Life
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I once loved corduroy. Corduroy was more than fabric. It was an early form of communication. You could draw pictures on it or write a note to the friend sitting beside you simply by running a finger across the floating yarn and pushing the fibers in one direction. Best of all, nothing you wrote…
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It is summer in Ocean City. Biplanes pull banners advertising seafood buffets while below dolphins arc through the surf. The lettuce and peas are out of the ground and the tiny gardens fronting the summer houses are blooming hydrangeas, daylilies and lavender. It is June and summer is still cool and refreshing here. Karen…
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… a bomb nearly took me out. It happened on the road to Damascus. Not the Damascus where Saul was blinded by a light from heaven. Damascus, Arkansas.
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I’m writing a book. My daughter is baking and selling bread. My brother runs a wood shop, making wooden blocks for children.
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My brother visited over Thanksgiving. He drove, sorry, he sat in a self-driving Tesla and never touched the steering wheel from Utica, New York, to Bartlesville. He brought apples from a local orchard. They were perfectly ripe—crisp, sweet, juicy. It made me think that maybe our lives should be considered this way. Ripe means ready…
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If I could do it all again, I’d be a journalist—back when reporters smoked pipes, wore cardigans, and called in breaking news from pay phones. Journalism runs in my family. My uncle Rudy Taylor, cousin Andy Taylor, and cousin Jenny (Taylor) Dively have owned, written for, and edited several newspapers in southeastern Kansas. I’ve always…
Bespoke 