My guess, late 1947, their first apartment, no children yet. Mom is seated, Dad standing over her shoulder, passing her hair through his fingertips. Their expressions are carefree, Mona Lisa smiles on them both. The instant is tender, the future a blue heaven of hope. Continue reading
“I don’t like standing near the edge of a platform when an express train is coming through,” Churchill once told his doctor. “I like to stand right back and if possible get a pillar between me and the train.” Continue reading
Far more than decent, the day verged on merry. Kathy and I safely traversed the afternoon, walked foxhound Sherlock Holmes, and settled in for ABC’s World News Tonight with David Muir. That last step was a mistake. Continue reading
Hardly anything is simple anymore. Children’s car seats now have expiration dates. Tiny screens are here to stay, but they anesthetize little brains. How long is too long? And, panning the camera for a global look, our climate is, like parents right now, under duress. Continue reading
Yes, Mom, I know it’s possible that I’ve written this letter only for myself—a hopeful, neurotic middle-aged man—and that you may be nothing more than the bone and cinder your children buried in June of 1998. But I can’t help hoping that existence is as abiding as your Christmas cactus and as fair as your great-grandson Cole. Continue reading
You may have noticed that A Napper’s Companion has seen less activity than usual over the last eighteen months. I’ve been writing a book, the first draft of which is finally complete. The topic of my pile of 83,000 words is religious doubt and hope. Continue reading
He was restless and quivering on the 20th. The next morning Kathy and son Micah got him to the veterinarian in time for his last breath. Our buddy possessed a finicky digestive system, sensitive skin and his breed’s lust for the chase. He hooped endlessly. He was a lanky galoot. His forehead was glorious to kiss. Continue reading
A tea informed by anise, how odd and pleasing. And a paperback anthology of Immortal Poems of the English Language—the copyright nine years my senior—called me back to a self I’d left behind. The fragile pages smelling of an attic cost a quarter, I’m sure, in a junk store. The scent of heaven. Continue reading
What possessed me to start bellowing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as I helped my mother-in-law, Edna, remain standing while wife Kathy and daughter Elena quickly changed the hospital bed sheets? I’ve no clue. Continue reading
Some folks find idols playing their songs of yesteryear depressing. Not me. I’ll take old performers over their younger versions any day. Continue reading
A Napper's Companion 