For the last three years, my day has ended with an email to Connie Waterman. Nothing long or complicated. A word or two about my day. A question about hers. Some weather observations. And always,…
I dream it into three dimensions so many nights— my growing up home. 830 North Ash in McPherson. The very last time I stepped inside for real—the rooms echoingly empty, I recorded the metallic rasp…
Two posts ago, I jumped the gun with my essay on fighting to accept winter. Since then, the universe has served up an uncommonly lovely fall. We have had flickers of frost some mornings. We…
I spent the lion’s share of my 76th birthday in Helena’s Justice Court. No, I was not the scofflaw. I was on jury duty—for which I managed to be selected out of something like 30…
This is an old song—for a new but disappearing summer. The berries, on Mary’s mountain ash, have begun their transubstantiation. From green to gold to orange. The mystery, the sacrament will end in scarlet. The…
Hard to know whether the outrageous sum I paid Lowe’s for three pots of fake Boston ferns anchored in concrete was money well spent. On the one hand, I managed to save the heirloom begonias…
Awhile back, I downloaded the phone app “We Croak.” It’s based on a Bhutanese belief that to live fully we must contemplate death often. Become its friend. Five times daily at random moments the app…
Never underestimate the universe’s brilliant, complex, and astonishing perversity. Salish Elder Tony Incashola and long-ago friend and historian Bob Utley both died on June 7. Their deaths–and their lives– shadowed June. I knew each in…
Books are miracles. Their gradual, persistent emergence in our world changed every other element of society, over and over again. Their long, successful slog toward affordability and maneuverability bends my mind. Books have always been…
You gotta love a seven-year-old grandson who can’t get over the odd pattern in the tines of a salad fork that don’t exist in the regular one. Or asks that his next birthday present be…