• me about the same time and place of the story

    Two Little Hands

    My life’s decades are the number of fingers on a well-formed human hand, not including the thumb. We could say the last five years1 have been the thumb, half-a-thumb, anyway. I pretty much finished off the first four fingers and skipped to the next hand to use the index finger then jumped back to the thumb on the first hand as though an afterthought. These last five years have been opposable. Does that work in this context? Opposable? Do I need to explain?2 The details of what make this so are… what they are and don’t matter other than they make up something that is opposable. One fifth of one…

  • Babies are Gross

    Birth. Our nephew’s daughter entered Earth’s atmosphere in the vicinity of San Antonio. Hardly a moment later photos came as email attachments, precious new yet-to-be-swaddled human, her waxy white and vernix coat softening the blushing red. Other than in emails, this image was spared social media exposure as far as we know. The parents are commended. The joy of a new family member spread quickly to the other side of the world. Our daughter in Seoul quickly shot back her observation. “Babies are gross.” Such candor attests to her lineage, and the adage: she is her father’s daughter. I’m so proud. She’s right, you know. She, at birth, was no…

  • Penguins Know Their Partners

    we know emperor penguins mate for a season, spawn, repeat with another partner next time around and never look back at what was with whom it was because, because, because of the singular focus at hand as both arch and bow as one as their instinctive bond doth command a commitment to memory unto bone and sinew through downy fir upon layered blubber, having survived the summer’s grazing under thinning sheets and menacing predators, and as the couple they are for the rearing of another half-clone of each, the call, the scream, the cackle, the chortle for which no human has a word that means the sound they make, distinguishable…

  • remember…

    The nature of this venue does not put a premium on research. This is no publication of record. It’s the Internet. Worse, it’s a blog. A web log. A log on the web. It is a log of blurbs and nonverbal verbiage because it has not been verbalized, actually uttered other than through these fingers upon this keyboard, and then, if you are a tormented with cognition, the voice you are hearing as you read this. The difference is that I don’t talk this way, the way these words are coming out here on this screen, unless I am writing. Or do I? I don’t really know. Sometimes and not.…

  • gargoyle not from pottery barn

    It wasn’t a squirrel. It was a gargoyle, I could tell the difference easily. I fell in love with it immediately. What a concept. Who would have thought of placing a gargoyle at the edge of a roof about thirty feet above a suburban lawn? Perhaps a gargoyle would think to do so. More likely the gargoyle would do so without thinking. What thought was required? Just do it. It’s the natural thing. Which is probably why our gargoyle looked so naturally positioned. Source: Flickr Creative Commons He is not of clay or plaster, we have learned. And we have named him Vesparo, not knowing his real name or if…

  • Parent Teacher Conference

    My wife and I each received the same email from my youngest daughter’s English teacher today. Teacher Conference sessions were approaching. Would we like a meeting? The short and simple answer is no. Emails from teachers used to be a bad thing, particularly when concerning our eldest. Any classroom-originated communication was automatically cause for concern, usually an invitation for a meeting with the teacher, a couple of teachers, perhaps an administrator or two, and, what the heck, throw in a dean or a counselor or a principal or all the above. The more the merrier. My wife would become a lioness protecting her cub. How dare anyone in the room…

  • A-Rod, a strike-out before the strike

    Somebody had shelled out some big bucks for this family outing. It wasn’t me. I never is. It was probably Grampa and step-Grandma. It’s what they do. It’s amazing and wonderful, so generous, so memorable. The Ballpark in Arlington was new. No scuffs on the polished pavement floors, no bumps or chips along the glistening walls, no hinges squeaking in the stadium seats so clean they might as well have been sanitized for our protection.  I remember entering the stadium through a glorious corner gate that is probably architecturally aligned with first base. St. Peter comes to mind. But memory enhances visual associations with emotional experiences, good, bad, and to…