“… 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
I have a blood cancer, multiple myeloma. It’s not an accident. It’s not bad luck. It’s just life. I adapt to the complications. My skin mottles. Smears of color come and go and return. I admire the abstract tattoos on my hands and forearms. Numbed by drugs and disease and age, my brain and body … More The Indifferent Gardener
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
Normally, this time of year, my wife and I would be traveling to San Francisco to visit relatives. Our son, niece, and my brother’s family live in the Bay Area. For the last several Christmases we’ve vacationed there. We take in a movie each day and dine out each night. It’s the perfect getaway to … More 2020
In September, smoke from wildfires shut down activities in much of Oregon. An eerie mustard colored sky shrouded the community of Hood River. The burnt smell of the air created a vacancy reminiscent to March/April’s sheltering in place. Eyes itched and stung; throats seized up dry and scratchy. People were dispossessed of how to pass … More What Next?
Cancer requires one to slow down and simplify their life. Predictability in ongoing routines helps me to manage an otherwise unpredictable disease. Finding peace in a time of uncertainty is the goal. Once a month, I receive a dose of immunoglobulins. It’s a support treatment. It doesn’t kill cancer cells. Instead, it boosts my immune … More Summer Daze
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
“Meanwhile, someplace in the world, somebody is making love and another a poem.” From Figuring by Maria Popova I fed hummingbirds all winter. Each time I thought they had departed for a warmer climate, they would appear and take a big slurp from the feeder. I received two petunia plants in September. They continue to … More Today Will Not Be Here Tomorrow
I dislike flying: the herding, the depressing bag of pretzels, and the claustrophobic cabin. It’s a perfect environment for disease transmission and my immune system can’t protect me. Yet, the opportunity to spend the holidays with our oldest son, my brother, and nieces and nephews compelled my wife and I to fly to the San … More Stanyan Street
