Bespoke

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  • Blessed are the Biscuit Eaters

    If you’ve ever wondered what goes on in the mind of an introvert writer, here it is. We like judging people. Not in the indicting sense, but rather as a playful mind game that often displaces conversation. Shame on us… Continue reading

  • Thanksgiving Man

    Yesterday I experienced two moving moments. One was simple, a man walking along a sidewalk in my hometown. He was arguing passionately with someone, but he was totally alone, his actions said that he was invisible, and I felt sad.… Continue reading

  • Flashes of Wonder

    If I wrote like my wife talks, I’d write narrative like a kid writing home from summer camp, “I had oatmeal for breakfast and we played softball and I outran all the boys in a foot race and we had… Continue reading

  • Skimming Along Old Man River

    This weekend the Sooner football team defeated Notre Dame and I skimmed along the mud flat shoals of the Red River in an air boat with four college buddies. We powered upstream through the shallow grassy sandbars pausing to shut… Continue reading

  • Whenever I See Your Smiling Face

    Jenna and Lauren express Duchenne smiles while framing my nephew David sporting a retro-eighties mouth-only male smile James Taylor did not sing Whenever I see Your Smiling Face about professional athletes…unless of course he was referring to Phil Mickelson or… Continue reading

  • Mosquito Dancing in the Fire Hall

    My wife Karen was born in Trenton, New Jersey and spent most of her childhood in the small town of Tabernacle on the edge of the pine barrens about halfway between Philadelphia and Atlantic City. I first visited her home… Continue reading

  • Caddying for the Younger Generation – Part 2

    I sat on my hotel bed the night before the opening round and read about notable players including a golfer from Shreveport named Hal Sutton who had already won the Western Amateur that summer. I’m playing with Hal Sutton who… Continue reading

  • Caddying for the Younger Generation

    Francis Chan put hands over his face and agonized about whether to speak the unspeakable to a traditionally proud and spiritually cloistered group that appeared from his stage perch decidedly gray, liver-spotted hands enshrouding the candle lit flame that once… Continue reading

  • No Man is an Island

    I wandered over to the headstone of my Grandpa Jesse Davis after Aunt Becky’s graveside service and while standing to the side of his bones (Grandma Mildred told me to not step on folks in the graveyard…it’s not respectful), I… Continue reading

  • Becky Ran Home Today

    Becky Marie Davis ran home today. The last time she ran was 1954. But today, her legs were unbound, her lungs filled with fresh air, her heart soaked in heavens glory. As I’ve watched the graceful withering of my Aunt… Continue reading