Cereal Crunchers

Give ’em a bunch of Cap’ n Crunch so it will scratch off the roofs of their mouths…

“Ahh! Cap’ n Crunch! Who still eats that and why does it hurt to eat it?”

We never got Cap’ n Crunch. We had to settle for government issued King Vitamin. Those did the same thing though, but they’re not nearly as sweet as Cap’ n Crunch.

On we go discussing childhood memories of favorite breakfast cereals. Froot Loops. Toucan was my favorite cereal mascot. It’s the closest to the jungle I could get, reading the back of the box finding the hidden images in the puzzle without checking them off as I found them, milk turning gray. I’m not giving away the answers to my two younger sisters and bratty lactose-intolerant brother, although I’d take a peek at the solution turning the box upside down.

On second thought, maybe Tony Tiger is my favorite. Frosted Flakes were a special treat. Otherwise, we relied on generic corn flakes, add your own sugar. Add it we did, but it didn’t work well as it wound up in a thick layer in the bottom of the bowl after the milk was slurped. Sometimes I added sliced bananas, but overall, it qualified as grown-up cereal. There was a recipe we used to make sweet, gooey peanut-butter bars with too many boxes. In that case, they were grrrreat!

Lucky Charms were fun, without the milk. Anyone else pick out the “lucky charms?” I din’t like hard, shriveled marshmallows, but they were cute. The cereal, re-shaped Alpha-Bits, were tasty. Speaking of Alpha-Bits, I could never scoop up a full word on my spoon. Why were the letters always broken? The magic of television.

Fruity Pebbles were okay, but the best ones were chocolate. Who wouldn’t want chocolate milk after all the crunch was gone?

Honey Nut Cheerios were always so much better than regular, until I started buying them for my kids. Three plain Cheerios on the high chair tray kept them occupied while I cooked dinner, until they perfected the pinscher grasp and began grabbing them by the fistfuls. Three little oat circles were never enough.

I rarely eat cereal now. Occasionally, I’ll crave a bowl of Frosted Flakes, but never enough to warrant buying a box of it. If we have granola, I’ll crunch on a small amount with coconut milk. We have a box of Honey Nut Cheerios on top of the fridge. I don’t remember the last time it was opened. It’s probably stale by now.

Saturday morning cartoons and a bowl of cereal has been replaced with a cup of coffee and a list of too many things to do.

Backyard Drafting

The dogs have the zoomies. I said only one was allowed to hang out with me. Spotify playlist is trying to soothe me. Cars zoom by too loud, in a rush to get out of town or cutting through the neighborhood to avoid traffic.

The wind has picked up, hard. “It’s the cold front coming in from the north,” my husband says. Wind pushes and shoves it’s way through tree tops. Chimes clang helplessly from neighboring yards. A little insect finds my screen. Strands of fallen oak pollen, like tinsel, cling to my sweater sleeves.

The kitchen needs cleaning from dinner.

Jack Johnson sings how “it’s always better when we’re together,” but I disagree. Not tonight. Not right now.

It’s a little early, but once that kitchen is clean, I’m getting in my pjs. I have piles of new books and I’ll choose the newest one, A Book That Loves You. The alarm will take a ten day break.

I’m getting out of this cold wind. Backyard drafting isn’t working.

Like a colicky baby, writing is fussy today,

What’s Inside

My car?
a roomier version of a 
purse
or backpack
Front seat holds
a stack of new books
I've got first dibs,
but only if I can't find kids 
who want 
to read them first

Folded windshield sunshades
(needed all year 
in Texas)
stuffed between said seat 
and console
where there's a stack 
of empty gift cards
a prayer card
a green rosary
S. made
two years ago
a work badge
on a floral pink lanyard

On the back seat floorboard
rests a recycled grocery tote bag
full of recycled grocery tote bags
another bag still holds 
black velvet flats
a blue tulle skirt
white tights
a black satin sash
black leather sneakers
and a long, blonde wig
from last month's 
comic con event

Somewhere underneath
those bags
is a black drawstring backpack
donning a half marathon logo
eight years past
a rolled up yoga mat
three pairs of sunglasses

In the way back
sit three bags 
of outgrown clothes
(mine)
meant for a thrift store
I pass every day
on my way home
remembering they're back there
as I pass the light

I'll drop everything off 
tomorrow

But First, Coffee

Second cup of coffee hour arrives. Taking the bait on my Starbucks app, I place an order for a BOGO offer: one iced flat white for my friend, and a cinnamon caramel cream cold brew, light on the caramel, for me.

I place my order.

This location is not accepting orders.

I was almost *that* person who would’ve tried to go inside.

Okay, fine. I’ll choose another location.

I arrive and for some odd reason, one side of the driveway is blocked. I head toward the drive through only there aren’t many cars in line. Correction: There aren’t any cars in line. There’s a sign on a cute blackboard, written in chalk markers, telling me the location is being remodeled and will re-open March 10th.

I pull into a parking spot to check my order. Where did it go? Did it even go through? Wi-fi is spotty at work. I completely ignored the construction around me. Around here, it’s normal.

Off to a third location. I did not plan on this taking so long. I’m hoping it’s there. The barista brings my order and all is well. Not to self: don’t order anything while distracted.

While waiting for our staff meeting to start this afternoon, I decide I’m not in the mood for cooking dinner after my kiddo pings me to ask what we’re having.

I open up my pizza app…

2:36 a.m.

24 minutes before my normal 3:00 a.m. wide-awake-can’t-go-back-to-sleep time. The microwave door slams shut. Beeps. The door opens and shuts again. Whirs. Beeps. Open…

What in the world is she making? Clatter continues in the kitchen. Reeses barks. The back door opens. Shuts. He’s running around outside barking at whatever it is that called him out there.

I kick the covers off. Why didn’t I turn on the fan last night? Flipping the pillow over to the cool side, I put it on top of my head. Turn to my left side and hug it instead. There goes the microwave again.

Walking to the kitchen, the light is on. There’s a jar of Nutella on the counter. She’s still in her clothes from yesterday. What are you doing?

Stupid question. She’s clearly eating.

“I’m hungry,” she exclaims as she wrestles the plastic seal off a new tub of chocolate ice cream. Her makeup still looks fresh.

You sound like Grandpa warming his coffee when he comes to visit. You will NOT do this again. Be sure to clean up because I don’t want to walk into a messy kitchen when I get up in a few hours.

“I will, I will, I was just a ‘lil hungry,” she reassures me only as teens do.

I go back to bed and summon sleep. Come back, please, I wasn’t done with you yet. Another toss. Slow breathing. No covers except for tucking in my feet.

Bark! Bark-bark!

I must be the only person in the house hearing Reeses asking us to let him in. Waiting doesn’t help. I get up once again. The kitchen is dark. He pads back in but I’m not nice enough to let him upstairs to cuddle with her.

Back to bed. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Weeding-As in Books

I have a trio of girls who pop in most days at 1:50. Friday, I worked the realistic fiction section. New books arrived and shelf space is tight. Plus, there are titles older than the girls that must go. They asked about the plethora of books spilling over the book cart.

“What do you do with them?”

I explained the process of offering them to other libraries in our district. After that, I offer them to classroom teachers. Some go to our Pop Up Library for summer reading. These three are voracious readers.

“Mind if we take a peek?”

“Go right ahead.”

The pull of the puzzle they had been working on was stronger. “Maybe Monday. We have plenty of books checked out right now.”

We discussed books that were mis-labeled. “Yeah, Mrs. Garza, just look at that cover. It definitely belongs in the romance section.” They continue with the puzzle. I continue pulling books for consideration. Do they stay? Do they go? What’s the copyright date? When was the last time they were checked out? I set aside the mis-labeled books. I’ll get to them later.

Today, I went through the pile. I happened to be working on them when a student from the yearbook class needed help identifying students for the yearbook’s library page. Sure enough, it’s the trio. I confirmed names and made sure each name matched the correct person. Almost on cue, they walked in and I had them check the photo. The yearbook student finished up and went back to class.

“Can we make Taylor Swift bracelets today?” They all nod in agreement.

I’m keeping them posted on the books in question from Friday. I hold up one book with an old-ish looking cover. “Last call. Any of you want to read this?”

“I’ll take it,” one replies.

“It’s on the old side,” I warn.

“It’s okay. If it’s a romance, I’ll probably like it.”

I hand check it out and hand it over. I pull it up to investigate more details about the book, And Both Were Young. “Wait, did you see it’s by Madeleine L’Engle? She’s the author of…”

“A Wrinkle in Time! I loved that book.”

“Really? I’ve broken up with that book so many times. I couldn’t get past the Mrs. Whatsit and all the others. The Mrs. for the characters drove me crazy. Of course, it’s a form of respect for adults, so that’s how people were addressed even if they weren’t your teachers, but I just couldn’t ever finish that book. And the tuna fish sandwich. They make tuna fish sandwiches in the story and I can just smell it, why couldn’t it be a pbj?”

“Mrs. Garza, you didn’t read it just because of a tuna fish sandwich?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I tried reading it so many times because people said how great it was. I tried reading it to my fourth graders years ago. They zoned out, so we didn’t finish it. I took my daughter to watch the movie, the one with Oprah, and she wanted a copy of the book. We got one with an updated cover. I started reading it to her and then she just took off with it and finished it on her own. To this day I have yet to read it.”

“You should try again.”

“I think I will. Let me know how that one is when you’re done though.”

They continue with their bracelet making. I pitch another romance book and check it out to another girl. Then I take a look at all of Madeleine L’Engle’s books.

I will try again, maybe over a tuna fish sandwich.

Memory Holding Spaces

I’m sitting under twinkle lights in the backyard. Night’s warmth removed its cloak and a slightly chilly breeze reminds me we’re in the sweet spot of transition. That time where winter dodges spring and spring is more than ready for its turn to play.

I love the cozy mood of twinkle lights. We put some up several years ago. One strand draped from one tree and around the patio’s perimeter. A few weeks later, I found the cord dangling in more than one place. One strand, several cords dangling. On closer inspection, they were gnawed. Could the puppy jump high enough to get them?

No, it wasn’t the puppy. Too small.

Squirrels.

We replaced them with a longer strand with a thicker cord. Chew proof. We liked them so much, we measured from patio to tree, to second tree, to third tree, and pack to the patio. They hung low enough to cast a cozy glow over the entire backyard any time of year, even in the hot, sticky, throes of summer, cicadas dizzying us with their clatter as we sip drinks that don’t stay cold long, sweaty glasses holding sweet sips we sometimes press up to our foreheads for relief.

I’m sitting under the twinkle lights, around an empty fire pit that keeps us warm those fall evenings when we go out to roast marshmallows after we’ve holed ourselves up inside, protecting us from summer nights—still, in October—with sweaty glasses holding watered down drinks. We’ve grown tired of it and mosquito bites, and thick, suffocating air, and those cicadas. Their songs are on repeat, can they please stop?

I sit under the twinkle lights where 21 years ago we hung Ethan’s first birthday piñata, where parents helped their littles pull a string and candy sprinkled the yard. Kids bent over to pick some up and life was ripe with good expectations of the unknown parenting trek we all joined.

I sit under the twinkle lights where Sophia’s trampoline once stood. We sat on it. Jumped on it. Squealed. Laughed. It squeaked rhythmically, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again. We held hands and jumped in circles.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie! I chanted, making up a new word.

“Again, Mammy-Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

On I went, jumping so hard my thighs burned and inevitably my calf muscles started cramping.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

Miss Bonnie next door waves from her patio. Water drips from hanging baskets holding her geraniums. “You’re going to get lots of jumping out of that trampoline. You be sure to jump with her as much as you can. I can tell you’re having fun.”

I sit under the twinkle lights where my husband set up the new adirondak chairs for my 50th birthday party. The trampoline came down. My own piñata hung over the same tree Ethan’s did years ago. This time, mini bottles of rum and tequila with candy for the teens sprinkled the yard.

The bottles are for the adults!

The next morning, Sophia asks about the trampoline. The last time she used it was on her eleventh birthday two years earlier, sprinkler underneath, gangly pre-teens jumping and vying for space. “That’s my trampoline and I want it back,” she huffs.

Here I sit, under the twinkle lights. Four empty chairs join me in a circle. Paint chips off them in bits since we didn’t do anything to protect them from the elements. The trampoline’s circle is still here, but it’s been replaced with mulch, the fire pit, and five chairs, our new outdoor gathering space.

I hear a piñata crack. Candy falls and little hands reach for treats. Gone now, Miss Bonnie’s water spray drenches her plants. We hold hands and jump in a circle. Springs squeak, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

“Again, Mammy Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

It’s in the Saying

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
Barbara Kingsolver

I (still) don’t have a door to close. I now have a spare room to call my own. My craft room. My “writing” room. Except I’m still perched at the end of the table in the kitchen. My writing cabinet holds the essentials: a caddy full of my favorite writing sticks, my current notebook, a planner, some books on creativity, cookbooks, mixology books, wine, and wine glasses.

I haven’t figured out what I want to say. Yet. I’m opening myself up to whatever story wants to be told as long as I’m brave enough to tell it. Julia Cameron says I need ask for guidance, and I do, but I must be blind to it. I’m a looks-too-hard type of person, making things harder than they need to be. I also like simplicity, so maybe it’s too simple because I thrive on complexity.

However, isn’t simple…complex? I think there’s a depth there few people are able to extract from effectively, a shallow looking pool that somehow becomes an abyss. With no one looking over my shoulder, I let whatever wants to be said, be said. Some days it’s in the saying where the figuring out happens.

Despite some changes to routines, I signed up for year four of this writing challenge. My only expectation is to show up every day. My morning pages have faltered from daily to weekends, but this will bump me back in the right direction. With spring teasing us, I’ve been sitting in the backyard under the twinkle lights, taking my pen and notebook with me, a sweater for the chill that unexpectedly curls itself around my shoulder. Half finished books on writing are opening up again. My mind is opening up again.

I’m also looking at other routines that have seemed to have slipped away. I re-assess. Are these things I need to continue doing? It’s okay to let some go and replace them with something new. Do they need replacing? I’m working on decluttering my space, but I also think decluttering my mind and responsibilities opens me up to welcome whatever comes my way. It’s acceptable to leave space wide open for a while. Why the rush to re-clutter?

This fourth year of slicing, I’ll focus on figuring out what to say. I’ll close the door behind me and enter the backyard in the evenings, before days get too hot and mosquitos feast on me. Pup will chew on mulch while sitting at my feet. I’ll start a cozy fire, careful not to accidentally pick up a lizard dwelling in the pile of wood. I’ll open my notebook and start writing whatever needs to be said.

The Real Thing: U2@Sphere-Las Vegas

Well my heart is where it's always been
my head is somewhere in between...

My body and brain are ready to take on customer service reps. I send a message to confirm availability for a Saturday pick up from the airport. Step one, done. I check concert ticket availability. I call the airline and it’s an easy switch. I’m leaving too early on Saturday, but I can nap on the way home.

I check several ticket apps, steering clear of the one I used. Final step: acquire a concert ticket. Finding one seat, I make the purchase. At this point, I’ve already lost money. You’re in Vegas, I tell myself through gritted teeth, keep at it. You’ll hit the jackpot soon enough.

Check email. Accept the ticket. Hold my breath…

There it is, the part that was missing from the last fiasco. Immediately directed to my ticket app, I follow the link to open the app and tap. There’s my ticket. I now have the option to add it to my phone’s wallet. I take the option so I’m not searching through a barrage of emails. I re-open the ticket app to make sure it’s there.

Yes.

I re-open my phone’s wallet to make sure it’s there too.

Affirmative.

One more try. I’ll be going alone this time and I’ll have to take an Uber, but I’m all set. I’ve never used Uber. I’ll download the app later.

Today, we’re having a late breakfast, hanging out at my uncle’s place, roaming around the art district, and checking out The Neon Museum. Tomorrow I’m going to the concert of my life. Alone. And I. Don’t. Care.

Friday morning I sleep in. My phone’s calendar reminds me of the flight I canceled. Today, I’m relaxing at my uncle’s place. I was supposed to leave today, so he went back to work. I have the place to myself and binge watch a Netflix reality show.

I’m taking an Uber to the concert. Send someone to look for me if you don’t hear back from me. You’ve heard of those crazy stories. I don’t want someone to throw me in the trunk, murder me and dump me in the desert, I message my sisters.

Don’t get in the car if you feel unsafe. You have gut feelings for a reason, they blip in return.

What do I do if there’s a glitch with the Uber? I can not have another glitch! I’ve scheduled my ride to pick me up at 6:30. Doors open at 6:00 and the concert starts at 8:30. My muscles twist themselves into tighter knots. Calm down, it’s fine. I decide to take an afternoon walk to get my mind off all of the scenarios that will prevent me from entering the mother ship once again.

I get a notification my driver has arrived. Her name is Jackie. Make eye contact and talk so you’re less likely to get murdered. I tell my brain to shut up. I enter her car and I’m greeted with a mini night sky of tiny LED lights changing from neon pink, to purple, to blue, to green, to yellow, and pink again. Whoopsies. I feel bad for thinking she’d hurt me.

Back at the orb rising out of the desert, I follow the crowd. Stopping for a selfie, I make my way up the stairs. I enter the building and get to the portal. This time, my ticket is in a different section; I don’t need escalators. My heart wants to jump out of my body. I can relax once I’m inside. Bono’s voice fills the room. The glow transports me out of this place.

Give me one more chance
and you'll be satisfied

I’m here early so there is no need to make small talk with people stuck in line. I enter the bag check point. I advance to a person with a scanner as I hold out my phone, barcode ready.

Give me two more chances
you won't be denied...

Scan.

“Enjoy the show.”

Sixteen year old giddy me wants to SCREAM! I get in line for merch and buy an overpriced hoodie. I enter my section and gasp. Is this real? I’m sitting HERE? I’m on row 25. Not far from the stage. My non-tickets were on the back end of the highest section.

The DJ starts the pre-concert music and the crowd in the pit begins to gather. I dance at my seat and ping my sisters. I made it! You should be here with me… I dance through the rest of the show. This concert as at this venue is like the Grand Canyon. You see pictures and video, but you have no idea how the experience moves you until you see it in person.

Even better than the real thing, yeah…

Did I Ask Too Much?: U2 @ Sphere Las Vegas

Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?

Yes, yes you did, but I don’t know who to blame. A bad taste in my mouth is an understatement. I was struck dumb. Numb. Speechless. What happened? I followed all of the directions. When my tickets didn’t load to my app, I contacted the ticket company two days before the event. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get drunk. I didn’t smoke something I shouldn’t. There was no tattoo I’d later regret. No zip lining in frustration from the Stratosphere.

We walked back to the hotel stopping for a drink along the way, but I didn’t want that either. I began drafting my email to customer service while we waited to order. Later, I got into my pajamas, tossed my sparkly tank over the top of a chair, worn for four concert-less hours. New boots didn’t have time to rub blisters on my feet.

I woke up at my normal Your-Brain-Is-Now-Wide-Awake time of 3:00-ish a.m., confirming it with a groggy one-eyed peek at the red lighted digital clock. I must have slept hard, I felt the morning ready to greet me. Ahh, different time zone, remember? It’s only 1:00. We’d just be getting back had we been there.

I flop back into bed feeling around for my eye pillow. I place it over my eyes and breathe deeply. Its soothing lavender scent is long gone. My brain props itself on an elbow wanting to talk. I need sleep! It presses with questions.

Can I change my flight? Will I get my money back? I mean, I did get tickets. But they didn’t work! Is E available to pick me up from the airport? I can find someone for a ride or just get an Uber. Are there tickets for Friday’s show or are they sold out? It doesn’t hurt to try. I’m too close not to go.

With or without you…

I’m hearing Bono sing. I can’t live, with or without you…

And I can’t live without trying, Bono!

Last year I was number 3,000 something in an online queue to snag a ticket for an interview with Brene Brown after he released his autobiography. I missed that one too. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes at a venue the size of a gnat compared to Sphere.

It could work out. Try it when the world wakes up. I mother myself back to sleep. Shush my brain. Go back to sleep, you can’t do anything until later. It’s fine. Weren’t you okay with not going in the first place?

Well, yeah, but that was before I bought tickets.

You’ve got to get yourself together, you’ve got stuck in a moment and you can’t get out of it…

Shhh…go back to sleep. Try again, later in the morning.

It’s just a moment, this time will pass…

	Celia Fisher on Sunday, March 15, 2026
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	Alice on Sunday, March 15, 2026
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