This is where the Happy Hour Hiking Club met Saturday, some 60 souls awaiting salvation and a Messiah in stone-washed jeans.
This time of year, I miss picking out pumpkins with the kids. I miss getting down on the garage floor and carving them.
It was an easy ride to Santa Barbara. You just follow the pumpkin stands along the 126, from Santa Clarita to the sea. Cowboy country.
This fall has had an early start – a little crisp, a little soupy. The other night, I made a fire. And a candy-corn martini.
Since Smartacus left, I’ve been living mostly on microwave popcorn and cheese curds. I call it “the Packers Diet.”
We parents are a hot mess. Wobbly. Heart-sick. I suppose our empty-nesting anxiety is a measure of our love and devotion.
Smartacus has landed in this Utopia of green and yellow and orange. He’s the last of his friends to leave for college, so deep into September that the trees are turning.
A wedding damps our cynicism, lights some inner circuit, the kind we had as kids and then lost.
White Fang will wait at the kitchen door, expecting us to call her into the backseat, so she can come along for the ride.
Did you say “over?” ... Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!