Our old kitchen table was covered in microscopic specks of paint. I hadn’t noticed them for months. Yet, when I did, I spent the better part of an afternoon trying to clean them off.
I shared all about this evil afternoon several months back.
Shortly after reading that Saturday Morning Story my wife confessed: “In my defense: I noticed them and tried to clean them, but they were oil-based paint.”
Well, that’s great.
Continue readingWe found the ever-elusive parking spot in the outdoor lot and climbed out of the car. Immediately, both kids began a game to see who could contract the most diseases by touching every metal signpost, fire hydrant, bike rack, and garbage can in sight.
At least they weren’t licking them.
Never mind. Spoke to soon.
After I finished laying down the ground rules — touching ok, licking not — we continued our adventure to find my artist wife’s white tent in a sea of white, art-fair tents.
Continue readingThis post marks the one-year anniversary for this website. Instead of writing a new story, I thought it would be interesting to reflect back on the last year of Saturday Morning Stories.
I’ve written 50 stories over the past year (I took one week off and this week would have been 52). I’ve enjoyed writing them, but there are certainly stories that stick out more than others in my mind.
So, here is a list of my top five stories from the last year (in alphabetical order) and why I enjoyed the story so much.
If you haven’t read any the stories on this list, I encourage you to do so as a starting point for catching up. And, if you have already read some or all of them, I encourage you to re-read them. I’m sure you’ll discover a new detail you missed the first time.
Continue readingWe have a monster of a roof rack. It’s a beast of a creature that has lived in our two-car garage for over four years, hanging off to one side and taking up valuable yard-tool space.
It’s made of untreated lumber held together by metal “L” brackets with wood cross bracing.
Like a long-distance relative, it showed up suddenly and unannounced. And, it hasn’t left since.
Continue readingOur 8-year-old daughter recently brought home her free-writing journals from her Grade 2 class. I was reading through her ever-creative prose and found myself chuckling to myself at some of her imaginative creativity.
Today’s fictional story was written — and illustrated — by her with some edits from me and has absolutely nothing to do with being married to an artist. It is, however, directly connected to being the daughter of a storyteller, for better or worse.
It’s short, sweet, and there is no exaggeration. Simply, it’s her personal writing style at eight years old. Enjoy.
Continue readingIt was an early spring morning. The sun had risen two hours earlier. The birds were chirping in the 10-foot conifer outside our bedroom window. And the sky was crystal clear over our lazy crescent in our western Canadian Prairie suburb.
I was peacefully lying awake in bed, enjoying its body-hugging comfort early that morning. Our son was playing video games in the basement family room while our daughter was at the kitchen table creating yet another pencil drawing to add to my growing collection of “daughter art.”
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