I’m really hoping JPL might hire me as its resident poet, where I might knit together space travel, technology, distant nebulae, and Shakespeare’s best sonnets.
When you achieve hygge (pronounced hoo-ga), you’ve found a cozy contentment in life’s simple pleasures: friends, family, warm blankets, candlelight.
My dream workout? You dart from one slot machine to the next. When you finish, Dolly Parton brings you a shrimp cocktail.
In mid-January, “even the moon shines with only half a heart,” as Jane Kenyon put it (read her if you get the chance)
January is made for old Hobbits like me. There is rain in the hills, cotton in the canyons. It’s a good month for bulky sweaters…throaty old singers…snoring dogs.
My buddy turned the tree trunk into a series of wooden spoons that commemorate my grandbaby’s first Christmas.
Candles have melted into the woodwork. The place is still littered with half-bottles of Cab. Our living room looks like the set of a Noel Coward play.
Merry Christmas if words are your wrapping paper. Merry Christmas if “Chestnuts” stirs your soul.
Our new Christmas tree ($7,000) sits in a corner of the den, listing 12 degrees starboard, as if whipped by a holiday storm.
Funny how Americans set up a holiday defined by gifts, promote it with all sorts of gooey Proustian moments, then tear it down piece by piece.