Looking back with Lot's Wife

The Eskimo Club December 10, 1991 Every winter Saturday morning, my younger sister and I would pile into the back seat of our black, 55 Chrysler with the pale blue seats, and my dad would whisk us downtown through Denver’s cold, bleak, empty early morning streets for the Eskimo Club. He used to brag that he was blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other one, it was definite that he was blind in one eye—he has a glass eye. And the other one had a big scar across the middle from a childhood accident, and he truly didn’t see very well from it. Mary and I would grab each others hands and squeeze tight, hoping we’d get to the train station alive. Behind us we’d hear horns honking and brakes squealing, but as my dad would also brag, he was never in an accident and had never had a ticket. He also smoked cigars, and as we sat in terror, we struggled to breathe. We were not allowed to comment on my dad’s cigar. We’d cough occasionally, discreetly, and if it wasn’t too cold, we’d crack t

Pal O Mine December 4, 1991 Frisk is most ardent admirer: the only living being on the face of the earth who would never desert me under any circumstances. He wouldn’t be left behind if I was going to jump off a cliff without a parachute. This paragon of loyalty knows me better than my husband, has been here longer than some of my children, has spent more time with me than my oldest friends. He’s deaf as a rock and as energetic as a two year old. He never complains no matter how cold his paws are or how tired his little legs. He’s a real classy dog. The other day my son brought up all important philosophical question of whether or not your pets would all be with you in heaven and if you’d be able to talk to them. “Will they be able to tell you what they thing?” Frisky has seen me at my most frantic, most disgusting, most weird over the years. I don’t want to know what he thinks. He’ll be 16 this Christmas time. According to the encyclopedia, the first two years of a dog’s life count fo

Little Things December 2, 1991 I have this ongoing dialogue in my head for when I’m feeling neglected—as I do for much of the Christmas season. It involves me when I’m famous and I’m being interviewed by someone who really cares what I think. Thousands of people who actually want to know my opinion about something. Ha! What a dream! Anyway, in this dream, someone asks me to define the theme of everything I write—the main thing I’d like to say to people everywhere if I could tell them just one thing at Christmas time that would make their world seem all right. What would I like to tell the leaders of the nations that would make them understand their role in history and bring lasting peace on earth and harmony to all men everywhere? I would say to them: clean sheets, a new toothbrush, a full tank, groceries for the week, and your bills paid. That’s what makes me happy. That’s what makes everybody happy. Some people might want to trade “a full camel” for “a full tank,” and some people mig