Dear Reader,

There was a lot of hootin' and hollering with joy, on the other end of the phone, when I told Cynthia R. Temple, a children's librarian at the Main Street Library in Newport News, Virginia, that she'd won 1st Place in my writing contest this year. Cynthia said she has felt like, "an inspiring writer, but real life has always distracted her."

Well not any longer, Cynthia! You wrote a delightful story about the memories and wonders of being a child. Thank you so much for entering this year's contest.

Let me tell you about my childhood. I don't share this because I think my childhood was extraordinary. I'm sure there are many who experienced the joy and wonder of being a kid. I share this because when I describe my childhood, the first words that come to mind are "well played."

My sister and I were expert players. Please don't think I'm referring to organized sports. Neither of us was particularly athletic. We were players of the highly creative variety. I would have to say, the prep for these "games" took just as much time as the actual play.

Playing "Library," for example, required us to remove all of the books from my mother's bookshelf. We inserted a card (usually a playing card) into each book, so it would be ready for check-out. Checking out would be done by shining the gooseneck lamp on my desk down on the book, and turning it off and on. Though real-life libraries of that day still used stamping for checkouts, our imaginary library had progressed to photocopying. Did I mention we were also visionaries?

The next heavy-prep job was playing clothing store. Of course, we had to take the clothes from our closet and attach tags, and put them back in the closet which doubled as a changing room for our invisible customers. A manual typewriter with the keys jammed together provided the perfect sound of a ticking cash register.

I should tell you about our attire. My mother was and is a small woman, so we rarely clomped around in her heels because they nearly fit us. We were content instead to wear her old purses stuffed with tissues and of course our extremely long hair. To accomplish the "hair" we put tights--the little girls' equivalent of stockings--on our heads and styled them in very attractive "dos." There was the beautiful, long twisted braid, which hung daintily over one shoulder or the lovely French bun which was held with bobby pins and imagination. I don't know how my mother kept a straight face when she saw us "ladies."

We had other games like "Restaurant"--which was only open when my mother was away, as it required the kitchen, living room and dining room, and closed suddenly, the moment we saw her car pull up. We tried "Beauty Shop," but that game was short-lived, once we had given enough of our doll customers disfiguring haircuts. We played "Movies" which was achieved, easily enough by watching TV in the dark. In the early years, before we could make popcorn, we settled for wrapping round crackers in aluminum foil to resemble a certain chocolate, peppermint filled treat. It was not nearly as delicious as we pretended. The imagination can stretch but so far.

My mother inspired our favorite game--Teachers. She was a teacher and we loved the profession. She bought us a large blackboard which fit snugly into an alcove in our room. A chalk line down the middle and it became two classrooms, occupied by the invisible students who attended on our beds. We had complete written rolls, which we called daily. We had posters, lesson plans and worksheets. At lunchtime, the dining room became the cafeteria and we ate with our classes, though we had to repeatedly jump up and turn off the lights, scolding that," I can't even hear what Mrs. Paige is saying!" When my mother insisted we go outside and get some air, you guessed it. Recess! I can't remember whether we removed the tights first.

I don't suggest that we were unique. I'm sure some of you drove living-room-sofa station wagons with vinyl record albums for steering wheels. You probably also fitted bobby pins on your earlobes to make dangling earrings, or made attractive jewelry out of aluminum foil.

I not only salute you, but to you all, I say..."Well played."

--Cynthia R. Temple
First Place, 2016 Write a DearReader Contest

Dear Reader,

Congratulations to H. F. Mullen, this year's 2nd Place winner in my annual Write a DearReader Contest. A professor at a law school, students in Ms. Mullen's class are required to do 700 hours of pro bono work for low income folks, who need assistance with consumer law issues that affect their daily lives. In my conversation on the phone with Ms. Mullen, she spoke with passion and love when she talked about her students and the people they help in their community.

When I read Ms. Mullen's entry, I felt I was back in the days of my own childhood. It's a powerful piece.

Heartburn

Jimmy stood in the open doorway of his father's hospital room and wondered how the h ell the old man cadged a single room this time. Not that it was much to look at. The walls were green, probably painted with something out of a five-gallon drum labeled "iced pistachio" or "zephyr green." Everything else was gunmetal gray--the nightstand, the frame that held a TV bolted to the ceiling, even the metal rails on the bed.

A cheap oil painting of an Indian encampment, complete with wigwam, mountains, and a lake in the background, dominated one wall. It was the kind of sentimental slop two years at the Rhode Island School of Design had taught him to despise, the kind of work he forbade his freshman students to paint. The so-called artist had slapped fat gobs of reddish paint on the mountaintops, making them look like giant tits.

The Grand Tetons. His father had taken him there camping once, in the early fall the year he started seventh grade. It had snowed, the tent leaked, and he had been deeply, silently afraid of bears. His father made him pack the car, then he made him take everything out and repack it, even though it was just the two of them, even though there was plenty of room. They had gone only once. He knew his father remembered the trip; less than two months ago he heard him brag to a neighbor who was packing up for a trip, "Oh me and Jimmy used to love to camp. Real outdoorsmen we was."

On the nightstand beside the bed stood a glass of water (half empty, his father would say), a bowl of oranges, and a couple of carnations in a plastic vase. The old man had only been in the hospital overnight, but the carnations, a gift from some candy-striper, had already started to brown around the edges. His father, fully dressed, dozed on the narrow bed. Now, there's a picture worth painting, Jimmy thought, "Still Life with A sshole."

A rerun of Happy Days blared on the TV. When he was a boy, Jimmy pretended he was the Cunninghams' lost son, and while a thin wall of glass prevented him from rejoining his "true" family, he could at least watch their lives unfold each week. What he liked best was how fast Mr. Cunningham got over it when he blew his stack. Meanwhile, his false father would come lurching home from some bar or babe and slap Jimmy's mother around for daring to ask where he had been. Jimmy remembered how her cry drifted up the narrow stairs from the front hall. He remembered crouching at the top of those stairs waiting for his false father to come home, half-praying that nothing bad had happened to him, half-praying that something had.

Jimmy glanced at the clock on the nightstand, a battered alarm brought from home, then at his watch. It was half an hour until his father was to be discharged for yet another bout of indigestion, another beer-and-pickled-egg-induced "attack."

"Hey, No-Good-Boyo." His father opened one eye. "Come to take your old man home?"

"Not this time, Pop. Not this time."

--H. F. Mullen

Second Place
2016 Write a DearReader Contest

Dear Reader,

This year's Annual Write a DearReader contest was the most remarkable one ever! The entries were amazing and it was extremely difficult to choose winners, which is why there was a tie for 3rd Place.

I personally called 1st, 2nd, and two 3rd Place winners to share the good news, and find out a little more about them.

I'm honored to introduce Scott Wiley, one of this year's 3rd Place winners. I really enjoyed talking to him, what a delightful guy. Scott writes instructional curriculum, but he said that writing a 650-word column for the contest, was a very different challenge. Reading his entry brought to mind a story from my own past, and therein lies the magic of sharing your writing with other people.

Well done, Scott Wiley...

The decision was agonizing. Would I keep it? What would I do with it?

My grandmother had died. She left me something, specifically mentioned me in her will. Her old dark upright piano with yellowing keys. The piano I loved.

The piano sat in her front room for as long as I can remember. I spent hours playing on it. At first I would play random notes or my own "compositions." Then I learned "Chopsticks" and "Heart and Soul."

I wanted to take lessons but couldn't. So I settled for learning a different instrument in the school band.

Still I played my grandmother's piano...in my own way. I acquired a discarded hymnal and placed it on the piano. On my visits, I picked through the melodies with my right hand, getting pretty good at playing them. I tried to add harmonies with my left hand, but those were the harder-to-read notes so I often just settled for the single note method. Usually I played with no audience--but occasionally my grandmother would come in and listen.

And sometimes, she would play for me. She didn't read music; she played by ear. She would run through her repertoire and my heart would fill. It's one of my fondest memories.

I loved that piano. She told me it would be mine one day. And now it was.

But I lived several states away. In a house with no spot for a large upright piano.

The piano sat quietly in her house, waiting for me to decide. Waiting for its next chapter.

One day I began to think about not taking it. I didn't want to think that but I had to face realities. As much as I wanted it, I just couldn't see how it could be with me. But letting it go seemed like losing something I wanted to hold on to.

My mom told me not to feel upset if I didn't take it. "She was happy when she gave it to you," Mom said. "And you are happy to receive it." Maybe that was the real legacy.

I decided to part with it. My mom found a home for it with a cousin--someone studying music. That feels right. The piano lives on, creating music in ways that I could never do.

That piano will always bond my grandmother and me together, even if it doesn't sit in my house. I see it now as I write, almost feel the keys beneath my fingers.

And I kept the piano stool. That I could bring home in my car!

--Scott Wiley
Third Place (Tie)
2016 Write a DearReader Contest

Dear Reader,

Karen Smith-Kernc is one of the 3rd Place Winners in this year's Write a DearReader Contest. (The third place award is a tie this year.) Karen says she thought about entering the contest last year because, "For many years I thought I had a story in me, but never had the motivation to write it. I am one of those people who are not writers, but [Suzanne] one of your story suggestions hit home with me, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Hope you enjoy reading this submission. Thanks for helping to get my creative juices flowing!"

Karen's creative side definitely took center stage. Enjoy reading her column...

Can Fat Girls Run?

At 55 years old, and 75 pounds overweight, I decided I would try to run. Going to Google.com and typing "can fat girls run?" I learned, "Yes, they can."

Darn.

What would motivate me at my age and shape to attempt this? My "baby" sister was going through a tough time as her husband, and father of their son, was dying of cancer. We live 1,200 miles apart and I couldn't think of how to support her. Phoning and texting weren't enough. She's a runner and during one of our conversations mentioned that she was going to be doing a run at Disney World. I love Disney and I love my sister. It was the end of June and the run was in October. A half marathon. Nothing like starting in the middle.

Over the 4th of July weekend, I decided to hike, just to see if I could. Dragging my husband with me to French Creek State Park we chose a hike that was a bit strenuous (meaning uphill). Panting and struggling, I did it. It wasn't 13.1 miles, but I did it. Maybe I could do the run? Optimistic, I signed up for my first half marathon that day. Yikes, I was in!

Online I found a great training plan to get me from couch to half marathon in 3 months. It was really, really hard but I'm really, really stubborn and wanted to do this at Disney with my sister. My friends, and some family, thought I was crazy. Their doubts were nothing compared to mine!

I trained every day at the required pace, following the daily suggested distances, doing each mile in less than 15 minutes combining running and fast walking. Juggling my job and other commitments was a challenge but my most wonderful husband picked up the slack helping with chores like dinner preparation while I was at the track or on the treadmill. He even came with me a few times to cheer me on.

With just 4 weeks to go, it occurred to me that maybe I should try a 5K. There was one being held close to my home so I signed up. As I got out of the car, I mumbled, "look at all the skinny people." Undaunted, I collected my race bib and took my place at the start line. I now know what a cross-country race is! I came in dead last, but not too far behind the slow runners, and I had finished!

The night of the Disney half marathon was amazing. 8,000 runners and me. Wow! My brother helped pace me. I won't kid you, it was very hard. My brain was saying, "go, go, go" while my body was saying, "PLEASE STOP!" After mile 7, my brother talked as if the race as a done deal. What motivation! The finish was a small uphill but my brother grabbed my hand and we went over the line together.

As the medal went around my neck, I felt such a sense of accomplishment.

After 6 years, I've completed more races. Every time I cross that finish line, I get the same feeling of pride and satisfaction. My finisher's medals hang proudly on my wall. I'm not fast, but that's not the point. Can fat girls run?

You bet they can!

--Karen Smith-Kernc
Third Place (Tie)
2016 Write a DearReader Contest