the time comes, I’d be ready. I was not. Perched on the
Instead of milk and bread before a storm, I rush to Newtown Color Center for paint and spackle, hoping to fill my time and thwart the impending pandemic before it strikes hold and renders me useless. They match a gallon to the original color, Serene Sky, to brighten a dull family room, and I’m off, to spackle dings left by nooks and crannies that come with rooms well lived, cover
The church pews are filled with country folk in their Sunday best, even though it’s a Friday. Some of the old-timers wear clean coveralls, some their Sunday pants, belt, and suspenders, pulled up way too high, white tube socks revealing boots fresh from the barn, maybe a collared-shirt, tucked in tight like they just visited the restroom and no need to re-tuck for the rest of the day. Or at
She wanted a cow the way someone who grew up a million miles away from a farm wanted a cow. “They’re so cute,” she mooed, riding shotgun while driving up and down the hills of Route 20 in Upstate New York. Real upstate, not downstaters version of upstate. Tri-state New Yorkers think anything outside Yonkers is upstate, but there’s a whole lotta acreage between the Hudson River and Lake Ontario,
An irreverent storyteller with a foul mouth and big heart, Kathryn Mayer (aka Kathy and/or Kate) is a writer, humorist, and (former) activist writing out loud with humor and grace about little life moments with big ripples, including the space between parenting and aging parents, social issues, angsty reflections of midlife, and, sigh, gun humpers. Still. Sometimes a big deal, sometimes not Mayer is a national award-winning columnist, according to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and her essays have been recognized as Voice of … Read More Here...
kate[at]kathrynmayer[dot]com
xo Kate