Welcome!
Lashley Lane, or parts of it, has been a pen name of mine over the years. I treasured my life on that little street. I was safe and cherished and nurtured, imprinted with good memories. We are way Beyond that now but the influence of those early years is embedded deeply.
I’ll be remembering real life and musing about this and that from the past, present, and future. I remain fiercely loyal to the ideal of family and friends being redeemable just as you and I are redeemable, so you’ll just have to trust me with occasional details as I honor privacy. Above all, please realize my Christian point of view. I only hope it will be obvious.
Be sure to click on the navigation bar to find your way around. Happy reading!
LATEST POSTS
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Meat Hungry
When you tell life stories to people do you wonder if there’s any common thread between the teller and the listener, the writer and the reader? I do. Can you relate to me? Can I relate to you? Do my words speak your language? Certainly we are not all the same age (stop clapping your
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Relentless Goodwill (Ugh)
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away I stood chit chatting with a lady at church. She was somewhat older than I, respected in the congregation, a well-liked person with a nice circle of friends both there and in the community. She explained to me why she and her family decided to
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In the Light of Goldie
Louella Goldie Westmoreland lived 32 years, never married or became a mother, did not know the enjoyment of a good book or scintillating after-dinner conversation, did not attend school and was dependent on her loved ones to care for her. A high fever as an infant immediately changed her life and the lives of her
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Hidden Pictures
On a strangely quiet Monday I took a photo of where I sat. It’s my desk in my “office.” It’s not really just an office. And it’s not really just mine. We’ll call it multifunctional. Jointly owned. In here I read, write, research, organize, study, pray, ponder, water plants, stitch, search the file cabinet for
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Pen Pal Marty
When color TV came to our basement in the late 60s, it brought with it the bloody reality of the nightly news of Vietnam. The war had been safely gray up to that point. In 1968 I was just seven and in 2nd grade but “Hanoi” and “Saigon” were familiar words to me, though without
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The End of Coco’s Tail
It begins long before the tale of Coco’s tail, way before my boyfriend introduced me to his own actual family. We start here. On 1st Street in Nampa, Idaho. In this old house. Once upon a time there was a skinny college boy who needed a place to stay during the summer. The boy had
Beyond Lashley Lane 