Memphis Chicago

(Saw a freeway sign saying “Memphis Chicago, 12 miles” and this story was created)

My father named me Memphis Chicago, for the simple reason that he just loved the sound of those city names and didn’t know how to name me since I was a girl instead of a coveted boy. My mother died giving me birth, two months early, so she didn’t have any say in the matter, since they hadn’t yet decided on a name.

Right off the bat, Dad started calling me Phizzy or Phiz, short for Memphis. I didn’t mind until junior high. You know how it is.

In high school, I asked my friends to call me “Chic” for Chicago, and most of them complied. The bullies throughout the years called me Phizz Whizz, Memph, Fried Chicky until I learned Karate and became a black belt.

In college, I started introducing myself as M.C., until my roommate confided in me one day, saying, “Memphis, you have a unique name and I think you should capitalize on it!”

Why didn’t I ever think of that? After a couple of years, and since I love singing, playing instruments, and writing music and songs, I decided to major in the music business, and to make the most of my unusual name. I’ll be famous one day.

Oh, and I’ll visit Memphis and Chicago, to see if the cities are as interesting as the sound of their names.



Chicago, O’Hare, One Afternoon


Plastic bags gently chase each other, in continuous wind-caused circles, between the building and the large metal boxes on wheels parked side by side and attached to little carts for picking up luggage, which come and go from time to time, while raindrops slap against the glass window I’m staring out of, leaving water balls of themselves, smaller and smaller, as they slide down until nothing is left to leave behind.

Moving to the other side of the room, the gloomy, overcast skies also cover the front of Concourse B, graying the metal and glass structure, making it resemble an old factory needing a shine up.

Inside, above me, a large white ceiling fan with several long fins, quietly whumps around with upturned tips imitating jet wings, going nowhere.

Sighing heavily, I continue roaming around the crowded waiting areas, filled with people wanting to go somewhere, like me.


A Different Kind of Cookie

Drowning with gloom, mists, tears

I float above bright white clouds

hiding the gloom, mists, rains

on the world below

me clouds world

like a sandwich cookie

only not as sweet


This written while riding on United from San Diego to Chicago to Wichita on the early morning of June 10 after being told that my husband had been hospitalized in Dodge because of blood clots in his legs and lungs.  The doctor’s there have since saved his life and my husband is recovering nicely.