Fort McClary

Kittery, Maine. We wandered, caressing the ruins. Touching stone hewn before our grandparents were born. Advertisements

Random Acts Of Kindness And Chinese Food

More than a decade ago, I was walking to my car in downtown Santa Cruz.  Coming toward me from across the parking garage was a man, he was crying.  His hair was matted to his head and his cloths hung off him awkwardly. He was speaking Spanish asking for “help.”   It was one of…

My Hands

Have never known a manicure or file. And they are bitten rather than clipped. They have been painted less times than there are fingers to paint. In many places they are more scar than skin. The fingers on the right appear to have been badly broken long ago, though they never were. They often spend…

On The Road Again

Since my dad passed two years ago a great many things have changed. Most of these differences have nothing to do with my dad or his death.  In some ways that makes his absence that much more surreal.  In the uncharted country of time yet to come, my lack of a father rarely seems to have any measurable…