by Larriane Barnard
I’ve never been quite so embarrassed as when I asked my husband
to call roadside assistance. I stopped at a convenience store for a thirty-twoounce
soda. Caffeine fortification ensured, my next errand was a quick trip into the wholesale house for one item. For less to carry, I poked the keys into my pocket and tucked my purse under the seat. My wallet went into the oxygen tank bag I carry for my emphysema. As I crawled out, I flipped the auto-lock button. Once inside the store, I snagged an electric cart.
I was really trucking then, as fast as one can on those carts. When I got back to my car and reached in my pocket for my keys, no keys. I slapped every pocket. No keys. Tugged and pulled on the door. I even went to the other side of the car to tug and pull like I’d miraculously find the automatic lock hadn’t really locked all the doors. From there I could see the keys, lying on the driver’s seat … continue reading in the Fall 2018 issue.
I’m a Boat People
by Tim Reynolds
I come from a long line of boat people. Three hundred and ninety-eight years ago my ninth Great-Grandfather left his wife and five daughters at home to sail off on something longer than a three-hour tour. Richard never returned, although after three years, he had Elizabeth and the girls sail over to join him.
Unfortunately, five years later, he was dead, cause unknown. He was only forty-nine. Now, I’m not saying ninth-Great-Grandma had anything to do with ninth-Great-Grampa’s untimely and mysterious death, but maybe sailing away on the Mayflower without his family wasn’t his best decision ever.
The weighing of anchors and snapping of mainsails is so ingrained in our blood that my father bought a twenty-foot sailboat when I was a kid so the family could ply the exciting waters of Lake Ontario. We spent many “joyous” long weekends away from our friends, on… continue reading in Summer 2018 issue.
by Tim Reynolds
I loves me my trees. Not in a “that young fella needs some serious therapy” kinda love. More like adoration, appreciation, affection, and a few other A-words from the thesaurus.
Sadly, I have another A-word, allergies. Specifically, dust, mold, mildew, ragweed, grass, and trees. In other words I’m allergic to the entire world. Over the decades my allergies have tapered off, but when I was a young goat exploring the world I was always trying different places in which to hide from my two younger sisters.
The crawlspace under my parents’ bedroom was perfect. It had just enough hanging spider egg sacks to keep my sisters at bay. It also had enough dust, mold, and mildew to give me a serious respiratory infection for a month.
Next I thought of hiding in the grass in the backyard, but Mom had some bizarre fixation about having a nicely groomed short lawn around our suburban brick castle, so I would have looked like… continue reading in Spring 2018 issue.
What’s an article you’ve written for SEARCH that you enjoyed? And why did you enjoy it?
I enjoy them all, because I’m the lucky one who gets to write almost all of the humor articles for SEARCH. People may not believe this, but my articles are all based on true stories in my life, and there is no hyperbolic exaggeration for effect. And because they’re true, I have great fun remembering the incidents and getting them down on paper, to share with the readers, rather than just friends on the deck. One of my favorite stories, though, is the one about Santa, Seniors, and the Goat, mostly because it revolves around my favorite time of the year, Christmas, and one of my favorite places on the planet, Lake Louise in Banff National Park.
What was your favorite thing to do as a child?
Make believe. Whether, making up covert ops for my G.I. Joes or creating plays for my two sisters and I to perform for our parents, it was all about make believe.
Do you have a hot tip for us?
I’m an introvert. I’m really not a big fan of listening to conversations I’m not part of or hearing other people’s music pulsing out of their headphones, but I spend so much time on public transit….continue reading in the Spring 2018 issue.
Prince Goofball…and the search for cozy
by Tim Reynolds
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a prince who was trés un-cozy and mucho unhappy.
The internet had not yet been invented, and he was forced to meet his princesses the old fashioned way—by placing an ad in the local door-to-door-delivered free Pennysaver paper.
His Royal Self didn’t fancy piña coladas or getting caught in the rain, so he turned to his Royal Minister of Public Relations, which, in a kingdom of one, was the frowning face in every mirror. Between the two of him, he penned the perfect, shallow, no-fail, courtship decree.
“Ladies, when was the last time you received a rose and a poem? Why sit at home when the last of the romantics is 27, a University grad, cartoonist, writer, dance demon, Billy Joel junky, Mozart maniac, 5’9”, 140 lbs. and questing for a princess, 19-30, slim, pretty… continue reading in Winter 2017 issue.
Don’t Kick the Cook
by Tim Reynolds
I have been eating for over half a century now and have spent a great deal of time in kitchens, professionally, practically, and even romantically.
If you can’t nuzzle while stirring pasta, what’s the point of cooking Italian? Although my skills have serious limits, I have discovered Three Basic Rules of food prep that I now pass on to you.
One: Salt to taste.
Two: Singed eyebrows grow back.
Three: Preheat the oven.
Salt to taste: My buddy Craig and were up at his family cottage for a weekend of fishing, rum, and cribbage. Since the fish weren’t biting that day, we went to our back-up plan, a simple, manly goulash that two twenty-something former Boy Scouts considered to be Cordon Bleu gourmet dining. Meat, veggies, more meat…perfect. When it came time to add a touch of seasoning, Craig tapped a pinch of salt straight from the shaker into the pot. Unfortunately, the shaker lid wasn’t screwed on quite as tight as it needed it to be and a half-full shaker’s worth of salt slid straight into the goulash… continue reading in Fall 2017 issue.
I live a boring little life, in a boring little duplex, on a boring little cul-de-sac, in a city whose most exciting event of the year revolves around cows.
I eat, I sleep, I go to work, I write, I hang out with my three beasts. My life is completely devoid of adventure and really always has been. If there was a color to describe my life, it would be Suburban Beige, the beigiest beige on the color wheel.
As a kid I wanted to be everything from an astronaut to a cowboy to a spy to a movie star, and finally, Elvis. None of it happened.
I’ve never even had the adventure of marriage, although I did once propose to a girlfriend at the airport before she left on a jet plane to fly across the continent to donate a kidney to her mother. No, she didn’t say ‘yes’. She laughed and said, “Are you kidding?”
I’ve never driven a Formula One race car, although I did park a Mini in the foyer of our college chapel… continue reading in Summer issue 2017.
Just One of the Litter
by Tim Reynolds
I was raised by a French girl, coached by a Golden boy, and taught the meaning of true love by a Yorkshire girl.
They were, in order, a poodle, a retriever, and a terrier. If you said I’m a dog person, I wouldn’t contradict you, though I like cats, too. I like all animals, usually more than I like people, but dogs… A dog is the only creature that will love you more than you love yourself.
We got Lollipop (the names have been changed to protect my computer security), the toy poodle, when I was nine months old, and she was my girl. When I was four I learned to whistle loudly enough to be heard two blocks away, and Lollipop came running every time—a little black blur through the neighborhood…continue reading the Spring issue of SEARCH Magazine.
Bachelor to Grandfather in a Blink
By Tim Reynolds
On my 41st birthday, I was a childless bachelor with a long history of living loose of foot and free of fancy. On my 42nd birthday I was four months into a terrific relationship that would last another thirteen years. Then, without any warning whatsoever from a certain inebriated palm reader or the sweet Psychic Tradeshow Tarot reader, I celebrated my 43rd birthday as a grandfather. Yes indeedy, I went from childless bachelor to grandfather in a blistering eighteen months. Somehow this old dog had managed to skip parenthood completely and jump straight down the rabbit hole to grandparenthood.
Baby Jake was born very suddenly due to an abruption his mother suffered. They were only a couple hours from either one or both of them not surviving. He was a lot of weeks early and spent most of it imprisoned in the Neonatal Care Unit under heavy guard. It was a long time before I was allowed to hold this little bundle of wonder, but I did get to see him incubating a few hours after his hatching. He was wrinkly, and red, and so tiny I was afraid to even breathe near his chamber of life. As time passed, he grew strong and bigger.
When Jake-the-Snake…continue reading.