(Either something went horribly awry when this picture was developed
or Daddy was having a bad hair day)

When I think of Eve, I think of Eve from the Bible, who, in this neck of the woods, is still very much maligned and blamed for everything gone wrong. There are still far too many hot spots where women in general – just because they share gender with Eve – are maligned by proxy.

I think of the eve of my wedding, some 42 years ago, when groomsman Tom Porter arrived late for the rehearsal, making a rather dramatic entrance for someone who hasn’t darkened the doorway of a church in I don’t know how many years, by entering through the choir loft. I think of how he later whispered to me it was my last chance to run away with him. And who could ever forget when he publicly stole the show by answering the what-do-you-do-for-a-living question asked by the Baptist preacher’s wife with “I sell whiskey in Underground with Andy.”

I think of the Hewell Family Torture Chamber Christmas Party always held on Christmas Eve. Though I don’t know when, I’m pretty sure I know why our childless great aunts decided it a good idea to open presents one at a time with adults going first then pass each gift around the entire room before opening the next gaily wrapped box. And as if that wasn’t horrible enough, they meticulously cut every little piece of tape with scissors, ensuring clean edges for wrapping next year’s gifts. If they could’ve peeled off the tape without the paper sticking to it, they would have saved money on tape, too.

I think of New Year’s Eve and the thrill of a fresh start and how I’m now of an age to know that the year is filed with 365 New Year’s Eve, each day a fresh start and new beginning.

My body remembers The Night Before A Test Angst, and that’s a little what I feel now, on the eve of my 100th story, when all the stories I meant to tell you but didn’t parade themselves in front of me . . . some making a face with their tongues stuck out.