Devil’s Gate Dam has a rep as a playground for the occult, and there are steamy stories of seances and love affairs and mysterious disappearances.
"Happy Mother's Day, dude," they said. So at their urging, I drank a six-pack.
Why are we on Santa Monica Beach? First of all, the place is a poem -- I’ve written sonnets to it before.
“Jesus is risen!” as they say in church, and I’m still stuck down here with a hundred gophers, in the little house that used to be a Wienerschnitzel.
My grandbaby is all the things I am not. She is new.
Mom overfed everyone she loved: her husband, her dogs. Oddly, we kids were very thin. Shrug.
The ocean’s much too warm, the drinks much too cold. I really see no future for Hawaii. To me, it's just a fad.
I bought a white couch, despite 2 dogs and a grandbaby. Sometimes, I order out my disappointments, as you might a pizza.
I’ll hug my son just a tad too long. To me, he’s that great book you just finished and can’t bring yourself to put down.
Soon, the clocks will change. Pollen will coat the window sills. The sun will blast the flowers, turn them into hard candy. Boy and girls will drop easy pop flies.