The chop got my attention. A toddler in the seat ahead whimpered. He’d fussed and cried for much of the two hour flight. Over tired, I suspect. The last stewardess standing swayed with the pitch and roll of our descent. She buckled in. Soon after, the plane hit the tarmac hard, bounced once, and settled. … More It’s Not Always Rainbows
We scuffed through the narrow perimeter of dunes. The powdery sand gave way with each step. Tall grasses glowed in the morning light. Once upon the beach, the going eased. An ebbing tide had packed the sand. It stretched for miles, north and south. Ahead, the ocean schussed with a succession of breaking waves that … More Another Roadside Attraction
“… since we must always have a suffering world, we must also always have a song” David Budbill It’s said that “a Libra’s purpose is to use its unbiased and fair stance to fight for the practical cause of the world and make it become a better place. They like balance and justice.” Hmm … … More Libra Lullaby
“… writing a song can be like chasing a wounded bird down a road.” Lori McKenna I’ve been writing cringe worthy poetry for more than 60 years. I’m always thinking in rhythm and rhyme, listening for the music in words. I can’t stop scratching the itch to write. My last post, The Indifferent Gardener, linked … More Anatomy of a Song
It’s the winter of life. Ads for funeral services pepper my mailbox. Mortuaries stalk people my age. The implication, I suppose, is that I don’t have too many decades left. It’s nice to be wanted. Eventually, I’ll buy what they have to sell. But, for now, I’ll wait. There are more songs to write. It’s … More The Winter of Life
“The earth is not just the environment we live in. We are the earth and we are always carrying her within us.” Thich Nhat Hahn In the early 1970s, I lived alone in a one bedroom cottage in a pocket of private land within the confines of Yosemite National Park. I worked at the Wawona … More Jimbo, A Reminiscence
I can’t remember how I learned to read. I don’t recall the teacher’s patience to help me sound out vowels and consonants. Nor the prompts to form these sounds into words. Was I encouraged at home by my parents? If so, there’s no memory. That process disappeared with time. Yet, the gradual step by step … More In the Oregon Hills
I live in Hood River, Oregon. The river for which it is named flows north from the foothills of the Mt. Hood National Forest. Its three forks converge ten miles south of town. My youngest son and his family shelter in place near that spot. From there it meanders through woods, pastures, and orchards before … More Sorry, We’re Closed
In the early spring in this year of the pandemic we live in a house on a street that divides the city from the county. The trees in the fruit orchards nearby are past peak blossom and west winds scatter their petals onto the pavement. Strangers walk by the house, in groups of two or … More Deserted Streets, Empty Spaces
Summer came and went. It left behind a northwest parched by a succession of hot spells so extraordinary that even climate change deniers had their ‘come to Jesus moments’. Rain arrived, at last, in early October. The dire predictions retreated, forgotten along with admonitions to floss our teeth, avoid sugary drinks, and quit smoking. We are … More Summer
Good Blood, Bad Blood 