At fifty, my own life has not come to much and my death sits in a straight-back chair under a lilac bush in the garden behind the house, reading my old letters, waiting. He is in no hurry to come knock on the back door. There’s plenty to keep him interested in the piles of […]Read more "Turning Sixty"
The wind blew Thursday, and the snow fell. The world was a swirl of white. Snow devils danced across plowed fields, roadside ditches filled with drifts, cars crept down county highways. Winter, if only for forty-eight hours, had re-asserted itself at October’s end. But today is Saturday, partly sunny, and calm of wind […]Read more "The Art of Going"