I don’t pay attention to fashion. Truthfully, I don’t pay attention to anything—I’m the most unobservant person I know. But I really don’t pay attention to fashion. Clothes, hairstyles, makeup. Ask me about anyone outside of my family and I’ll draw a blank. You say “Kate’s pretty, but she wears too much makeup.” I say … Continue reading Sorry, but now I must dash
Creative Nonfiction
Poke
Poke. Poke. Poke. Sophie, pissed: Eli, get away from me! Eli, in a sing-songy voice: Eli, get away from me! Poke. Poke. Poke. I have two cats. Roz, she’s eight or nine. Fat, diabetic, mellow. She spends her day sleeping, and when not asleep, sitting. Tommy’s five, a teenager of a cat. Constantly hopping on … Continue reading Poke
Hope
When you talk about it, you need to look for hope. This statement has been in my thoughts all day. Anyone who regularly reads this blog already knows what I’m writing about. I’m only thinking about one thing these days: COVID-19. You probably have a good idea who made the statement, as well. Three and … Continue reading Hope
When I was a D!ck
Years ago, when I joined The Writers' Brigade, Gettysburg's only public writers' group, long-time member Keith Johnson put a name to the steady stream of intensely personal prose I churned out. He called it confessional nonfiction. The name fit. Much of what I produced seemed to spring from an uncontrollable desire to come clean. To … Continue reading When I was a D!ck
Small Waves
…and then Buck pounced on the gunman… Is pounce a playful word? I think of a cat springing to catch a mouse or a mole in tall grass; not to eat, maybe catch and release. I don’t mean to use the word playfully, Buck meant to kill. Last night, I watched The Call of the … Continue reading Small Waves
Of vegans and hoarders
I’m part of the problem. Our pantry is full of food: pasta, rice, beans. Our freezer is packed: frozen fruits and vegetables, lots of French fries, some pre-made burgers, pounds of chicken. The snack cabinet, overflowing: cheddar pretzels, corn chips, popcorn, snack mix, potato chips (Utz, Lays, Hanover), granola bars, Clif Bars, fruit gummies. Boxes … Continue reading Of vegans and hoarders
Meditate
In the darkest nights of winter, Susan and I jog deserted streets. Channeling Jackson Pollock, our swinging hands gripping flashlights scribble vanishing art across the pavement. In the blackness, there’s nothing to see save two beams as they dance and bounce first behind and then before us. We don’t talk. The patterns in our foot-falls … Continue reading Meditate
Collapse
In the movies I watch, calamity—an alien attack, an errant meteor, a rampant pandemic—unifies humanity. Nations, once enemies, begin to work together. Political divides evaporate. We become a global team battling a common foe. That’s the prevailing attitude. Let’s work for the common good. Walking out of the theater I bask in a warming glow. … Continue reading Collapse
Unwelcome Attention
Oblivious. Or maybe an open ear, monitoring the room. Yes, probably that, so just an impression of oblivion. I don’t stop myself; I bury my nose in the junction of her neck and shoulder, dry and downy, and inhale the sweet perfume of clean. One eye opens, staring, not at me, but across the room, … Continue reading Unwelcome Attention
Walking a Wobbly Rope
David Sedaris called me an amateur. OK, let’s discuss the obvious: David Sedaris doesn’t know me; Although I have earned money writing, I’d hardly call myself a professional; Really, he only called one of my writing habits ‘amateur.’ Not me personally. Still, it hurt. Who’s David Sedaris? You’re kidding, right? In this gigantic WordPress world … Continue reading Walking a Wobbly Rope
Calm, Content, Relaxed
We layer sensibly. Wicking shirts hanging long over nylon tights. Hats and gloves. A gaiter for my neck—frigid air makes me hunch my shoulders, run stiffly. Today, the coldest day this year. But not uncomfortably so—in the twenties, not the teens. We slip into our running shells as we leave the house. Neon, both of … Continue reading Calm, Content, Relaxed
Hello depression, my old friend
I can’t breathe. Well, obviously that isn’t true. I can’t breathe easily. If I don’t keep thinking about it, I hold my breath. Guarded. Awaiting something bad to happen. I just walked home from work. It’s about a mile, a little more. I left work sick. Sick and worried that one of my coworkers would … Continue reading Hello depression, my old friend
Crash. And Burn.
Finally, a run that didn’t suck. In late November, I wrote about CJ’s Resolution Challenge—a timed trail-race a couple hours from home. You run a 1.6 mile loop for three hours. Whoever runs the most loops wins (I didn't win). In late December, I wrote a follow-up post called T Minus Two Weeks talking about … Continue reading Crash. And Burn.
And Again
Back when we still paid for cable, I sat, mid-morning on my carpeted floor, back against the couch, a sandwich and chips by my side, and watched hurricane coverage. As the hurricane made landfall, I couldn’t pull myself away from the Weather Channel. I waited and waited for something, anything to happen. Never mind that … Continue reading And Again
Crunch Time
The clock ticks, inches forward. Fits and starts. I’m on call now, unenergetic and a little grumpy. Four hours 'till midnight. Sophie picks up the piece of paper next to her on the couch. She reads aloud in a sing-song voice. In French. “Sophie! No homework now. I’m waiting.” Fingers paused over her keyboard, not … Continue reading Crunch Time
Curmudgeon
Reg Henry showed me the way. Or maybe he took my dream job. Either. Both. Whatever. Who’s Reg Henry? He used to be the Deputy Editorial Page Editor of the Pittsburgh-Post Gazette. That’s your dream job? The Deputy Editorial Page Editor of the Pittsburgh-Post Gazette is probably an important position. And a nice culmination to … Continue reading Curmudgeon
Cutting the Strings
Sophie drove the rental car. I don’t think it’s allowed. I told the agent we have three drivers; he didn’t mention any restrictions. He never asked her age, so I never told. Still, I doubt they want a seventeen-year-old driving their car. She leaves at 5:30, Tuesdays and Thursdays. “Text us when you get there, … Continue reading Cutting the Strings
300
How many blog posts is a lot? L. Stevens over at Everyday Strange does a daily quote. And poems, and a weekly calendar, and micro-fiction. I’ve been following her for years. She must have over a thousand posts. Same with Jo Hawk the Writer, she sometimes posts three times a day, how many times has … Continue reading 300
Blockade
The ramshackle jumble of tumble-down trees builds a blockade at the edge of my yard. Brown, mostly brown with highlights of muted green—ivy smothered trees, frozen, dried, projecting brown as well. So brownish on brown, in fading light it’s hard to focus on any one object. Fifteen years ago, my house freshly purchased, no deadfall, … Continue reading Blockade
A Safe Ending
Sophie stayed out past curfew. Not the curfew Susan and I set—we didn’t set one—but the curfew set by the state of Pennsylvania: seventeen-year-old drivers are banned from the road by eleven. Sophie’s never had a parental curfew; she’s never stayed out unreasonably late, and she’s never done anything to make us doubt her judgement. … Continue reading A Safe Ending
