My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

I write stories about stories–Reading them, writing them, living them

Shortly after I finished cleaning up my backyard secret garden, hubby and I sat on the bench enjoying a beautiful mid-spring evening when a little black and brownish bird hopped among the limbs of a nearby pine, then darted into the birdhouse I’d suspended for decoration. I thought it was a chickadee but couldn’t say …

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