I have lived my entire life in a city neighborhood always remembering to lock my doors. I have consistently locked my windows, my garage, my car. I locked my tool shed. I have a locked box for important documents. I was a single mom raising four children alone and it is the safe, normal thing to do when you live in a small city. Walking through the house at night to lock up has been as routine as a bedtime story and brushing teeth.

And for all those locks, I had keys along with a decorative key holder by the front door and a small ceramic bowl for my guests' keys. Lots of locks. Piles of keys.

But then I met this old farmer. He was this crusty, retired Marine with a penchant for broken tractors, NPR, and, as it turns out, left-leaning librarians. And surprisingly, I discovered in my deadbolted, secured city life that I had a weakness for tough-skinned farmers with marshmallow hearts and blue eyes. At least, one in particular.

So, reader, I married him. I sealed up my books and grandma's china into boxes and moved with my half-grown kids to this rural county with zero traffic lights and one small grocery store that has no organic section.

The first night in my new home, a rambling 100-year-old farmhouse, I went to lock the doors, of course. It is what we do, right? No, says the old farmer, it'll get too hot. For the first time ever, I left the doors and windows wide open. I was a nervous wreck, I'm not sure I slept much. Who knows what or who could wander in?

A couple of months later, I was in the kitchen and heard a crash in the basement, my worst fear realized with all those unlocked doors and open windows. There was an intruder. I went to investigate and discovered my sheep standing at the bottom of the stairs. I started down the stairs with a "what on earth" and a "how did you get in here" and possibly a swear word, when I heard a low, long moo. Behind the sheep, there was a 900 lb black angus heifer cooling her heels on a hot summer day. A cow named Baby. And Baby was in my basement, asserting herself and making deposits everywhere. My sweet farmer had left the cellar door unlocked and  open, wide open, and my farm friends decided to come on in to escape the heat. Who could blame them really? An open door is an invitation in my mind and they agreed. Eventually though, with some motivational speaking and a grain bucket, they were coaxed back outside.

My life is unlocked now. My car keys stay in the ignition. My house keys went MIA about four years ago. My garden tools stay in an old canvas bag in the barn guarded only by fierce chickens. Not a padlock in sight. I gave my decorative key holder and that ceramic bowl to the thrift store. I have learned to sleep with windows open. I don't even have curtains.

For most of my life, I thought keeping everything locked would keep me safe and it was the only way to live. My children were safe, my possessions were safe, my heart was safe. But it's good what unlocking can do. Unlocking lets in all sorts of things, good things like cows in the basement. Chickens in the backseat of your car. Muddy boots and wet dogs. Cool breezes and moonlight. Funny stories, laughter, and new friends. And most importantly, love.

-- Cheryl R. Price
First Place, 2021 Write a DearReader Contest 

It was a terrifying start for this brand-new life
urgency, fear, death almost certain.
But you wanted to live,
you wanted to thrive,
you wanted the world to know
you were most definitely alive.
Taken from my body and placed inside a plastic womb
Born too early; just too soon
Hard tubing pushed down your tiny throat
Pumping oxygen into your failing lungs.

I sang softly so you would know I was near
"You are my Sunshine" and "Amazing Grace",
Lullabies and songs of faith.
I sang through my sadness; I sang through my fears
hoping my words could heal you, hoping the music would heal me
I couldn't touch you, I couldn't breathe in your scent
I could only watch and pray, nothing more.
The beeping of the monitors became my rhythm,
Doctors' whispers became my rhyme.
Day after day, week after week
I ached to hold you, to inhale you, to protect you
My first born, my miracle.

One early morning when I came to sit vigil
On the all too familiar wooden rocking chair
My heart raced at the new sight.
No more tube down your throat, no more hissing of the ventilator next to you.
You turned your angelic face towards me, and I saw your pale pink lips for the first time.
I saw your chest go up and down all on its own.
I saw your heart beating beneath the thin, veined skin.
I saw life.

The nurse sobbed as she said "Today is the day you can hold your son"
Words did not suffice, but tears of joy did.
She opened your plastic home, wrapped you in your bunny blanket and placed you in my arms.
Your cry was that of a lamb, your body the weight of a cloud.
I lifted your pure, sweet face to mine and kissed your velvety soft cheek for the first time.

Oh...the kiss of life, the kiss of life

Beautiful beyond words, tender beyond love.

I am your mother; and you are my son.

-- Jill Cloonan
Second Place, 2021 Write a DearReader Contest

It's the best picture I ever took of my mother.

She was a beautiful woman, but in the way of most children, I didn't see it. She was just Mom, the baker of the chocolate chip cookies. The one who firmly kept me on the path of kindness and politeness. The one who dabbed mercurochrome on my scraped knees and scrubbed mulberry stains from my feet. The one who expected me to put down my book and come help in the garden, whether I wanted to or not.

Even as a child, I realized that Mom had style. Her skills at the sewing machine meant that her clothes always fit a little bit better than any of the other ladies at church. Her hair was kept trimmed and curled. A tube of red lipstick was in every purse and jacket pocket. She even wore pedal pushers and cute blouses to pull weeds, during tractor duty, or while tending to any of the gazillion other chores constantly on our farm's to-do list.

Above all, she adored polka dots.

The age of the Instamatic camera arrived. Mom could do anything--except pose for a decent picture. Her eyes were inevitably closed. She'd be looking down instead of up. The shot would catch her at an unflattering angle. No picture ever captured her panache, her sense of humor, her golden soul.

Pictures from her younger days proved the camera had once loved her. Luscious black-and-white shots taken before her name changed to Mom showed her with dark hair long enough to curl about her shoulders. Shining eyes sparkled above tinted-pink cheeks. Often a  flirty scarf was around her neck and fashionable earrings were clipped to her ears. Even in black-and-white, I knew the color on her lips was Fire Engine Red.

The years flew by. Suddenly Mom was 93.

It was just before Christmas. I didn't tell Mom I'd taken the day off from work. My out-of-town child had asked me to find some pretty flowers for Grandma. I couldn't wait to surprise her at her assisted-living apartment. I knew she'd be thrilled to see me and touched by her grandchild's thoughtfulness.

I walked into a party. Neighbors from our farm days, Mom's sister and a nephew, plus a cousin and his wife from my father's family were all crammed into the cozy space. As I was joyously welcomed into the mix, I realized I should've known she'd have company. Her memories were bright and she told stories from the past as well as the present with great gusto. A born hostess, her warmth and kindness drew everyone to her.

Beloved by all, she was.

After the crowd left and it was just us, I asked Mom to pose for a picture. She didn't want to, but I convinced her it was necessary so that Jules could see how much she loved the Christmas bouquet. I grabbed my phone and took several shots.

Unlike the old days of waiting for a roll of film to be processed, these pictures could be viewed immediately. They were good-- No, they were great. One in particular was the best picture I'd  ever taken of my mother.

She held the flowers up next to her face. The snowflake in the arrangement glittered, but it wasn't as sparkly as her happy eyes. Her pale blue sweater showed off her fresh-from-the-beauty-shop silver-gray hair. She'd finally retired the Fire Engine Red lipstick, but her cheeks were still abloom.

Two weeks after Christmas, Mom passed away without warning. Using her strength as my guide, I cropped that last picture of her and told the funeral director to use it in her obituary.

The tears still come when I see it, but I'm happy, too. There's my perfect mom, on a perfect day, finally captured in that almost perfect picture.

It just needs some polka dots.

-- Carol Gibbs
Third Place, 2021 Write a DearReader Contest