I don’t collect physical things. Instead, I hoard simple tales that find their way into my much larger stories. I’m a firm believer of planting Easter eggs. You know, those hidden nuggets based on real life situations stuck in between all sorts of made-up ones.

Sometimes they are something someone said to me (or in my presence).

When my daughter was two years old, she politely told her pediatrician, “I have an impressive vocabulary.”

Sometimes the anecdotes are longer.

In 1982, my mom and I lived in a house that was once a mansion back in the 1890’s. By the time we got there, the place was cut up into apartments. We lived in the attic apartment. One day, our pitiful little black and white TV broke.

Before starting dinner, my mom called a repairman to come over and fix it. I ran down to the porch to wait for him. The day was beautiful, but I couldn’t have cared less. I wanted the TV in working order before The Dukes of Hazzard came on.

When the repair man arrived, I showed him up the stairs and to the TV. I shouted, “Mom! The guy’s here.”

My mom came out of the kitchen butcher’s knife still in hand. The guy took in the sight of my mom. He took a step back from her. Maybe he had been in a knife fight and didn’t care for another one.

Then man fiddled with the TV and then haggled with my mom about the cost or whether we should just buy a new one. While they did so, my cat came out and repeatedly interrupted their conversation. I tried to distract him, but he was having none of it. My mother and I knew he what he wanted. So, my mom stopped talking a moment, opened the window behind her, still holding the knife, picked up our cat and shoved him out.

The repair man’s eyes looked at us with wide, fearful eyes. “Lady! You just threw your cat out of the window!”

“It’s ok,” I said. “He’s okay.”

My mom waved the knife and tried to coax him over to the window. Had he looked, he would've seen our cat having a grand, ol' time on the roof. Instead, he backed away from us cat killers.

Then, we all heard a long and loud, “merrawaw.” It was that distinct meow a cat makes to call their kittens (or humans) out for dinner. In popped our cat with a bird, not quite dead, in his mouth. He dropped the wounded bird at the repairman’s feet.

The man ran.

I have many different stories like this, kept usually in my head, but occasionally written down in a journal. When a scene comes by that can use a little extra bling, I neatly slip one of these anecdotes in. To me, that whiff of reality gives my stories credibility.

Every once in a while, a beta reader will complain that nothing like this could ever really happen.

Too bad, I can’t please everyone.