When my Joey was little, I made him a tiny photo album.
“Vincent,” a song by Don McLean, was written as a tribute to the late artist, Vincent van Gogh.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Mrs. Hite was her name.
In kindergarten I learned to make a paper turkey with my hand.
Some things are better in twos.
She was barely 5 feet tall.
Some say only fools rush in.
A few weeks before his death, a very dear friend of mine talked to himself.
Big Sky Montana is looking ahead.
It seems the scariest events happen closest to home.
It is said, what consumes your mind controls your life.
Burning wood wound through the wind this morning, riding on the chill of the early prairie dew.
When seriousness comes on too strong, life has a way of reminding to lighten up.
Over the weekend I was reminded —
Going undercover has its merits.
In the middle of the night it hit.
One 1982 summer while adrift on the Catalina Flyer, seasickness struck.
Songs are a holiday.
The truth is in the trees, it seems.
My love for books is as perennial as the grass.
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