Weeding is my gardening skill. Cower before me, thou Himalayan blackberry scourge!

The metaphor I’m exploring now in my work is the megaphone. To amplify so that others may hear.

One of my jobs these days is to take my father-in-law, known as “Bimpy” to his grandchildren, to his doctor visits. Bimpy is 85 years old and lives alone, having been widowed for 14 years. Over the past couple years Bimpy has suffered two serious falls leading to...

I have been a poet since I was 9 years old. (Yes, I have a copy of my first poem. No, you can’t read it.)

I’m willing to believe or consider believing (let’s not get hasty!) that if I stopped pointing out the rough patches other people would be fine. More relaxed, more comfortable, happier, more productive, saner.

My father had a way of speaking de-li-ber-ate-ly, which often made him sound oracular. So did his wisdom.

I’m still trying to figure out the importance of Alfred Tarski to my father; I never heard him speak of Tarski until the last year or so of his life.

I feel a little defensive about taking the chairs to the dump, but nobody else in the family wanted them, and I even took the step several years back of getting verbal permission from others in the line of inheritance, all of whom said they didn’t want them and didn’t care what I did with them.

Grades are stupid. They are shorthand used for communicating shallowly. They mean very little in the big scheme of things.