More of my published work; etc.

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McKenna's Annual Thanksgiving Letter

Nov. 22, 2018 Dear McKenna: Eighteen years ago I sat down to write your very first Thanksgiving letter when I was 34 years old and you were spending your first Thanksgiving with your mom and dad. I was working as a data entry operator, living with a roommate, the re-make of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” with Jim Carey just came out, and I had a Tonkinese cat named Chaplin and a mutt, Ripley who charmed everyone. I remember when I sat down to write that letter at my roommate’s computer looking out at his French door windows at his back yard and all the emotions I was feeling at the time – imagining you with your family at Thanksgiving, happy that you were safe and warm in your new home, content that I had made the right decision, and thankful that I could sit down and type those words to you. I had always promised myself that every birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas I would sit down and write a letter to you and though I missed a couple, which I reg
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By Terri Rimmer He told me he really missed me and could I come see him for Christmas in one of the home towns I lived in, Smyrna, Georgia. My heart sank as I knew I had to work and it was our busiest season, though I still wanted to see him as I told him New Year’s Eve weekend might be a possibility. For the first time I didn’t have any travel anxiety as many times as I’ve traveled, which was nice. I had a dream before I left that I got off the plane and there he was, hugging me tight and not letting go. I didn’t have any nightmares like I usually do before I make my yearly birthday trip. I have had nightmares every night since I was three. This “he” I speak of is Terry, one of my former foster fathers, a lifetime Church of Christ member who I’ve kept in touch with since the 80s. My foster mom, Peggy passed away in 1983. Terry got remarried in 1988 to a woman named Ann, also a lifelong Church of Christ member. Terry graduated from high school in 1968, having
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Why New Year’s Eve is Hard for Me By Terri Rimmer

I used to love New Year’s Eve. The partying, drinking, fanfare, the festivities, all the celebration in the air, the nights leading up to the big evening, and, of course, the big countdown. But now those three words, New Year’s Eve bring with it a crushing blow to the heart, mind, and spirit. I can’t even stand to hear them and it was only in the past two years was I able to utter them to people or respond back to people those same words when they would wish them upon me on the celebratory evening when the world celebrates as normal people do. What changed? On New Year’s Eve 2005 my boyfriend of two years, Ruben, died of liver cancer at the age of 53, only two months after being diagnosed. Then on New Year’s Eve 2008 my dad, who I had been estranged from for 20 years, but who I had just started talking to again through email three months before he died, passed away. Needless to say, I have hated the holiday ever since. I never got to say good-bye to Ruben because his dea
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