The Tinderbox When my father dropped his fork onto his dinner plate, I knew something dreadful had happened. I thought a loved one, an aunt, uncle, or cousin, had died. If that were true, I wondered why he had remained silent, why he hadn’t shed a tear. He sat there, looking pale and stoic. As I drew in a deep breath, really alarmed now, my father instantaneously bowed his head. Daddy then delivered an ominous prediction.
There was one neighbor who was excessively grouchy and mean. He was so despicable that we never called him by his real name; instead, we called him the “Yogurt Man.” Just like cottage cheese, we hated the look and taste of yogurt, which is made from bacterially fermented milk. Considering how this man acted, “Yogurt Man” was the perfect handle. His behavior and demeanor were unpleasant and impolite; he was somebody whom we detested, a person deserving of disrespect and disdain.
We Could be HeroesAs Libby and I sat there chatting, dangling our legs against the Formstone wall, we noticed two boys crossing the street about two blocks up from our house. Since they were the only people whom we had seen so far, we kept watching them. At first, we thought the boys were simply playing around as they weren’t unruly or loud. We thus concluded they did not intend to cause any trouble. Suddenly, a blaring clamor echoed throughout the neighborhood.
My Dearest Anne
As soon as I walked (into the library), I noticed racks of “Newly Arrived” books. Judging from their covers, none of them seemed appealing. I browsed the stacks, searching for the perfect story. I loved to read mystery novels, but this time I was looking for something different. In the non-fiction section, I saw one book that caught my attention, “Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl.”