Needed, sensory deprivation evaded my rearing. Fresh with me are Mom’s stern looks and unchallenged tone of voice and any threat of death by hickory or forced gagging from Brussels Sprouts. Long are the wishes for escape when my bothering had aroused one of her guaranteed responses. I feared June T. Cheatham before God ever […]
Hickory sticks and brussel sprouts Read More »
Not that I’d go back, I wouldn’t. Even if I could, I couldn’t. I’ve invested too much time forgetting To remember what it was I set out to forget. Rod McKuen, Poet There was a time in my life (and probably yours, too) when memory was easy. Good at names, I had a particular knack
For this, by this, in this Read More »
Thinking, listening, observing, notetaking, reading, conversing and emptying oneself of long formed preconceptions are the writer’s comfort. A writer always writes whether staring at a blank page or watching nature from a park bench or unraveling the poet’s pause or surviving those oft constrained demands and interruptions life places on us all. A writer’s frame
One of the silent and persistent undertones of playing golf, of distinguishing amateurs from professionals, of good amateurs from pedestrian ones, is repeating a bad habit long enough to make the habit seem normal. Of course, normal means imperceptible because, well, it is normal. The poor result produced by this wrong suggests something is amiss,
