The other day, I found myself talking with a good friend about people — and how he never seems to meet a stranger.
For years, I thought of the color orange whenever thinking about the month of October. Pumpkins, leaves, candy corn. But now I see pink.
From the top of the Ferris wheel, I could clearly see over 35 years into the past.
Increasingly, I’m finding myself heavily relying on my morning pillbox to let me know what day of the week it is.
My friend’s son lives at the far end of a 1,497-mile trail of iron rails. For him, the distance might as well be a million. Divorce can do that to a man.
A friend of mine recently said 90 percent of surfing is paddling, only 10 percent is surfing.
Summer always brings to memory a phrase my mother would say to me and my brother.
My friend is dead. Rear-ended while parked at a red light, the impact crushed his Ford F-150 and pushed him into the intersection. He died a few days later from complications resulting from head injuries. Already, the world feels a bit less exciting, a little less complete.
“It is a lot harder than I expected.”
“You know,” I said, speaking to a friend. “I might need to be a bit more careful at my age.”
While the Lords of Commerce would lead us to believe the celebration of Father’s Day is best addressed by a special sale on power tools, a funny card written with marginally funny puns or maybe a colorful new tie, the truth is much different for many of us.
“Sometimes, you’ve just got to let it go and move on,” said the woman.
Sometimes, the most valuable physical objects in our lives are worth the least when measured in dollars and cents by the outside world.
Grown men generally do not have tears in their eyes at the car wash.
Mr. Shooter, I am not going to mention your name in relation to the deadly and repulsive event you wrought at Santa Fe High School. You do not deserve this acknowledgment in neither my eyes nor ink.
My new friend went in for a cholesterol check and came out with cancer.
Glancing at the driver’s side rearview mirror, I noticed a yellow banana sitting on the mirror of the pickup truck behind me. The light ahead remained red and I found myself watching the image.
We tend to refer to the collective paintings by an artist or writings by an author as a body of work. In doing so, we form opinions or project a value to their efforts. This exercise allows us to believe our conclusions are based on true substance.
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