Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The white sands at White Sands weren’t typical beach fare. If you grabbed a handful, you’d be surprised at its consistency—almost like fine sugar. From an air-conditioned car, the sands look like snow. Outside, the 112 degree heat quickly dispels that illusion.

“Hey,” Ronnie said as we lifted the carpet roll out of his trunk. “They got a black sands anywhere?”

“What do you care?” I asked. “You’re more red than anything except under that beater where your farmer tan ends!”

“I don’t wanna match the sand,” Ronnie said, dropping his end of the roll and reaching for a spade. “Just curious.”

“There’s black sand near volcanoes, I think. Grandpa always talked about black sand in the war.”

“What about blue sand? Or purple?”

I glared at Ronnie. “Just dig, will ya? Joey’s not getting any fresher.”

A name is a curious thing. You could know someone named Geoffrey in third grade who beat you up and stole your lunch money, and forever after you’d think of him whenever you heard that name, and never consider naming any of your children after a bully. The word Geoffrey would be forever ruined for you, even though some would consider it a beautiful name.

Case in point: I once knew a Ramona—this was years ago—who scarred that name for me so badly that even seeing Beverly Cleary books would make me shudder a little. I’d give the odd Ramona that I saw a wide berth just to be safe.

That system worked well enough until I met my second Ramona six months ago.