Slice of Life 2026: 22 of 31- The Bread Lady

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

When I was in middle school, I took care of a pony that lived down the street from me. Almost every day, the bus dropped me off at the corner of my road, and I took a detour to the local bakery before heading to the barn and the wheelbarrows. I'd buy a loaf of French bread from the Ann Howard Cookery for $1, and rip off pieces throughout my barn choices. By the time I got. home every night, I'd eaten about half (maybe sometimes more) of that loaf. My bread weakness goes back a long time. 

The other day, Clare and I were in the car together. About a mile from our house, we passed a left turn, West Mary Drive. I've often noticed the turn because of the happy looking back yard. The house on the corner has a skating rink in the winter and a playscape in the summer. If I were a kid, I'd be happy to live in that house. 

"That's the bread lady," Clare said. 

"What are you talking about?" I asked. 

"She sells bread out of her house," Clare said. "Didn't you see the little storage thing by the road?" Clare has a way of knowing things like this, and she is a pretty good bread maker herself. 

I glanced in my rearview mirror, and I did see a structure that reminded me of a little library that people have outside of their homes, except it was a little bigger than any little library I'd seen. 

Just past the left turn into West Mary Drive, I turned into the grocery store parking lot. 

"Are you turning around?" Clare asked. 

"No," I said, "although it's tempting. I'm just taking the cut-through." You can drive through the access road behind the grocery store to get to the shops on the other side. 

"Her bread has gotten a lot of five-star reviews," Clare said. "Apparently she sells out every day."

"How have I not known this?" I said, considering a turn-around. 

Clare shrugged. 

I don't need a lot of convincing when it comes to good bread. Instead of continuing on the cut-through road, I turned around. Clare started to giggle. Unlike my seventh-grade self, I was able to resist the urge to tear off a piece of our honey wheat loaf. In much more civilized fashion, I cut and toasted a piece when we got home. So did everyone else who was around, and we made quick work of that bread. 

Let me tell you. If you are traveling along Bushy Hill Rd, and you see the sign for West Mary Drive, and there is bread in that bread house, stop. Venmo Helen, and go straight home to toast a piece with butter. You won't be disappointed. 

________

Pictures are from the Honeybear Breads website. 

Slice of Life 2026: 21 of 31- The Poetry of Pickleball

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

My brother called the other day, and his calls usually include a good laugh or two. In this one, he shared the story about he and his very athletic, tennis-playing boys heading to the pickleball courts while they were staying at an AirBNB. I'm going to highlight the racket-playing ability of these boys, as well as John. G. was a D1 tennis player, and J. is one of those natural athletes. John's decent, too. I have no doubt that these three were hitting the ball hard. 

The three of them had only two paddles, so they rotated playing singles until a woman approached them, asking to join in for a doubles game. John told the story in a much funnier way, but she kept asking and assuring them enough that they finally agreed. Even though she was older and didn't look too athletic, she was persistent and she had a couple of paddles she was willing to share. Turns out she was a pickleball rockstar, Paired with G., (the D1 tennis player) because John figured she'd be the weak link (she wasn't), John and J. didn't get a single point. "It was a total beatdown," John said. 

I had a similar, although much lower level, experience last night. I play PB at an indoor place that has regular open plays. When you go to an open play, they assign you courts based on your level, and levels range within their assignments. The rotations become fairly randomized because they are based on who finishes when. I usually know most of the people, but not last night. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces, and a lot of men. In several of my matches last night, I was with three men. The pattern frequently went like this: My partner served, someone hit it back to me (hard), I hit it back, they hit it back to me (harder), I hit it back, someone made a mistake, and we won the point. Or, they served, one of us returned, they hit it hard at me at the net, I volleyed it back. I won most of my matches by a lot because it took them too long to realize that yes, I could handle the hard hits (I actually like them), and I could dish out my own, as well. I could also change up the pace and place the balls where they'd have a tough time getting them back. 

I've come to love pickleball because of these sort of happenings. People are surprising on the courts. There's no question that G. and J. could get to be really good if they decided to practice and learn some shots other than hitting harder, but it's a game of strategy. Because of that, harder, flashier hitters don't always win. In fact, they often lose. Isn't there something poetic about that? 

Slice of Life 2026: 20 of 31- Dad

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

Some days more that others, Dad is with me. Today was one of them, and I'm grateful for today and the memories. 

Maybe it was Larkin writing about the ides of the 17ths in our family. She was in kindergarten when my father fell on a 17th, but she understood the significance. 

And there was Julia's morning text, coincidentally arriving on her birthday. One of her professors invited her to present a paper which is a big deal when you're a medical student. Julia sent a picture of the official invitation, and I welled up when I saw that the topic was on tracheo-esophagus prosthetic replacement at the International Conference for Head and Neck Cancer. That was my dad's specialty. I could almost feel his high five. I could almost see him remove his thick glasses and wipe his eyes. He'd be so proud. So proud. 

And then, in our evening writing group, Lainie offered a choice of prompts, one involving recipes and one involving cars... two legendary topics when it came to my father. I've even written a post about Dad's life in cars during last year's challenge. Dad always liked to experiment with recipes. He tinkered as a winemaker, and for a while he was a bread baker. We all loved his molasses cookies. Even late in his illness, Dad would pull out the stained recipe card, make the dough, roll it, chill it, cut it, and bake it. Those were good cookies. Do I write about the day I came into the kitchen to find him watching frozen butter slam around the mixer trying to figure out why the batter wasn't creaming? It seems both relevant and irrelevant. There are days and events that are markers when a person you love is slipping away, and the day he could no longer surprise us with his famous cookies was one of them. 

Another memorable day-- a marker-- involved a car. My dad always loved cars, and maybe one day I will write some sort of anthology of car stories. (We talked about that at writing group, also!) Dad's cars had great stories. If only cars could talk! The first car I knew was a Plymouth Duster with a crocodile-textured roof. Dad liked to tell anyone who would listen (and our friends were a captive and responsive audience) about how he'd wrestled a croc in the Mississippi for that roof. We all believed him, although we couldn't really picture it. A light blue Saab, a paneled Country Squire, a sharp Sciracco, and an oversized BMW could all tell stories, but it was a red convertible that proved to be another marker. The red convertible showed up in our driveway (we lived with my parents for several years) a little over a year after we'd made the tough decision that he wasn't okay to drive. Dad didn't have many angry moments, but he often repeated his annoyance with having his car sold right out from under him. (He wasn't totally wrong about that.) We took his keys, but not his credit card. Neal from the car dealership must have been having a slow day at work because Neal took a deposit over the phone and drove that shiny car right on over to our house-- to my father's delight and our chagrin. Neal didn't get the credit for the sale, and the car returned to the lot with him. How could that have happened twenty years ago? 

I'm grateful for today and the memories. A slicer-- and I wish I could remember who it was-- wrote in a post that people are alive for as long as they're remembered. If Dad were here today, maybe we wouldn't shudder at 17ths, and he'd celebrate Julia's birthday and the awesome email she received. He'd laugh at some car memories and serve up a plate of chewy molasses cookies. 

How grateful I am for today and the memories. 

Slice of Life 2026: 19 of 31- Happy Birthday to Julia

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

One of the fun things about slicing every March is that March 19 is Julia's birthday. For those of you who haven't met Julia, you can get a sense of her here because she slices with us, even though she is a time-stressed, second-year medical student. 

As I wrote this post, it was fun to revisit some of the birthday posts I've written over the years. Here are a few from:

• When she was 17
• 22 in 2020
• Two years ago when she first started slicing with us when she was 26

Today Julia is 28. Our year had some roses and thorns, as I think back on it. Medical students had a break in August between first and second year, and it was awesome to have Julia home with us for more than a few days. A definite rose. 

Julia welcomed me into retirement by getting so sick she was in the hospital for five days. I drove to Michigan to help with icing and keep her fever down, and then to help her with basic life when she insisted on going back to classes even though she was far from 100%. (Of course she did.) I'm still traumatized when I think about how sick she was, but how lucky was I to have the time and be able to be there for as long as she needed? Lucky, but a major thorn. 

I got to go back to Michigan in a more civilized way a few weeks ago to present at a conference, but also to take her and her friends to dinner and have some good playing time. We packed a lot into 27 hours, exercising, cooking, shopping, and celebrating how much fun we have. Might have been a dozen roses packed into those hours. 

Even though I won't be with Julia on her actual birthday, she'll be home next week for her spring break. I can't wait. 

If you read her blog, make sure to wish this awesome girl a happy birthday! 

Slice of Life 2026: 18 of 31- Empathic farting

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

Clare is my third of four daughters, and in case you're reading, and you've missed it, three of my four daughters slice with us during the month of March. Clare is currently living at home since she is between jobs and a PhD program. With two slicers under the same roof, we have a lot of giggles over what constitutes a slice. In fact, in her post yesterday, Clare allowed that she had slices out the wazoo. (And, she kind of does!) Clare's post yesterday was one of her funnier ones, relaying the catapult of her electric toothbrush into an unflushed toilet. If you're looking for a laugh, you'll find one there, both in the post and in the comments. 

She started the post giving me dibs on empathic farting. Hmmm. What you need to know is that the Meehans have a lot of diagnosed and undiagnosed GI issues. Therefore, the status of our colons is rarely undiscussed. We know who's gone, who hasn't gone, and how much they've gone. While we don't have a family group chat about it, we probably could. Someone is always ready to talk about how much or little Miralax they need on a daily basis. 

Therefore, it should come as little surprise that people in our house own their farts and generally provide warning when the environmental smell is about to change. We tend to be quiet air polluters. My friends used to call them SBDs when I was in high school for silent but deadly. (Is that a thing? Or did we make it up? I'm not sure...)

The other day, Clare and I were driving home from New Hampshire, and it was raining. When she opened her window, I was a little surprised. 

"I farted," she said. 

Almost without awareness, so did I. 

"Seems like you've inspired my system to get going as well," I said, opening my window and getting wet. 

And thus, empathic farting entered the car, our language, and our world. May it not enter yours. 

___________________

If you haven't found Larkin, Julia, and Clare, here they are. They are not educators, but they are funny, and they are good writers. I love connecting with them through writing when March rolls around. 

Slice of Life 2026: 17 of 31- Apology

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

I didn't expect the story I got when I checked in. I expected joy. I expected excitement. I expected a gushing recount. The anger, frustration, and tears didn't match the planned experience. 

As I listened, I wasn't my best self, and I interrupted. 

"Are you sure this wasn't a misunderstanding?"

"Could you wait to borrow so much trouble?"

"You're wasting a lot of anger energy on something you're not sure of."

She assured me she was sure. And now she was even angrier because I didn't validate. 

Even as she kept going with the story and the way things went down, it didn't make sense to me. Could a company really gaslight someone so much? The believer-in-humanity part of me wanted to believe that a misunderstanding would explain a deal that was made and then was taken away. 

No, she assured me, that's not what's happening. 

I guess it turns out, yes, a company can make a deal and take it away. 

When we spoke again, I apologized for not just agreeing that the situation sucked. An easy apology because I felt so bad that the situation happened and that I didn't respond with ultra empathy. 

And, I'll continue to believe in humanity, but with a little more skepticism. Damn. 

Slice of Life 2026: 16 of 31- Umbrellas

In March, Two Writing Teachers hosts the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Everyone is welcome to share writing and comment on others in this special community. 

We were finishing dinner when Clare looked at her phone and checked the weather app. We were in New Hampshire for an admitted students day. She'd be touring campus and sitting in on classes while I had time to walk around town, maybe hike a little, and do some writing in coffee shops. 

She started laughing. 

"Have you checked the forecast?' she asked. 

I hadn't. I didn't want to hear why she was laughing. 

"We're supposed to get a lot of rain."

"Maybe they're wrong."

Clare held her phone up for me to see. Total rain. 100%. 

"Did you bring anything?" she asked. 

"Nope." I could picture my umbrella on the shelf in the mudroom. 

The two of us walked back to our airbnb (that had the cute outdoor sitting area where I guess I wouldn't be sitting) and found directions to the nearest umbrella-selling institution. 

As we looked over the selection, we debated for the mid-range option since said rain was supposed to be accompanied by lots of wind. 

A store worker was nearby and overheard us. 

"Pretty awful forecast," Clare said. 

"Not snow," she said. "Could be worse." 

True. Not snow. 

And we had umbrellas.