Among the many reasons the short story is my favorite fiction format: it is one wherein questions are raised, but not necessarily answered. Unlike the novel, which may take you through a character’s existence from cradle to grave or present a life survey from A-to-Z ,  a short story often drops you in the middle, say, in segments M-Q, leaving – or allowing – you to fill in the befores and afters with the clues the writer has presented.
A well-crafted short story leaves you wanting to know more, and even frees your imagination to provide your own details. I admire the art of lyrical songwriting, in that a song can sometimes be the perfect short story. The first time I heard The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby I was blown away by how a song could be at once so sparse and evocative. But wait – how did those lonely people get to be so lonely, and where did they come from? I must know.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, someone asked me who my favorite contemporary short fiction writer was, and I answered, “Bobbie Gentry.”
Arguably one of the greatest short stories of the twentieth century was penned and sung by Bobbie Gentry . Her Southern gothic ballad, Ode to Billie Joe, was released 50 years ago this month, when Gentry was a mere 22 years old.
The song, which never reveals why Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge, has been described as suggestive, haunting, enigmatic, poignant, disturbing, mystifying, etc. But to the grade school moiself who, after a first listen, had to listen again and again and again, it was then and remains now merely and monumentally…cool
Congratulations on the anniversary, along with a Tallahatchie River’s worth of admiration, to the classy Ms. Gentry, who had always refused to explain “the meaning” of the song.
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Department Of You Never Know What Fun Awaits While Running Mundane Errands
Dateline: Wednesday, noonish: I would like to thank the Mystery Person(s) ® who left this pair of – guardians? greeters? mascots? ninja warriors in disguise? on a curb in the grocery store parking lot.
After I took that picture I stepped back about thirty feet or so and hung around for awhile, watching the people who walked to and from the store – people seemingly oblivious to the mini public art display at their feet. The only reason I saw it was that I happened to look down at just the right moment when I was passing by – no doubt it was my karmic reward  for what had just previously transpired outside the store (is this a segue, or what?).
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Department Of Yes I Do I Blurt Things Out To Total Strangers
As I exited the (previously mentioned) grocery store, two young girls, looking to be about four or five years old, ran past the store’s entry door, each giggling and turning to glance over their respective shoulders. I looked in the direction of their glances: thirty or so feet behind the girls was a rather impatient-looking woman (whom I took to be the girls’ mother), resolutely pushing a shopping cart.
Impatient Mother called out to the girls,
“You are not running away from me!”
Which caused me to smile and say, in what I thought was my best/supportive, I’ve-been-there voice,
Actually, that’s exactly what they’re doing.
Impatient Mother threw me a bit o’ stink eye and then called out again to her daughters, this time using their names. I got a kick out of the fact that one of the girls has the same (non-blog moniker) name as my daughter. And there was much rejoicing.
Was I that easily amused when I was younger?
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Department Of Life Is One Big Celebration
Dateline: Monday My Swenadian  friend recently returned to the ‘hood after spending six months in Sweden. I visited her, bringing welcome-back goodies, and we played catch-up with each other’s lives. She, too, has traveled to Ireland and loved it and would like to return someday.  After telling her about MH’s and my trip to Ireland and the recent arrival of the Harp and Fuchsia pattern  tumblers we’d ordered from Dingle Crystal, I returned home with the sudden urge to take whatever I had in the frig and turn it into a meal an Irish person would enjoy. Plus, there were those mahhhhhvelous gin and tonics we’d had in the town of Dingle, made with Dingle Gin, which would be lovely to serve in the tumblers…but what are the chances of being able to find a Hillsboro Oregon liquor store which stocks a spirit from a small Irish distillery in Oregon?
My mission was to find something comparable, so I told the clerk at Hillsboro Liquor Store that I was looking for Irish gin (not even thinking to mention the specific distillery, as it is so small) but realized the likelihood of finding it was slim, so did he know if a Scottish or British gin would be analogous? The Friendly and Helpful Clerk ® checked his register computer and said, “What about Ding –” he couldn’t even get the word out of his mouth before I shrieked, gobsmacked with delight, “You have Dingle gin?!?!?”
That night I informed MH that our Irish butter-poached steelhead salmon, cabbage/potatoes/mushroom colcannon and fresh spring peas feast was to celebrate the arrival of our crystal and the memory of our Ireland trip, the return of our beloved Swenadian friends, my acquisition of Dingle gin, and…
I searched my mind for another reason to justify spending $50 on a bottle of gin.
…”and oh yeah, this morning someone farted quite loudly in yoga class” (despite the fact that the class was *not* performing pawanmuktasana, which translates as “wind-relieving pose”). 
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May you continue to wonder why
Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge;
May you, via gin or crystal purchases or berry encounters,
have the opportunity to say, Dingle;
May all of your poses, yoga or other, bring wind relief;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
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 Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
 Plenty of doubt, actually, as I do not believing in karmic or any other/similar of reward.
 She is Canadian, her husband is Swedish.
 She worked and lived there one summer, during her student days.
 A design unique to Dingle Crystal, representing Ireland (Harp) and West Kerry (fuchsia).