"I could be your painting assistant," I offered, convinced it was a good idea.
Theo hesitated. And I knew why.
In February, I moved into a new house in South Tampa. It's cute and comfy with a huge yard shaded by tall, old trees. Oh, happy day!
I locked my bike at one end of Fort De Soto and drove to the other. Armed with sunscreen, a hat, two GPS apps and one fragile psyche, I was ready. Ready to walk. Ready to reset my life.
Many of us, when we get busy, which is always of course, are tempted to keep the blinders on. No distractions, please. Not so Tampa resident Stephen L. Goodman, left. Even on the job, he's eyes-open and awake. As a writer, Goodman says, "I have three main inspirations: as it is happening, memory and …
Reggie, my ball-crazy golden retriever, had a lump removed from his lip in late November. It turned out to be malignant oral melanoma. Even with surgery, some dogs live only six months.
I first noticed it in Publix.
I wasn't getting carded for PowerBall tickets anymore. When I was 25, that made me indignant; at 35, I only hid a smile.
I had not lived in Florida in 18 years.
I'd spent most of my childhood in Tallahassee and Fort Walton Beach, done college at the University of Florida for the cheap in-state tuition (I hear it's not so cheap anymore), and fled as soon as I graduated.
I couldn't wait for my son to get his driver's license.