Most Memorial Day weekends, you can find me at the Baker’s fishing cabin on the Deschutes River in Central Oregon. The river roar is constant. Ospreys fish from the same tree. The stand of yellow irises by the dock are almost in bloom when we arrive. Bill makes...
When I first received my diagnosis, I told myself that if I was okay with it, every one I loved would be, too. Perhaps a naive notion. Possibly verging on wisdom. Or maybe just self-preservation. I wanted to move to acceptance so that others could as well. It was too...
Change has been my constant companion. At first, misunderstood. At times, unwelcome. At last, recognized, though I have not always been. Recognized. Especially on returning home after a considerable absence. It comes in waves, it seems. The awkward handshake. The slow...
Handmade pasta crafted with love and devotion mere blocks from my condo. And me, an Italophile. How to resist? I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t. But I did have to tackle some obstacles: one steep hill, two awkward steps, and a whole lot of stubborn...
“What are you, his mother?” the paramedic asked my wife. I was in a stretcher in the back of an ambulance outside Boston on a frigid night. It had taken a lifetime for them to maneuver me down the steep and tight back steps of my parents’ colonial,...
The tendency for humans to pigeon hole is strong. I know because I’ve been that pigeon. Or that guy in the wheelchair. But, of course, I am more than that. Much more. I am also a devoted and happy husband. Recently my funny valentine suffered a severe ankle...
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