For a decade at least, we’ve spent hours and days and years and ages, or so it seems, at old folks homes, places that it

There was a girl, I remember, but I don’t remember her. There was a girl, someone I’d met just that day–someone we’d met because I

I’m told the male kestrel is grayish blue, even orange-looking, which means the determined hunter who entertained our whole family so royally during a wonderful

Like most every other retired gent, I worry, sometimes promiscuously but not to madness. Yet.  But I do. I worry about lots of things, like whether

I hope you’ll agree there is some beauty in this image, an elegance to what Emerson called snow’s “frolic architecture,” something dazzling or graceful in

  I was just eight or nine–this happened a long, long time ago. I was just a kid. I honestly can’t remember how it was

  Okay, I feel a little embarrassed about admitting it because it’s such a “retired guy” thing to do, thumb through a shoebox of old

Gall was no giant, but he had to have been built like grand piano, broad chest, sturdy muscular arms, and impressively toned body. George Armstrong

She holds this single dream. She remembers life in Amherst, before her husband caught a madman’s urge to go west and start a new life