Homecoming tales; Beauty in imperfection

Las Vegas, Nevada.October, 2005.Two Months Before Christmas. It was a beautiful four-story building with clean lines, glittering plate glass and a golden rod colored door. A tribute to the architect who designed the building. An elongated piece of driftwood attached to the right of the door was painted the same shade of goldenrod. The plaque said it was the Karen Morrison Building. The overall opinion of visitors and clients was that the building was remarkable, which was the architect and owner’s objective.The young sun was just creeping over the horizon when Les Morrison tucked his briefcase between his knees, searching his jean pocket for the key that would unlock his pride and joy, the Karen Morrison Building which was named after his mother. Opening the door, Les turned off the alarm and flicked the light switch on. Taking a moment, he looked around the lobby of the building he’d designed when he was still in college studying architecture. He was a lucky man for he’d been ab

A week later and three thousand miles away in Boston, Massachusetts. Thirty-two-old career woman Hazel Myers was on an emotional high as she packed her already overfilled briefcase.She looked around her cluttered office and sighed. One of these days she really had to give some thought to organizing things. She knew it wasn’t going to happen because she loved living in clutter, and loved that she could instantly lay her hands on anything she needed. Hazel Myers owned a public relations firm in the heart of Dorchester. It employed three full-time staff members; two part-time moms whose schedules she worked around, a receptionist-slash-secretary, and a battle-scarred, bushy-haired orange tabby cat named Roxie she had found half-starved in the basement of the building she rented. If anyone reigned supreme at the Myers Agency, it was Roxie who greeted clients by purring and strutting her stuff. He had quickly become the favorite of the residents. Roxie knew how to turn on the computer,

Exhausted from his long trip, Max was excited to get out and run. Les pulled up to the entrance of Morrison Farms and looked at the battered sign swinging on one hinge from the craved post. A lump rose in his throat but there was nothing a few nails, new hinges, and some paint couldn't do and it would be good as new.Les ascend a steep hill lined with ancient fragrant evergreens, their massive trunks covered in dark green moss. At the top of the hill, Les parked his BMW Z4 and got out of the car to look down at the valley full of every kind of evergreen imaginable. He saw the Douglas first, the blue spruce field, and to the left of that, the long-needle Scotch pine.He shaded his eyes from the sun to see the fields of Balsam fir, Concolor Fir, Fraser firs and Norway Spruce. To the left as far as the eye could see were the fields of white pines and the white firs. The Austrian pines looked glorious, and three fields of Virginia pines seemed to go on to infinity. When he was done admir

Steve Morrison sat on the top of the newly repaired steps that leads to the front porch. There was a time when the porch held pumpkins with lit candles, cornstalks, and a few scarecrows. So long ago. Now the porch was empty, just the way he was empty.It was full dark now, a breeze swept over the tops of the trees to make them sway. an hour past supper. The only thing he'd eaten today was a frozen Tv dinner at lunchtime that tasted like cardboard because the pot of stew he'd made wasn't done cooking. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered. He sighed.Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a line of headlights heading out of the fields. The drivers of the vehicles wouldn't see him sitting on the steps because of the big blue spruce at the corner of the house blocked the view of the porch. Les's workers, that's how he thought of them, wouldn't be grazing about anyway. They'd be in a hurry to get home to their families and a warm supper. Les would be the last one to come down the

Laura tossed and turned all night long. She couldn't sleep, she checked the wall clock and it was already three-thirty. In the end, she finally gave up, showered, smeared on some moisturizer and dressed in clothes she dug out of a trunk and smelled like mothballs. Old clothes, the kind she used to wear before she became a social gadabout. Corduroy trousers, wool socks, a heavy sweater, and a pair of ankle-high boots she had to clean before she could put them on. She couldn't remember why she'd saved all these clothe. Maybe she knew one day she would need them. "I guess this is that day," She muttered to herself as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen where she would have made coffee if she had any. But since she didn't, she reached for her daughter's heavy jacket and left the house. Laura couldn't remember the last time she'd been out and at four-thirty in the morning.What would Steven Morrison think or say when he opened the door to see her standing there? Well, she would find