Ann Lee Miller, AZ
You’ll find Ann floating in the Atlantic. At least that’s where her mind is as she writes a memoir about growing up on a sailboat in Florida. Over 100,000 copies of Ann’s five novels have been downloaded from Amazon. She earned a BA and is working on a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. Ann teaches creative writing classes in the metro Phoenix area. When she isn’t writing you might spot Ann hiking in the Superstition Mountains with her husband or meddling in her kids’ lives.
As a Story Terrace writer, Ann interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below.
The Day I Booted the “Birds” From “The Birds and the Bees”
When I met Sam’s eyes the first time, the symphony orchestra broke into the theme from Love Story in the Martin County High School courtyard. Sunflowers bloomed along the walk as though caught in time lapse photography and their scent overtook the normal smell of sweaty bodies. Okay, so no music played, no flowers bloomed. But I know he felt the magic, too, because one Wednesday, he tugged my elbow as I walked toward the swim bus. I stepped onto the grass and looked up at Mr. Tall, Blond, and Super Hot. My pulse raced like I’d sprinted a 200 Individual Medley.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “There’s a party Friday night. Do you want to go?”
Like I wanted to win the 500 Freestyle at the Florida State Finals. I gripped my swim bag. “Sure.”
Sam picked me up on Friday in a Jeep. None of the guys my age had their licenses yet. When he pulled up in front of a new condo on Jensen Beach and asked if I minded stopping to meet his parents, I swear I heard tiny birds chirping, wedding bells tied around their necks.
The party turned out to be a kegger in the woods. Sam downed paper cups of beer. Sissy-me poured mine out when no one was looking. He took my hand in his larger one and it felt like our hands were meant for each other. He could be the one.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sam said.
We tromped back through the nearly pitch black woods the way we’d come.
He stopped and asked me to turn my back.
I heard a stream of liquid hitting the sandy dirt about thirty-six inches behind me. Eew! Sure, I knew guys peed, but in sort of a theoretical sense. This was way, way, way too up close and personal to get with a guy I hadn’t even kissed. Would never kiss. Gross!
As we drove away, I pitched Love Story, the sunflowers, and the hummingbirds with their wedding bell necklaces out the window in the general direction of the contents of Sam’s bladder. I don’t blame Sam Pease — not his real name — because he was probably being thoughtful by not leaving me alone in the dark while he took care of business. And, hey, he was a sixteen-year-old kid.
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