Challenge:  “Write a story where we’re told one thing but shown another.”

One hour to write and polish the story using either a photo, a word, a situation or a story where we’re told one thing but shown another.

 

Bill was the kind of guy who always held doors open for old ladies. Maybe it was because Bill had been trained to hold the door open for his elders. Or maybe it was because his mother beat him with the broomstick after he raced into his aunt’s house without holding the door open for his grandmother. That was a lesson he’d never forgotten.

Bill also picked up litter in the park. After clocking out at the grocery store for lunch, Bill liked to walk around alone. Mrs. Oliver, the retired schoolteacher who sat on the park bench and fed the squirrels, told everyone how nice Bill was.

“He even picks up the sticky litter, like the popsicle papers the children throw down on the ground,” Mrs. Oliver told Det. Nancy Riddle.

The 31-year-old detective had been promoted a few months ago, and she’d been assigned to find out who was terrorizing women in the nearby grocery store parking lot. Riddle, who was naturally curious, decided to check out the areas around the parking lot. Today, it was the park. Mrs. Oliver’s voice turned huffy.

“Children these days are left to run wild by parents who are so buried in their cell phones they aren’t paying attention to the little hellions they’re rearing.”

Waving her hand at the detective to come closer, Mrs. Oliver whispered something to Riddle.

“Of course, we all know Bill’s kind of slow,” she said, her voice dropping an octave from when she was praising the middle-aged man known as Bill.

“It’s because of the accident, you know,” she said, wrapping her sweater around her bony shoulders, pity in her eyes.

“Accident” the detective penciled in her notebook, circling the word three times.

Yes, Bill was that kind of guy Det. Riddle discovered over the past couple of days. Bill carried groceries to cars for customers who were elderly. He didn’t say much to them, which was fine for many of those wore hearing aids or who simply wanted to get home to watch “Wheel of Fortune.”

Young mothers would say Bill was the kind of guy who’d let their toddlers ride on the back of the grocery cart, his long arms on either side of the child. He didn’t walk quickly to the minivans, their rear windows covered with “I love soccer” stickers, because of his limp.

“My kids just love Bill,” one mother told the detective as she was buckling her toddler into the car seat. And, just like Mrs. Oliver, the mother motioned for the detective to come closer.

“You know, I heard he had an accident when he was a teenager,” she whispered. “Car accident. Bill was the driver, and his mother was killed instantly. That’s where he got that limp, you know. The accident. Poor Bill.”

Everybody seemed to both love and feel sorry for this middle-aged man with the slight paunch, a narrow space between his two front teeth and shoulders that were a little rounded instead of muscular like many men his age. No siblings, no wife, no parents – just a once-elegant home that was slowly falling into disrepair.

Because Bill was a nice guy, a group of teens from the local Methodist Church asked Bill if they could come over and help him clean out the clutter that filled the porch and, they figured, probably the inside of the house.

Bill had immediately turned down the offer. He even refused the offer the 10^th time it was made. People could’ve thought Bill was being rude, but he told the teens he couldn’t bear to part with anything that had been his mother’s. For over 30 years, no one had been in the house, but because Bill was a heck of a nice guy, they let him live his life without interfering.

Bill never had loud parties. Neighbors said he was quiet except for the nights when Bill ran power tools in the cellar. Days later, someone would find a small wooden table on their front porch, and they figured the gift had come from Bill.

Yes, everybody thought Bill was a heck of a nice guy.

Why then, Det. Nancy Riddle wondered for the hundredth time since she’d started this case, was she convinced Bill was anything but nice.

Perhaps it was the late-night reports from women coming home after closing time at the local bar. Reports of a strange man hovering in the parking lot away from the glare of the bright lights. The women’s reports stated they often sprinted to their vehicles as the man approached them in the dark.

“But he couldn’t catch me because of the limp,” they all told the desk sergeant, their voices still uneven and frightened. “Even with that limp, he was faster than I thought he’d be.”

Riddle’s thoughts returned to the present, and she said good-byes to Mrs. Oliver. Then she followed a safe distance behind the ambling man, watching how he picked up bits of trash and put them in the bins along the way.

Riddle thought she was wasting her time, and then she saw it. The snake. It was a long, thin brown snake, the kind her father loved having in the garden.

“These rat snakes will eat all the mice and rats in the yard if you let them be,” he’d told her over and over.

The detective watched Bill stop in front of the snake, and she stopped as well. She saw him look around, and she ducked behind a tree where Bill couldn’t see her but she could see him. Riddle thought perhaps Bill was fascinated by the reptile. Until he raised his right foot and stomped on the snake. His foot came down again and again and again until the snake was nothing more than a smear on the sidewalk.

And then Bill, the nice man, the man who opened doors for old ladies, the man who picked up litter in the park, resumed his shuffling trek toward the parking lot.

Riddle was stunned. A nice guy doesn’t obliterate a snake. A guy who’s afraid of a snake might walk a little faster to avoid the reptile. But Bill made it a point to stop and stomp that creature to death.

The detective turned and hurried back to her unmarked police car. Inside, she turned the key and, as the car idled, she called a friend in the records department and asked Bridget to look up information on an accident involving a Bill McLeod.

“I’m not sure when, but it would’ve been a motor vehicle accident at least 30 years ago,” Riddle said. Bridget said she’d get right on it. Ten minutes later, Riddle’s cell phone lit up and she answered immediately.

“Got what you need,” Bridget said. “William Richard McLeod, aged 19, involved in a one-vehicle car accident. He was the driver of a Vega station wagon, and the car went off the road, hit a tree and his passenger was killed. He was banged up and taken to the hospital.”

Riddle heard a few more clicks of the keyboard.

“Says here the driver was driving too fast for the road conditions, but he wasn’t charged with vehicular homicide,” Bridget said. There was quiet for another couple of minutes.

“Seems like Bill’s a nice guy everybody felt sorry for,” she said, her voice as if she was reading a story. “He stayed in the hospital after sustaining a head injury and his right leg was crushed in the accident. Guess nobody had the heart to charge him with his mom being killed and all. Back then, this place was still a small town and the police could make those kinds of decisions.”

Riddle thanked Bridget, but before disconnecting the call, asked another question.

“Does it say the cause of death for the mother? I mean, did she die at the scene or later?” she asked.

“Let me see,” Bridget said. Another few minutes passed.

“She died at the scene,” she said slowly. “Traumatic head injury. Appears the mom’s head was pretty banged up when the police arrived.”

Another quiet minute passed as Bridget kept reading the report.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Says here one detective questioned the extent and viciousness of the injury from just a car crash, but like I said, nobody wanted to prosecute a young guy whose father was gone and now his mother. You know small towns 40 years ago.”

Yes, Riddle did understand. She knew what towns thought of nice guys like Bill. Nice guys who open doors for old ladies. Nice guys who terrorize young women in parking lots. Nice guys who run table saws at midnight.

Riddle decided to swing by the McLeod house. Everybody knew the house. Avoided it on Halloween, knew there’s never be a “Yard of the Month” sign in the yard. There were never Christmas lights in the windows or a tree visible in the front window. But, the accident, you know. There were reasons.

Detective Nancy Riddle decided she’d find out those reasons.

Nice guys, she knew, weren’t always so nice.

 

Denise Adams – January 15, 2026

A few months ago, I was unmotivated. Looking in the mirror, I only saw a frustrated woman who hadn’t stuck to any of her 2025 plans.

When researching goals for the coming year, I came across a list of decluttering tips for the coming year. That seemed a good place to start.

Some of the chores made sense. Throw out all the expired seasonings and foods in the pantry. One look at my pantry told me I was in for a lot of work, and I’d need a lot of trash bags.

Another was to get rid of clutter. I’ve read that tip a thousand times, and I finally admitted I’m not a minimalist.

I like having numerous photos of my family all around me and shelves filled with my favorite books. They’re not clutter to me – they’re opportunities to revisit familiar characters.

I kept scrolling on the internet, and I saw a site that listed 100 daily affirmations. Some I thought belonged in a mountain-top ashram – “I respect the cycle of the seasons” but others made good sense.

Some didn’t really offer anything I could sink my teeth into. Here’s a few of those:

I am open to the messages the universe has to offer.

I am well rested and excited for the day.

I can control how I respond to things that are frustrating, and, last but not least:

I seek out mystery in the ordinary.

Those messages from the universe? Here’s one:  “Go shopping today and buy a bag of chocolate because you’re depressed.” Maybe that was my imagination talking to me.

I am seldom well rested because insomnia is my constant companion.

I might think I can control myself, but when some idiot pulls out in front of me in traffic, I still scream “you moron” into the emptiness of my vehicle.

That mystery stain on the coffee table? No clue where it came from and I don’t want to know. With eight grandchildren, the mystery can stay a mystery.

Still, there had to be some affirmations I could hold as my own to make my life better.

I went back through the list and chose ones I felt would improve my soul.

Then I typed out the list, double spaced it in large print and hit print. I cut out each one, folded it, and put the affirmations in a pretty bowl.

Each morning, I take one out and read it, hopefully setting a positive mood for myself each day.

I’m sharing some of the sentiments, and a response to hopefully make you smile, in case you want to create your own inspiration jar.

1. I leave room in my life for spontaneity. Except on Mondays.
2. I look forward to tomorrow. Except when it’s trash day.
3. I strive for joy, not perfection. Since I’ll never be perfect, this one’s easy to achieve.
4. Today I celebrate that I am younger than I’m ever going to be. And I’m still no spring chicken.
5. When I forgive myself, I free myself. Most of the time. Guilt is a hard habit to break.
6. A clear blue sky is a signal all is right in the world. Every time.
7. There’s always time to watch an episode of “The Andy Griffith Show.” Barney Fife never fails to get a laugh.
8. Housework can wait. Relationships with people can’t. Leave the dust and make the phone call.
9. In limited circumstances, having something chocolate is not only okay, it’s essential.
10. Be happy. Life is short.

There you have it. A top 10 list of recommendations to get you started on creating a happy 2026 if the lofty goals you set for yourself are already cratering.

First thing on my affirmation list is to check the pantry. There’s got to be something chocolate in there that’s not expired.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

My grandchildren and I were riding in the car, and we saw a sign for exit 607. There were giggles in the back seat until I asked what was funny.

“Six seven,” they replied, and the laughing started all over again.

According to social media, the phrase “six-seven” is extremely popular among the pre-teen crowd. But an end-of-the-year Associated Press article thinks this trend has run out of steam.

There are words and phrases dating back to the 1960s that are still in use today because, like “six-seven,” they’re fun. More importantly, they mean something to a select crowd grownups aren’t allowed to join.

Creating new words and phrases isn’t new.  Over 65 years ago, hippies came up with the word “groovy.” I loved that word as a pre-teen because it was so much more colorful than saying something was “good.”

There’s a lot of other phrases from the Love Generation that remain popular today.

Whenever things don’t go my way, I often mutter “bummer” under my breath. I’ve been known to use “the man” when describing nasty people in power.

But I’ve run into quite a few “Karens” – to grab a slang word from the past couple of years – who can give “the man” a run for his three-piece suit.

“Take a chill pill” has come out of my mouth more than once since I was in high school. But old trends are replaced with what’s new and edgy.

Because CB radios were popular in the ‘80s, there are a lot of phrases truck drivers used that became part of our vocabulary.

“Ten-4 good buddy” was one we tossed around whenever we wanted to say good-bye. I had a keychain fob with “keep on truckin’” on it until my young son asked what in the world that meant. My explanations sounded lame even to me, so I tossed the antique.

Despite modern technology, cell phones, and social media, each generation creates words and phrases that fit their age group perfectly. Some last a lifetime, some a year and others fizzle out. There are words and phrases I believe I’ll always use.

My favorites are the two words to describe something truly amazing – “awesome” and “righteous.”

I think “awesome” is overused, but it’s still a great word to describe the best sunset you’ve ever seen. It’s also my go-to word on Facebook to reply to a friend’s achievement.

From the safety and anonymity of my car, I’ve called someone an “airhead” numerous times when they make a stupid move on the road.

I often interchange “airhead” with “bonehead” because they both mean the same thing. Besides, with little children around, the words I’d really like to use aren’t appropriate.

Whenever I use the phrase “far out,” I think I should be wearing a bandana, hoop earrings and huarache sandals.

I love that the 80s generation came up with using “hunk” to describe muscle-bound men. They also came up with “foxy” to describe beautiful women, but I’ll take that one. Foxes are smart, quick, gorgeous and sly. They do what they want with a smile on their face.

Which brings us back to “six-seven.” According to young people and the internet, the phrase means nothing. It can be used to describe anything where a laugh is sought.

For this young generation, “six-seven” will be one of those teen-age memories they’ll slap their foreheads about when they’re older. We know how they’ll feel because we thought bell-bottom jeans and polyester leisure suits were “legit” and would last forever.

We were wrong, but we admit the error of our ways.

Can ‘ya dig it?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

         

It’s officially 2026.

What happened to last year?

This coming year is going to be better.

Those are the top cliches in my vocabulary arsenal I use every single New Year’s Eve.

Looking back, there’s so many promises I make to myself and so many promises I break.

I’ve made long lists that concentrate on personal health. Usually I make that list while munching on Cheetos but getting healthier will start right after that bag is empty.

I’ve had years when exercise is my big promise. On Jan. 1, I put on my socks, lace up my tennis shoes, and I’m standing at the door with my keys.

If it’s too cold, I shut the door and go back inside. If it’s too hot, I tell myself to wait a few days – it’ll cool off. As you can probably guess, it’s always either too cold or too hot.

The pros advise throwing away clothes that haven’t been worn in a year. Those of us who struggle with our weight know we have three sets of clothes in our closets.

There’s the “one-day” clothes, the ones we will lose weight and get back into. They represent hope.

Then there’s the clothes we can wear right now. They represent reality.

Then there’s the last section of elastic-waist pants and T-shirts that come down to our mid thighs.

They represent regret.

Then there’s the years I promise myself to declutter. That list is so long, it’s overwhelming. Instead, I made a short list of reasonable projects last  year.

I cleaned out the junk drawer but only threw away dry-rotted rubber bands and string. The rest stayed. One never knows when a dozen twist ties and an oddball bolt will come in handy.

Cleaning things is always on my resolution list. I washed and dusted the blinds in the kitchen and living room this year. As I did so, I realized the last time I’d undertaken that task was during Covid.

No wonder the dust was so thick.

So instead of making resolutions of what to do, I’m making a list of things I’m not going to do even though professionals would recoil in horror.

Clean the top of the refrigerator. I’m 5’2”. If I can’t see it, the dust isn’t there.

Organize the kitchen utensil drawer. Rummaging round in there for my favorite spatula is part of the cooking process.

Throw away old towels. I like that thinner towels don’t clog up up the lint trap in the dryer.

Moisturize our couch. I don’t even moisturize my face, so why would I bother with a couch that’s 15 years old.

Make my home look like something in a magazine spread. There’s no personality in a house with no family photos or knick-knacks on the shelves.

I still have fake greenery on the top of the kitchen cabinets and on the living room shelves because I like having plants in the house that do not require any maintenance.

I also have hand-crocheted doilies on shelves. They were made by my grandmother, and they’re at least 60 years old. No way they’re sitting in a drawer or getting thrown away.

Clean off the front of our refrigerator. I smile every time I look at the fridge and see drawings and notes from our grandchildren there.

One poem is from our eldest granddaughter when she was in the first grade, and she’s graduating from high school this year. When they’re so faded I can’t read them, they’ll come off.

Maybe.

Here’s hoping your 2026 resolution list is short, fun and promises to make your life easier and happier.

After all, isn’t being happy the best resolution of all?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.