It’s been one year since The Hidden Press appeared and the first post (“Birthday”) was published.
Thank you, if you have been here since the beginning.
Thank you, if you stopped by along the way.
Thank you, if you are here for the first time. Welcome!
When I started The Hidden Press I wanted to write for you, the individual- not for “targeted advertising markets” or any ideological group. I simply wanted to share what might come from a day’s talking or thinking or working. So, I hope you have enjoyed what I’ve shared.
Will you please take a moment to click on the three lines near the top of your screen? You will find information about The Hidden Press, an archive of past posts, and a way to stay in touch.
© 2017-2019 The Hidden Press. All Rights Reserved.
I live in a community of weather-watchers.
Before the sun rises and its pale light peers over the trees, they watch. After the barn owl swallows the skin and bones of her midnight meal, they worry. When a trip to town leads to meeting a fellow weather-watcher, they talk. They watch and they worry and they talk about the rain or the heat or the cold. They behave this way because they must plan.
Four years, four months, twelve days … I know, but I don’t keep count. It’s just one of those motionless mornings when the sun’s not yet shining and thoughts spin until they fall down, tired.
Second grade has been hard on her- making new friends, writing cursive letters, memorizing times-tables. Yet, every Friday she comes home with gold stars and smiley faces on her work. When the morning bell rang on the first day she told her teacher that she wanted to be called Belle.
I forgot. I was at a wedding and the thought never came. It always has.
The wedding was fine, as far as weddings go. I was asked to take a picture of two smiling couples standing in front of a big evergreen tree. It was blurry around the edges, but they nodded: “Yeah, that is great.”