tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-110398882011-11-30T13:07:12.214-08:00A budding writer bursting into full bloom in the garden of LifeSandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.comBlogger121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1164863376476767792006-11-29T21:06:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:07:04.780-08:00

This was written on October 26th, obviously before the elections, but everything is still pertinent.I just read an "Advertisement" in the Bemidji Pioneer newspaper today, dated Wednesday, October 25, 2006. I'm so pissed off that I can't even write the multitudes of essays that need to be written, until I get this off my chest. I'm so pissed I can't even see straight, and that's pretty bad

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1157556768320303262006-09-06T08:25:00.000-07:002006-09-06T08:32:50.883-07:00

This summer I attended a writers' workshop for wounded veterans in Belfast, Maine. This dramatic monologue was performed onstage by Meg Beach-Hacking at the National Theatre Workshop for the Handicapped.(boastful) As a child, I co-starred with Cary Grant, John Wayne, and Tony Curtis every Sunday afternoon. Sometimes I was a nurse, tenderly caressing his brow with cool water, other times we

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1153158847199391032006-07-17T10:52:00.000-07:002006-07-17T10:54:07.223-07:00

Like most people, there have been times in my life where it seems like a black cloud is hovering over my head; everything goes wrong - the car breaks down, the phone bill comes in at a record $241, my job is discontinued because of budget cuts, and the price of gasoline is astronomical. But in my case, when the black cloud appears it can stick around for years at a time.The first black cloud

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1153158319453619952006-07-17T10:41:00.000-07:002006-07-17T10:45:19.456-07:00

On a shelf encased in a well-preserved leather shroud is a Brownie camera. The fitting on the clasp is broken, and does not latch. The long thin carrying strap is just the right width to be comfortable, but not too thin or flimsy that it will slip off while shifting packages from one hand to the other. The camera, a relic of days gone by, captured thousands of moments in time. I thought about

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1143507643995369162006-03-27T16:50:00.000-08:002006-05-23T00:01:46.693-07:00

Winters in northern Minnesota are cold and bleak, void of visual stimulation, and often leave one’s mind to drift aimlessly. Today is one of those days; bored, I stared out the window at the village of fish houses that dotted the frozen landscape. The dazzling December snow had given way to dry capped peaks, formed by endless sweeping winds, leaving a crusty wake over the surface of the lake.

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1131654805348689452005-11-10T12:28:00.000-08:002006-02-21T12:43:21.176-08:00

It was autumn in New England, and the last of the hummingbirds made a hasty stop at the wild flowers growing nearby before heading south for the winter. A stand of tall, fragrant pine trees lined the rough, rocky shore of the river, and it was mine alone to enjoy. The swift, swirling current formed white-capped waves that threw gray globs of lifeless jelly fish onto the shore. Here and there,

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1127263169870043062005-09-20T17:38:00.000-07:002005-09-20T17:51:01.486-07:00

Dust and Fire is an anthology, a collection of poetry and prose, written by local authors in the Northwoods of Minnesota. It is interesting to note, the word anthology has roots in the Greek language, anthos – meaning flower, and logia – meaning collecting. The stories are written by, and are about, women. Not the tall, leggy, ever-so-slender cover girl-model type of women, but real women –

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1113875260769737152005-04-18T18:43:00.000-07:002005-09-21T19:41:02.220-07:00

My daughters frequently complained that I was a working Mom, and was never around when they needed me. They resent not having a perfect family life – the stereotypical childhood where Mom stays home to cook and clean the house, Daddy comes home to happy children, and the whole family sits at the table for dinner. Well since we are throwing stones, I suppose I, too, could be a little resentful,

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1112837314217636272005-04-06T18:28:00.000-07:002005-04-09T07:57:10.056-07:00

It was a cold and rainy night. It was a hell of a night to be out walking, but she had no choice. The wet evening gown clung to her skin like death on a corpse. The woman frowned as she leaned into the driving rain, her breath forming little clouds as she searched the horizon for the nearest town or telephone. The cold, dense fog made the task nearly impossible. The wind whipped around her

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1112837166235637192005-04-06T18:23:00.000-07:002005-04-09T07:57:45.246-07:00

She stared down at the long, winding river, as the bus slowly climbed the hill. The white foamy peaks were spinning and frothing around its rocky bed. The water’s movements made her dizzy. She had second thoughts about the impending journey; her thoughts wandering back to the pub the evening before. But the gauntlet had been thrown. It was time to put up or shut up. The rapids below were

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1112107923056593772005-03-28T18:47:00.000-08:002005-04-09T07:58:44.720-07:00

It was a warm spring morning, and the forecaster promised a warmer afternoon. I sat alone at a dark corner table of a seaside café. As I watched the beach come alive with people, I saw a peculiar old man standing at the water’s edge. He was dressed in a black suit, wore black shoes, and a black bowler on his head. He seemed sad as he watched the gulls hover, then dive into the water and

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11039888.post-1109955269993249832005-03-04T08:54:00.000-08:002005-03-29T13:30:03.663-08:00

"Mac Town" - Mc Murdo Station, Antarctica 

Sandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543510607239800487noreply@blogger.com0