Here’s how my life works: I’ve been grumpy lately; some might say grumpier. My birthday was coming, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to acknowledge being 70, much less being that old. Lydia has been getting rid of piles and boxes of oddments collected over the years. Tossing old, useless bits of cards, posters, and…
The sky is a high, pale blue this afternoon. A slight breeze takes the sting out of the ninety-degree heat. A few thin shadows of clouds hover around the horizon, barely visible. Time got away from me after I started the pandemic journal. My focus narrowed. My concern became my family and their…
Read more The Old Yeller Dog Come Trotting Through the Meeting House
The garbage truck is slowly making its noisy way back down the other side of the street. The plastic cans don’t make the same racket that the old 50 gallon barrels of my childhood did; even then the trucks came up the alley, not the street. Alleys were the domain of us kids then. We…
The light was slow in coming this morning and there was no birdsong. I knew it was going to be cloudy, somber, and grey. The signs were there, and when it finally arrived, the light was dim and vague, lacking an obvious source. Grey skies in Oregon always seem to carry an atmosphere of contemplation…
I wandered into the dark kitchen at 3 AM. Automatically, I pushed the button on the pot to start coffee, before I turned on the light over the sink. On the stove was a cast iron deep, fry pan. A dishtowel was draped over it, and the towel swelled upward pregnantly. I had started…
The cheery blossoms outside the bedroom window are distinctly white in the vague, grey light. It is daylight, but the sun has not come over the Cascades to the east yet. I have my coffee, a good mystery, and a fever. I’ve just finished a breakfast of ham, scrambled eggs and fresh cornbread. Lyd is…
Breathing I miss our daily newspaper. Like many people, I suspect, I had not foreseen that the internet would see the end of local print. We quit taking the paper when it got down to only a few pages and the delivery service became sporadic at best. It was not a pleasant end, rather like…
The poet William Stafford woke early most mornings, I am told, and reclined on his couch, covered with a knitted throw. He would drink a cup of instant coffee while he thought and composed. His early rising was a habit, so I believe, of the time he spent in an intern camp during the Second…
In the kitchen, the sourdough starter has started to bubble. There is a faint smell of yeast. On the window shelves along the south side of the family room, egg cartons filled with potting soil and tomato seeds are warming in the morning sun. Above the sink, the bottoms of plastic bottles hold more…
I’ve just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. I made wheat bread because I have some whole wheat flour I’ve been meaning to use and what better time than when the store shelves are empty of bread and flour. As soon as it was out, I cut off the end, piled on…
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