Carolyn Weisbecker, AZ
Something is wrong if a day goes by and Carolyn hasn’t written. You see, writing is what she does. It’s how she starts her day, with a cup of coffee in hand, and how she ends it, with a good glass of Chardonnay. Her articles have been published by Midlands Business Journal, Omaha Newspaper, and a few national magazines. As for education, she graduated from the University of Nebraska at Omaha, majoring in Real Estate & Land Use Economics and currently attends Southern New Hampshire University, where she’s pursuing a master’s in English and Creative Writing.
As a Story Terrace writer, Carolyn interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below.
A Crack in the Curb
When I was a little girl, I spent my days running around the neighborhood with my friends.
One morning, I saw a golden, round flower—a marigold—which had pushed itself out from a crack along the curb. Before I could stop myself, I yanked the flower up, roots and all, and carried it home to plant in my mother’s flower garden.
I couldn’t wait to surprise my mom.
“Where did you get this from?” she asked.
“It was growing out of a crack in the curb across the street.”
Mom frowned. “By Mrs. Schroeder’s house?”
Mrs. Schroeder was an elderly widow who lived across from us. She often sat on her front porch and waved to us children as we played.
“She told me about this flower,” Mom said. “She watered it and said how much she loved to look at it from her kitchen window.”
Without another word, I ran to our backyard shed and rummaged through the clutter for a small pot, bag of soil, and garden spade. I carefully replanted the marigold, careful not to damage its delicate roots. Finally, I clutched the pot in my small hands and walked across the street to Mrs. Schroeder’s house. A strange woman answered the door.
“Is Mrs. Schroeder here? I have a marigold for her,” I said. “It was growing out of a crack in the curb, and I pulled it out to put in my mom’s garden. I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was her flower, so now I want to return it.”
She smiled. “That’s sweet, but my mother’s in the hospital.”
My smile faded. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know yet, but how about I put the flower in the kitchen window so she can see it when she comes home.”
The rest of the week, I watched the newspapers pile up in her driveway.
One day, I noticed a car in her drive, so I rushed over.
The same woman answered.
“Is Mrs. Schroeder back? I’d like to see how her flower is doing,” I said.
She invited me in. My eyes immediately went to the window sill where my pot sat. Instead of the marigold, I saw a shriveled dark twig.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been at the hospital so much that I forgot to water it. I’m sorry she didn’t get to see it.”
I lowered my head as I walked home, and that’s when I saw it—a tiny plant sprouting from a crack in the curb, with a sliver of color bursting from its bud.
It was a marigold.
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