Photo Copyright Beth Carter
Dad was a picker way before picking was cool, and the summer I turned ten, I was finally old enough to ride along. By the end of August, I had scrounged enough trash from piles tossed under porches, behind sheds, and around the carcasses of rusted out Fords to create the hippest playhouse in the neighborhood. Billy Peters was so impressed he forgot girls have cooties and crowned himself king of my cast-off castle. Fifty years on, I remain Billy’s queen, and our greatest treasure is our grandchildren’s voices drifting to us from the ragged remains of our childhood thrones.
Today I’ve accepted the challenge of the Friday Fictioneers, a group of authors who craft a 100-word story based on a new photograph each week.