The surest sign that a toddler is getting big is when she becomes more mature than her grandfather. In the case of my granddaughter, Chloe, who is about to turn 3, that happened about three years ago.
Two other signs are when she gets her own bed and has her first haircut.
Both of those things happened to Chloe recently in what was dubbed, in case you missed the celebration, Big Girl Weekend.
Since she was born, Chloe had slept in a crib, which prevented her, as some grandfathers have been known to do, from getting up on the wrong side of the bed.
I don’t know what the wrong side of the bed is, unless it is against a wall, in which case you will hit your head when you get up and promptly fall back to sleep. Since I am off the wall, I have never had this problem. That’s why I have always thought that the right side of the bed is the top.
Anyway, Chloe had begun trying to climb out of her crib, a sure sign that it was time to get her a bed.
When Chloe heard the news from Mommy (my younger daughter, Lauren) and Daddy (my son-in-law Guillaume), she was very excited. Nini (my wife, Sue) chimed in, saying Chloe was going to get a “big-girl bed,” which made her even more excited.
When I (Poppie) added my two cents, which Chloe put in her piggy bank, she said, “Chloe’s a big girl. And Poppie’s a big boy.”
“Poppie has a big-boy bed,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t wake up on the wrong side of it and slam headfirst into a wall.
Lauren and Guillaume shopped around for a twin bed and a box spring, but naturally there were complications because one store offered one deal and another store offered another and never the twin did meet.
One day, Guillaume and I, thinking outside the box spring, lugged a box containing a bed, not a spring, back to one of the stores. Later, I went home and fell fast asleep in my own bed.
But rest assured, it all turned out OK because, on a recent Friday, Chloe’s new big-girl bed was delivered. She took to it like a fish to water, even though it’s not a water bed, and went right to sleep that night, probably dreaming of her first haircut, which she got the next day.
On Saturday morning, Sue and I went over to see the bed, which is higher than ours and a lot more comfortable. It also has two mattress guards, presumably so Chloe can’t get up on the wrong side.
“Do you like your bed?” I asked Chloe.
“Yes, Poppie!” she chirped. “I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl.”
And she proved it even further when Lauren, Guillaume, Sue and I took her to Hairport Salon in Port Jefferson, New York, for her first official haircut.
“She looks like Shirley Temple,” said Valerie, a very nice stylist who had the important assignment — and, if I do say so, the honor — of trimming and shaping Chloe’s blond curls.
Chloe sat calmly in a chair, holding three purple brushes while Valerie snipped her underlying baby hair. Chloe even helped by handing Valerie one of the brushes.
When the haircut was over, everyone told Chloe she looked beautiful.
Chloe smiled and bit into a cake pop that Lauren had given to her for being so good.
It was a fitting end to Big Girl Weekend. The next celebration will be this Saturday, on Big Boy Weekend, when Poppie gets up on the right side of the bed and goes for a haircut. I may even have a cake pop.
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written three books, Grandfather Knows Best, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is currently president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
Allison and Margaret Engel fondly remember their mother sitting at the breakfast table with the Cleveland Plain Dealer in hand, shaking with laughter.
“She could only manage to get out two words — Erma Bombeck,” recalled Allison, who has collaborated with her twin sister on a one-woman play, Erma Bombeck: At Wit’s End.
Starring stage and screen actress Barbara Chisholm, the play enjoyed its world premiere Oct. 9-Nov. 8 at Arena Stage in Washington, D.C., as part of the Women’s Voices Theater Festival. On April 1, Chisholm and the playwrights will bring a staged reading of the solo show to the University of Dayton’s sold-out Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. After the performance, the playwrights will join the Bombeck family on stage for a behind-the-scenes look at Erma’s life and enduring appeal.
The humorous production is described as “a look at one of our country’s most beloved voices, who captured the frustrations of her generation by asking, ‘If life is a bowl of cherries, what am I doing in the pits?’” Chisholm, who portrays Erma, most recently appeared in the Oscar-winning 2014 film, Boyhood.
“Erma Bombeck: At Wit’s End is a loving tribute to the journalist who was lauded for opening up the secret world of the mother and housewife, to the public figure who used her budding fame to support the Equal Rights Amendment, and to the woman who loved her family. The play is full of Bombeck’s own words and humor and is written for an audience who already know and love her work,” according to a review by dctheatrescene.com.
This is the playwrights’ second one-act play that celebrates women humorists. In 2010, the two journalists and authors brought the feistiness of syndicated Texas political columnist Molly Ivins to life in Red Hot Patriot: The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins. Kathleen Turner starred in the critically acclaimed production on stages in Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Berkeley, Calif., and Washington, D.C.
After the premiere of “Red Hot Patriot,” Aaron Priest, Bombeck’s agent and longtime friend, contacted the playwrights about their interest in bringing Erma to life on stage.
At the peak of her career, Bombeck’s “At Wit’s End” column appeared in more than 900 newspapers, reaching 30 million readers. Her entertaining essays hung on refrigerator doors around the country because they captured so perfectly the foibles of family life. She’s arguably the most famous graduate of the University of Dayton, which honors her legacy through the popular biennial Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. In 1996, she died of complications from a kidney transplant.
“It was such a delight to remember and read all of Erma’s books and columns,” Margaret said. “She is so witty and gets at the secret life of a family that makes us laugh in recognition.”
To research At Wit’s End, the sisters read her immense body of work — thousands of columns and a dozen books — and viewed “Good Morning America” clips from her 11 years on the show. They perused the University of Dayton’s online Erma museum for photographs, speeches and other material and interviewed Erma’s husband Bill, secretary Norma Born and the three children, Matt, Betsy and Andy.
“We had an avalanche of material to work with,” Allison said. “The family has been so wonderful as far as being generous with their time and remembrances.”
Matt Bombeck, a screenwriter in Los Angeles, said the family appreciated hearing Erma’s words performed. “The Engel sisters were absolutely the right playwrights to bring our mom’s humor to the stage,” he said. “We hope the play not only makes audiences laugh, but gives people a deeper insight into her life.”
The Engels’ appreciation for Bombeck grew enormously as they worked to translate her life for the stage. “We found her remarkable,” Allison said. “She was so well known that magazine polls showed her right up there with the pope among admired people, yet she didn’t go Hollywood. When the kids came home from school, she was just mom. We tried to portray that in the play. To be ordinary and have such remarkable fame, it’s almost impossible to pull that off.”
Bombeck poked fun at motherhood and housekeeping during a time of social change for women, drawing a legion of like-minded women as fans. “Many people probably don’t realize that she spent almost two years of her own time on her own dime stumping for the Equal Rights Amendment,” Margaret said. “She lived through the Depression and that experience of seeing what her (widowed) mother went through also informed her activism.”
Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park will close its 2016-2017 season with Erma Bombeck: At Wit’s End. The show plays May 6-June 4, 2017.
— Teri Rizvi
Teri Rizvi is the founder of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop at the University of Dayton, where she also serves as executive director of strategic communications. (Illustration by Ed Fotheringham, courtesy of Arena Stage. Photo credit: Mark Berndt)
I’ve got a problem with the top four seeds for this week’s March Madness men’s college basketball tournament.
There is no way Prairie View A&M, North Dakota State, Pepperdine and Oberlin deserved these top seeds. I would have gone with Alabama A&M, Texas El Paso, Weber State and Tufts.
Those schools deserved it more. The only reason Tufts got a top seed is one of the members of the selection committee has a mother who teaches biomechanical engineering at that school. Jingoism is everywhere.
There are several other teams that got snubbed. They didn’t get an invite to the Big Slow Dance. They included Buffalo University, Gettysburg, Marist, Amherst, St. Bonaventure, Shepard College, Frostburg State, University of California at Santa Cruz, University of Hawaii, Ball State, Wyoming State and Belmont Abbey.
Each of these teams deserved to make the tournament based on their regular season records, strength of non-conference schedules and RPI rankings.
Come on. Wyoming State beat Wyoming twice including at Wyoming, which is a hostile environment. University of California at Santa Cruz beat San Jose State, University of California at Sacramento, The Sorbonne, University of California at Monterrey, University of California at Menlo Park, University of California at Reno, University of Reno, University of Jacksonville, Rollins College and Brigham Young at their place.
The Wyoming State Water Buffalos also meet the eye test; when you watch them play, which no one has, they look like one of the best 68 teams in the country.
Because of all of the mistakes the selection committee has made, this whole tournament should be protested in the parking lot of the NCAA headquarters in Kansas. It’s illegitimate.
Even the first round match-ups don’t make sense and are unfair to several teams. There is no way University of California at Menlo Park should have to play Michigan State in the first round. They got jobbed. It’s unfair that Oregon has to play University of Reno in the first round because Reno has three six foot 10 guys and a shooting guard named Renaldo Reno who can hit threes.
The Midwest Region is where the committee really screwed things up. Why does Duke get to play Coppin State in the first round and them Hamilton College in the second round? The committee always gives special favors to Duke because they drive up TV ratings, which means more money for each committee member.
This same region has Havana College of Cuba, which doesn’t even play in the NCAA, playing against the Wharton School of Business where Donald Trump got good grades. MBA schools should not be allowed in this tournament, and schools from Cuba excel at baseball.
My money for this tournament is on Oral Roberts University over Jesuit College, Liberty College over the Citadel, the Wharton School of Business over the Duke Fuqua School of Business, Trinity College of Texas over Richmond and Cornell over Canisius in a buzzer-beater.
The Final Four will be the University of Phoenix Online University against Prairie View A&M. In the other game will be John Carroll College versus Robert Morris.
The online university will trounce Lehigh in the final.
— Sammy Sportface
Sammy Sportface is possibly America’s best blogger. He is only mildly interested in the truth. To read his new book, Wipe That Smile Off Sammy Sportface, go to Amazon.com.
One of the most challenging aspects of parenthood is convincing your child that you have some idea of what you are doing … because you usually don’t.
“I don’t need a jacket today,” my six-year-old will report to me on mornings that I look out the window and observe ice falling from the sky.
“You need a jacket,” I will insist. “It’s freezing, and you are only wearing a T-shirt that appears to be two sizes too small.”
“But, I’m not cold,” he will reason, as if logic is something he uses on a regular basis.
“Put on your jacket,” I will counter.
“But, MOMMY WHHHHHHYYYYYYY?” His voice will go up several octaves and level out in a long whine like a dying balloon looking for a safe place to land on the floor.
“Because,” I will pause and then utter those words that all parents swear never to use: “I SAID SO.”
Providing such rationale is typically a dead giveaway to any child worth his salt that you have exhausted all your ‘real’ answers and have gotten desperate. My older son, age 10 going on 40, is especially salty.
“I really think you should join a soccer league,” I will say on occasion, varying the suggested sport with each season.
“Not interested,” he will murmur from the couch, the glowing reflection of Minecraft dancing in his eyeballs.
“You’ll make some new friends,” I will point out, “And, you could really use the exercise.”
I’ll go over a prepared list of data points and supporting research to validate my position, like a freshman on the first day of debate club, usually getting monosyllabic counter-arguments or grunts in reply.
Finally, I’ll give up. “How do you know you don’t like something if you don’t try it??” I’ll wail, exasperated.
Here, he’ll glance up briefly and inform me, “I’ve never tried having my brain eaten by zombies, but I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t like it.”
Obviously, my children are getting older, and they are becoming more aware of the fact that at any given time, as a parent, I am winging it. “Because,” is increasingly less convincing as an answer for questions like, “Why can’t I have a bowl of jelly beans for dinner?” or “How come I have to wear pants to Grandma’s party?” Really, I just don’t know.
Recently, I overheard my older son instructing his brother on the finer points of a video game they were playing.
“Why do I need to defeat ALL the bad guys on this level?” the six-year-old questioned.
“Because,” his brother paused, “I said so.”
At least I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what they’re doing.
— Rachael Koenig
Rachael Koenig is a writer and humorist deriving most of her inspiration from her two sons, aged nine and five, and step-daughter, aged 13. Her site Maxisms contains personal stories and a collection of precocious, snarky and hilarious conversations between herself and her children. Her work has recently appeared on scarymommy.com, rolereboot.org, whattheflicka.com and The New York Times parenting blog Motherlode. She thinks of herself as more of an essayist than a blogger, because she is old-fashioned and grumpy and out of touch with modern social media vernacular. Also, “blogger” still sounds like something one would pull out of a left nostril. She can be reached on Facebook.
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I tried to focus on the spackled sheetrock walls in the bedroom my sister and I shared. Quickly, I pulled the quilt up to my neck and tried to figure out what had startled me awake. It was “Blackberry Winter,” as we call it in the South, the time of year in late spring when a cold snap hits just as the blackberries are blooming.
“Rex, have you lost your mind?” I heard Momma scream from the front of the house followed by the same sound that must have awakened me. The urgency in her voice, teamed with my curiosity, convinced me to forego the usual fight with my older sister about who would be getting in the shower first, and I scrambled out of bed. I made my way into the hallway stopping to catch a second of warmth from the wood heater before I eased toward the source of the commotion. Peeking around the living room door, I witnessed what had become an imaginary boxing arena. In one corner was Momma and Frisky, my beautiful black-and-white cat. In the other corner was Daddy, and the spawn of Satan in animal form — an albino possum.
The possum was just one of many creatures my animal-loving Daddy had dragged home. It, along with her seven babies, had been occupying a cage in the back yard that had at various junctures housed two rabbits, three raccoons and two chickens. But today, this fine specimen had garnered an honor above all honors: a visit inside the house to square up against my cat for a battle royal. “Daddy,” I wailed at deafening decibels as I instantly decoded the scene laid out before me.
My cry startled the possum and the origin of the slumber-wrecking sound was revealed as it let out a hiss as loud as a washtub full of water moccasins. This reaction, in turn, sparked a retaliatory hiss and tip-toeing, back-arching ninja move from the cat. Momma and I watched horrified as Daddy did a jig and urged the competitors on. My cat, which was accustomed to Daddy’s antics, (Daddy had even taught it to play fetch) took about a millisecond to assess the situation, hastily decide he was the “undercat” in this match up, throw in the towel and Fred Flintstone his way out of the room.
Unfortunately, Daddy urged on by amusement and Wild Turkey, had other ideas for a towel besides throwing it in. With the prizefight idea thwarted, he moved to plan B: giving the possum a bath.
Without giving one thought to his safety, Daddy scooped up the possum and carried it to the bathroom to draw a nice warm bath. When the water was at the perfect temperature, he opened my bottle of Mr. Bubble and whipped up a snowy mountain for his albino freak of nature. The possum’s fine white hair disappeared like cotton candy as Daddy lowered it into the water, and dumbfounded, Momma and I watched as it allowed him to lovingly scrub it clean. When he was done, Daddy, knowing it was chilly outside, took a hairdryer and dried him right up. When the flowy white hair had reappeared, he brushed it and added a sprinkle of baby powder for good measure. After the spectacle had come to an end, Daddy turned to me and said, “I’m done with the tub now. You can use it.” I opted for a shower instead.
Though an unlikely text for life lessons, there are many that can be gleaned from the story of my Daddy’s actions that day. First of all in life, one must be flexible. When Daddy’s original plan fell through, he didn’t give up, he simply changed his course of action. Secondly, one must be fearless. Daddy dared to bathe a possum and came out completely unscathed because he never once allowed fear to rear its ugly head. And last but not least, one must stand firm in his/her dedication to the task at hand. Daddy set forth to achieve his goal and through his perseverance and strong will claimed his prize — prettiest possum in Panola County.
— Mary Roberson Wiygul
A Mississippi native, Mary Roberson Wiygul has taught in the public school system for more than 20 years. When not teaching, traveling or spending time with her family, she loves to write personal essays, short memoir pieces and poetry. She is currently a feature writer for Southern Sass Magazine, and her work has also been featured in Southern Roots Magazine and Magnolia Quarterly.
Growing up in my parents’ home with four sound-barrier-breaking siblings, a skittish dog that barked when a leaf fell off a tree, and a TV blaring all day was as peaceful as taking a yoga class at an artillery range. I couldn’t wait to move away from this never-ending eardrum assault.
Throughout college and even after I graduated, I lived with roommates who kept their mouths and music on mute. I even sought out someone quiet to date, which at the time seemed like a good idea until it wasn’t. Relationships work better when two people communicate, resolve issues by talking with one another using words other than “uh-huh” and “whatever,” and know when silence is not so golden.
Now that I’m an empty nester, my home and life is monastery-quiet (minus the brown robes and celibacy pledge) until I visit my out-of-town boyfriend or he visits me. Quiet mornings are to him what sleeping late is to parents with toddlers.
My morning routine is simple: I exercise, take a shower and then park myself in front of my computer. My boyfriend gets out of bed, turns on the bathroom radio and then listens to a local radio show whose morning host’s booming voice sounds like he’s gargling rocks inside an active volcano. Not wanting to miss a morning with his favorite Jerk Jockey while out of town, my long-distance love figured out how to stream the show over the Internet and into my bathroom.
One morning as I was putting on make up, I decided to give the show another chance rather than turn it off right away. After a few minutes I admitted to the show’s biggest fan that I may have jumped to conclusions; the host wasn’t as stress-inducing and brain-splitting as I had previously thought. My boyfriend turned to me and said, “See…he’s not that bad” at the same time the host went on a rant like a spoiled traveler who complains about having to fly coach.
Staring into the mirror, my hands shaking harder than the backside of a backup dancer at a music awards show, all I could think about was poking my boyfriend in the eye with the eyeliner pencil that had left me looking like a band member for KISS. If I could bottle the stress that radio host was causing me, and people actually bought it, I’d be a millionaire.
Then I could buy a house with soundproof walls and two separate master bathrooms.
— Lisa Kanarek
Lisa Kanarek is a freelance writer, the author of five books about working from home, and writes the work-from-home blog Working Naked. Her work has been featured on various sites including BonBon Break, In the Powder Room, Grown and Flown, Ten to Twenty Parenting and MockMom. She is a co-author of the bestselling book Feisty After 45. She is the mother of two sons in college and has lived in Texas half her life, but may be breaking state law by not owning a pair of cowboy boots.
Call me crazy, but I like to write poetry.
Cats are a good training ground for poets. They are largely indifferent to poetry, like the overwhelming majority of people, but that still makes them a more receptive audience than my wife, who is openly hostile to the stuff.
Writing poetry for cats is low-level mental stimulation, like doing crossword puzzles or Sudoku, but you make up the problem to be solved, rather than some faceless drone at a newspaper syndicate, so when you’re done you’ve created something. Albeit on a par with a gimp necklace at summer camp.
It takes very little activity, or inactivity, on the part of my cats to serve as my muse. Here’s a cat poem I thought of just last night:
I take my laser pen in hand
and shine it in a circle.
My little cat goes chasing ’round,
it drives him quite berserkle!
Then I take what I’ve written, crumple the paper up into a ball, and throw it across the room. My cat pounces on it, extending our fun, and conserving precious resources through recycling. I’m trying to reduce our humor footprint.
Just because I write poetry for my cats doesn’t mean they’re sissies. They’re both males who will stay out all night, getting into fights with all manner of beasts. They bring us sustenance; field mice, birds, chipmunks. Once Rocco, the younger of the two, horse-collared a squirrel from behind, like a member of the New England Patriots’ defense, and dragged it, dying, to our back patio. As a former high school middle linebacker in a 4-3 defensive alignment, I found this to be a most gratifying spectacle.
T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats is perhaps the most famous collection of cat poems, but it has always struck me as a bit fuss-budgety, like its author, a native of St. Louis who became a British subject in 1927, thereby missing out on seven World Series titles by the St. Louis Cardinals. What a dope! That book, of course, was turned into the hugely successful Broadway show Cats.
My wife once bought us tickets to see the show for my birthday, assuming that because I liked cats, I would like the show, but she sensed my indifference to Eliot’s work at dinner. As we left the restaurant for the theatre we were approached by two show tune mavens who breathlessly asked us if we had tickets we were willing to sell. We gave each other a look that lasted as long as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, then sold the ducats at a premium. This is the first and only known instance of scalping by a Presbyterian woman since the church was established during the Scottish Reformation in 1560.
Lots of poets have had cats, chief among them Samuel Johnson, whose cat was named “Hodge.” I had a girlfriend whose cat was named after Johnson’s. When we had her refined friends over she’d tell the story about how, when Johnson learned of a wave of cat-napping sweeping London at the height of the popularity of cat’s meat pies, he looked down at his cat and said “They’ll not have Hodge!” Sort of NPR humor, as Harry Shearer would say — loads of muted titters. We broke up; she got the cat, and I got the hell out of there.
For my money, the greatest of all cat poems is For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffrey by Christopher Smart (1722-1770), from Jubilate Agno. It’s a work that all pet store owners and cat groomers should have up on a wall in their offices, in needlepoint. Surely you know its stirring opening lines:
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey.
For he is the servant of the Living God,
duly and daily serving him.
For at the First glance of the
glory of God in the East
he worships him in his way.
For is this done by wreathing
his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk,
which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
Musk is the smelly substance obtained from a small sac under the skin of the abdomen of the rodents cats kill, and to “roll upon prank” refers, in a charming 18th century way, to cats’ preferred method of applying it. Yep — that’s a real cat there, not some Broadway-bound dancer-pussy.
Oh — I neglected to mention that when Smart wrote the above, he was a resident of Bedlam, the London hospital for the mentally ill.
Call him crazy.
— Con Chapman
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer whose works include The Year of the Gerbil, a history of the 1978 Yankees-Red Sox pennant race, 10 published plays and two novels, Making Partner and CannaCorn (Joshua Tree Publishing). His articles and humor have appeared in magazines and newspapers including The Atlantic Monthly, The Boston Globe and The Christian Science Monitor.
Best-selling author, humorist, syndicated columnist and feminist scholar Gina Barreca will emcee the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition Awards Ceremony at 7 p.m., Wednesday, March 30, at the Centerville Library, 111 W. Spring Valley Rd. It’s free and open to the public.
In this year’s competition, 563 writers from 46 states and eight countries entered previously unpublished essays in humor and human interest categories — roughly 253,350 words.
Here are the winners:
Humor (Global): Mary Kay Fleming, Crescent Springs, Kentucky
Humor (Local): Kevin Tucker, Vandalia, Ohio
Human Interest (Global): Vikki Reich, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Human Interest (Local): Becky Koop, Dayton, Ohio
Here are the honorable mentions:
Humor (Global): Karen Hamilton, Toronto, Canada; Sharon Kramer, Wheaton, Illinois; Laurie O’Connor Stephans, Plano, Illinois; Nancy Roman, Litchfield, Connecticut; and Marcia Smart, Thousand Oaks, California
Humor (Local): Darlene Sunshine, Dayton, Ohio, and Timothy Walker, Dayton, Ohio
Human Interest (Global): Maia Aziz, Lasalle, Canada; Marti Benson Smith, Colorado Springs, Colorado; Andrea Darvill, Christina Lake, Canada; Janie Emaus, Winnetka, California; and Mona Shand, Brighton, Michigan
Human Interest (Local): Wendy Gilmore, Centerville, Ohio; Allison Mundy, Dayton, Ohio; and Lindsey Roth, Dayton, Ohio
The four winners receive $500 and a free registration to the sold-out March 31-April 2 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop at the University of Dayton. They will read their essays at the awards ceremony.
Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson and a Kettering, Ohio native, was the finalist judge for the humor category. Daryn Kagan, syndicated columnist and former CNN anchor, served as the finalist judge for the human interest entries. The nearly 50 preliminary judges included nationally known authors, columnists, screenwriters, stand-up comedians and a longtime writer for David Letterman.
“I’d like to give a special thanks to our outstanding panel of first-round judges. The caliber of writing for the essays that advanced to the final round was spectacular,” said Debe Dockins, coordinator of the contest for the Washington-Centerville Public Library. “Nancy and Daryn had their work cut out for them, and they did not disappoint. This contest aims to channel the spirit of Erma’s writing, the beauty and absurdity of everyday life, and I think these essays hit the mark.”
To read the winning entries, click here.
The biennial Erma Bombeck Writing Competition, which began 20 years ago, pays tribute to Erma Bombeck, one of America’s greatest humorists and coincides with the University of Dayton’s Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.