Author: Tom Darby

There’s a memory I carry that I never quite know where to set down. Doesn’t seem right to tuck it away on the same shelf with the funny stories—like the time I got stuck in a folding lawn chair at a family reunion—or even the thoughtful ones, like remembering my dad’s boots lined up by the back door.

No, this one’s quieter, heavier, like an old coat you can’t bear to throw away even though the pockets are full of things you can’t explain.

Some years ago, I dated a young woman for three, maybe four weeks. Not long enough to know her well, but long enough to see the hurt behind her eyes. You know the kind—it looks like she’s smiling at you, but her soul’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, not quite ready to join in.

She was charming in that way people are when they’re trying hard to get liked. Quick to laugh. Told stories with her hands.

We went on a couple of dinner dates, took walks along Beach Front Drive, and she once tried to cook for me but forgot to turn the oven on. I didn’t mind. We sat on her back porch with cold take-out and watched the streetlight flicker while her neighbor’s dog barked at absolutely nothing.

I started to catch her in little lies—things that didn’t quite line up. She told me she worked mornings at a vet clinic, but her phone would ring at 8 a.m. with someone asking if she still wanted that “job interview.”

Another time, she claimed she had a niece in the hospital, but later called the same niece her goddaughter. I didn’t say much at first.

I told myself maybe I was misremembering, or she was. But I knew better.

One evening, after a strange story about a broken-down car that mysteriously un-broke itself overnight, I asked her straight out if she had a drug problem. She denied it, of course.

Said she didn’t even take aspirin. But when I found a used syringe cap in the glove box of her car, my gut told me everything I didn’t want to know.

I ended things the next day.

About ten days later, a mutual acquaintance told me she’d died of an overdose. Just like that. Gone.

I sat with that news for a long while. Tried to picture the woman’s face, but even that started slipping away like a fogged-up mirror.

It’s a strange thing to grieve someone you barely knew, someone who kept you at arm’s length even while lying in your arms. It’s even stranger that I can’t remember her name.

I hate that part most of all.

But I remember her laugh, the way it bounced off the wall and ceiling. I remember her telling me that clouds look sad on Sundays.

I think of her sometimes when I see folks on the street corners, holding signs, looking past the cars and into some other world. I wonder who remembers their names.

Life teaches you in quiet, uncomfortable ways. We can’t save everyone.

Sometimes, we can’t even hold on to their names. But we can remember they mattered.

At least, they did to someone—even if only for a little while.

I was about twelve years old the first time I heard my Uncle Luke say, “Life is like a door—never trust a cow, because the sun can’t swim.”

It was one of those sayings that leaves you with a polite smile and the uncomfortable sense that you’ve just been handed wisdom in a language no longer spoken. Luke was full of those kinds of sayings. He’d toss them out mid-conversation like horseshoes at a family barbecue—wild, rusty, and occasionally landing close enough to make you think.

That particular piece of advice came during a morning of fence-mending on his old spread near the Mas River. I’d managed to pinch my thumb in the wire stretcher and was hopping around on one foot, using language that my mother would’ve washed out of me with a bar of Lava soap.

Uncle just leaned on the fence post, spat into the dirt, and offered that peculiar line as if it were gospel. Naturally, I stopped hopping and stared at him like he’d just quoted Shakespeare through a kazoo.

“Excuse me?” I said, thumb throbbing and ego bruised.

“Think about it,” he replied, and then walked off to the truck to get more staples, leaving me to ponder the greater mysteries of livestock, doors, and aquatic celestial bodies.

Years later, I’ve come to believe that what Uncle Luke lacked in clarity, he made up for in poetic nonsense. But still, I’ve tried to apply that phrase to life’s odd moments, like a compass made from spaghetti noodles—wobbly, but weirdly comforting.

Take the “never trust a cow” part. That checks out.

Cows are majestic in their way, but they’ll also give you a blank stare as they back into a half-finished gate, take out three planks, and then look surprised as if you did it. I’ve been led astray by more than one pair of big brown eyes and a flicking tail.

You learn quickly not to assign logic where cud is involved.

And “the sun can’t swim?” Well, that’s poetic truth if I’ve ever heard it.

The sun might rise and shine and bake the road until your tires weep, but if you drop it in a pool, it’s just a fancy spark before everything goes dark. Which I think might’ve been his way of saying even the mighty have their limits.

As for the door part—“life is like a door”—I’ve come to like that. Doors open, they close, some squeak, while others stick.

Some folks barge through, and others knock politely. A few never open at all unless you push harder than you’re comfortable with.

I don’t know if any of this is what Uncle Luke meant. I suspect he just enjoyed watching me squint at the sky and try to figure it out. But I’ll tell you what, that phrase has stuck with me longer than most textbook wisdom ever did.

So now, when someone’s having a rough day, I’ll sit down beside them, pat their shoulder, and say, “You know, life’s like a door. Never trust a cow, because the sun can’t swim.”

And they’ll look at me sideways, same as I did years ago. Which is how I know I’m getting old, and possibly wise.

But mostly old.

Last winter, when the wind blew so sharp it could shave your eyebrows clean off, I found myself helping my buddy Jim round up his small herd of cattle—twenty-five cows and one bull who thought he was tougher than the weather.

Now, I’ve always said yes to Jim’s invitations, mostly because he’s the kind of guy who still believes in paying you back in stories, strong coffee, and whatever food his missus is fixin’ on the stove. So I bundled up in every article of clothing I owned, which meant I looked less like a cowboy and more like a poorly wrapped scarecrow, and headed out to help him move his herd from one frozen pasture to another.

We were out in the high country, where the frost doesn’t just nip at your nose—it bites and chews. The cows didn’t seem to mind too much. They moved slowly, mostly, like they knew there was no sense in rushing when you’ve got a thick hide and a mouthful of cud.

It was during one of our brief water breaks—standing near a sun-starved trough, boots frozen to the ground—that I saw him.

A coyote. Scrawny but determined.

He came trotting up like he didn’t see us at all or, more likely, didn’t care. We weren’t his concern. Thirst was.

He eyed the shallow trough, its surface crusted over with a thick pane of ice. Without hesitation, he started bouncing—front legs stiff, back legs springing like he was on a trampoline.

Up and down he went, landing smack in the middle of the ice. It cracked a little, but wouldn’t give. He paused, looked around, then gave it another go—bounce, bounce, crack!—until finally, with a sharp shatter, he broke through.

He lowered his head and drank fast, like he was afraid the water might disappear if he didn’t hurry. Then suddenly, he stopped.

I mean, he stopped—eyes wide like dinner plates, head tilted, whole body stiff. If you’ve ever had a Slurpee too fast on a hot day, you already know what happened next.

He tensed up, staggered a little, and then flopped over like someone had unplugged him. Just thunk—legs in the air, tail twitching.

Jim and I couldn’t help it—we both burst out laughing. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a wild animal suffer the same fate as a teenager with a Big Gulp.

After a few seconds, the coyote blinked, gave his head a mighty shake, and stood up. He looked around, probably hoping nobody saw.

I swear, if embarrassment could turn fur red, that critter would’ve been glowing. The youngster slunk off, a little wiser, maybe, or at least a little colder.

Jim wiped his eyes with his glove and said, “Well, that’s one way to learn patience.”

I nodded and replied, “Bet he’ll sip next time.”

We finished moving the herd, my toes were completely numb, and my cheeks burned from laughter. But that image of a brain-frozen coyote toppling over has stayed with me, a reminder that even in the wild, nature’s got a sense of humor—and sometimes, you gotta laugh, even if you’re freezing while doing it.

Rest in peace, our beautiful girl.

It was 1975. Hot, sticky, and the kind of summer afternoon where the air barely moved and even the flies seemed to give up trying.

My younger brother Adam and I were on the front patio, plastic cups of red Kool-Aid in hand. Not the fancy new juice boxes or pouches kids have now—just straight-from-the-pitcher, stain-your-lips, sugar-and-water Kool-Aid.

The red kind, naturally. I couldn’t tell you the actual flavor name, because back then, there were only two kinds of Kool-Aid: red and not-red.

Now, I liked to sip my Kool-Aid slowly, savoring it. Make it last. I’d already learned by then that once it was gone, there wouldn’t be any more until someone made another pitcher—and I wasn’t allowed to do it myself because I tended to leave more powder on the counter than in the container.

Adam, however, took a different approach. He gulped it down like he was a parched cowboy at the end of a cattle drive. One minute his cup was brimming, the next he was slapping his lips and looking around like something else exciting ought to happen now.

And then it did.

He looked at the brick wall of the garage, backed up a few steps, and before I could stop him—or even guess what wild 12 year old logic was clicking into place—he hollered, “Oh Yeah!” just like the Kool-Aid Man in those TV commercials and charged headfirst into that wall.

Now, if you’ve ever seen those commercials, you know the Kool-Aid Man crashes through walls made of cardboard. But my Aunt and Uncle’s garage wall was honest-to-goodness bricks and mortar, and it wasn’t about to budge for a scrawny kid fueled by a cup of red dye and a reckless sense of fun.

Adam hit the wall with a dull thunk and dropped like a sack of laundry. I just stood there with wide eyes and my Kool-Aid cup frozen mid-sip, trying to process what I had just witnessed.

Fortunately, my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Adam—yes, Adam got named after him; it was quite a story—were sitting on the porch swing and witnessed it. That right there saved me from a world of trouble, because had they not been present, I have no doubt whatsoever that I would have gotten blamed.

The prevailing theory in our family, after all, was that if something wild or weird happened, I was probably involved.

Uncle Adam rushed over and scooped up my brother, who was breathing but unconscious. Off they went to the hospital, and I got left behind with my guilt, the Kool-Aid, and a deep suspicion that I was somehow going to be grounded anyway.

Later, the doctor said Adam had a mild concussion. He was fine after a few days, although for a week, he’d look at the garage wall like it had personally betrayed him.

When we got older, I asked him what he’d been thinking. He shrugged and said, “I thought I’d go through it like the Kool-Aid guy.”

I nodded slowly and said, “Well, you didn’t.”

He paused and added, “Yeah. I think I should’ve used the screen door.”

And that’s when I was glad they never gave Adam blue Kool-Aid. Who knows what kind of ideas that flavor might have inspired?

Every horse I’ve ever known has had two jobs—calming me when I’m stressed and stressing me when I’m calm. That might sound like a contradiction, but anyone who’s ever spent time around a horse knows exactly what I mean.

Take Fancy, for instance. She was a chestnut mare with a blonde mane that always looked like it had just come out of curlers.

A fella I worked with claimed she was “bombproof.” What he failed to mention was that she wasn’t noise-bombproof or wind-bombproof or sudden-movement-bombproof. But if you wanted to ride her in a quiet, indoor arena where the temperature never changed and no birds ever flew by, she was the calmest horse you’d ever meet.

One summer, I was going through a rough patch. Job worries, bills piling up like hay bales before a thunderstorm, and a case of the kind of blues that make you forget your name. So I went out to the pasture and leaned against the fence, just watching Fancy chew in that slow, meditative way horses do, like each bite of grass contained the answer to the universe.

She saw me standing there and, with all the grace of a queen and the curiosity of a toddler, wandered over and breathed that sweet hay-scented breath on my neck. I swear, in that moment, all the noise in my head quieted down.

My heart rate slowed, my shoulders dropped, and for the first time in days, I remembered to breathe. Horses do that. They remind you to be still, to listen, to be.

But when you think you’ve found your four-legged therapist, they decide to become chaos wrapped in a bridle.

A week later, after I’d regained a bit of peace, I saddled up Fancy for some cutting. The morning was warm, the breeze gentle, and the world seemed in balance, which should’ve been my first warning.

We got about three heifers cut when a jackrabbit shot out of the fence line like it had a rocket tied to its tail. Fancy, in response, levitated three feet off the ground, spun in a circle, and then took off at a speed that would’ve impressed a Kentucky Derby scout.

Now, I’ve never been much of a rodeo rider. But somehow, I stayed on, heart pounding, dignity flapping in the breeze. When she finally stopped, snorting and wide-eyed, I just sat there, breathing like I’d run a marathon and wondering whether I’d left the oven on.

It occurred to me, as I slid off her and checked to make sure all my limbs were still attached, that horses are a lot like life. They’re equal parts grace and mayhem.

One minute, they’re teaching you patience and presence, and the next, they’re giving you a crash course in humility and emergency dismounts. Still, I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

Because no matter how many times Fancy sent my hat flying or made me question my life choices, she always found a way to settle me down again. With a soft nicker, a gentle nudge, or that look in her eyes that said, You’ll be okay, even if you’re not okay right now.

And that’s the kind of job security no office chair ever gave me.

Every summer, right about the time the air smells like hot dust and basil, I find myself knee-deep in tomatoes. It starts innocently enough with a few plants—Roma, Amish Paste, and the ever-bragging Goliath—but by July, they’re cranking out fruit faster than I can mutter “caprese salad” under my breath.

Now, I’ve done the old-school tomato process before—blanching, peeling, seeding, sweating like a sinner in church. It’s noble work, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also a one-way ticket to backache and dishpan hands. This year, I smartened up. I decided to roast them.

That’s right—cut ’em in half, toss with olive oil, a whisper of salt, and a clove or three of garlic (because if vampires hate garlic, they surely loathe tomato sauce too). Into the oven they went, and I got to sit back with a cup of cowboy coolaid and pretend I was a Tuscan nonna.

Roasting, it turns out, is like cheating without the guilt. The skins slip right off, the flavors deepen like they’ve spent time at a poetry retreat, and what’s left is this thick, velvety, ruby-red sauce that could make a grown man weep. I ran it through the mill and poured it into jars like I was bottling sunshine.

There’s a kind of peace that comes from seeing your pantry slowly fill up with those glinting jars, stacked like gold bars for the soul. I don’t do it for survival or pride—though I admit it makes me puff my chest a little when someone says, “You made this?”—I do it because it feels like putting something good back into the world. Like a savings account, but tastier.

Now, there was just a bit of sauce left over—maybe half a cup. Too little to can, too precious to waste. So, I went looking for a worthy vessel, and lo and behold, a zucchini the size of a Louisville Slugger was lounging in the garden as if it had been waiting for this moment its whole life.

I hollowed it out, mixed up a bit of rice, breadcrumbs, the last of the parmesan, and tucked it all in like it was a bed. Poured that sauce over the top and baked it until the top was golden and the squash surrendered like a poet in love. When I pulled it from the oven, I swear the aroma nearly converted me to Catholicism. It smelled like Sunday at Grandma’s, even though my grandma’s cooking could have stripped paint off a Buick.

And when I sat down to eat, just me and the quiet hum of a happy kitchen, I took one bite and laughed out loud. Not because it was funny, but because it was good. Good in a way that makes you grateful for dirt, for sun, for seeds, for second chances.

Mangia bene, buon appetito, and all that. But mostly—thank the garden, and remember to save the leftover sauce. It’s the little things that turn a meal into a memory.

When I was a boy, I asked the preacher if dogs went to Heaven. He gave me a long answer that included a few verses, some metaphors, and a lot of shrugging. I took that as a “probably not,” which didn’t sit right then and doesn’t sit any better now.

See, I’ve known dogs better than I’ve known most people. I’ve loved a few, buried a few, and cried over more of them than I ever let on. I’ve watched them grow old on the same porch I grew old on, with their gray whiskers catching the morning light and their bones popping like old floorboards when they stood up.

And when the day came—the day that always comes—I’d hold them while the vet did what needed doing, and I’d whisper some nonsense like, “It’s okay, buddy,” though it never felt okay, not even a little.

Now, I don’t pretend to know the secrets of the universe, or what’s waiting past that last breath. But I do know this, wherever the good dogs go, I want to be. That seems like the only place worth heading to.

Men chase all kinds of foolishness in their lives. I’ve done it myself—ran after ambition, burned up time trying to be impressive, fell headlong into love with the wrong woman once or twice, though she’d probably say it was the other way around. And when it’s all said and done, none of it sits as warm on your heart as a dog resting its chin on your knee, just happy you’re there.

You can holler at a dog, forget to feed him, leave him behind on a fishing trip—and he’ll still look at you like you hung the moon. Not because you deserve it, but because he decided a long time ago that you were his, and that was that.

I think that’s about as close to grace as we get on this side of the grave.
Some folk imagine Heaven as mansions, choirs, and halos, and maybe it is.

But for me, I’d rather it be an open field just after a summer rain. One of those places where the grass grows long and soft underfoot, and there’s a good dog just ahead of me, tail wagging, tongue out, turning back now and then to make sure I’m still following.

If there’s a God—and I believe there is—I figure He knew what He was doing when He made the dog. No ego, no lies, no agenda. Just love, and the quiet willingness to stick around even when things get hard.

So when my time comes, please don’t put too much fuss into it. Just find a shady spot under a tree somewhere, and let me lie down beside an old friend.

Let the dirt be warm, and the breeze soft, and the silence kind. And if someone asks what happened to me, say, “He went to the dogs.”

And that’s all I ever wanted.

There’s a fine line between eccentric and institutionalized, and I’ve spent most of my adult life doing cartwheels right on top of it. Some folks call it “marching to the beat of your own drum.” I say I’m just lucky nobody’s snatched the drumsticks out of my hands and handed me a padded roommate named Gary

See, I once walked into a post office wearing mismatched socks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a coonskin cap—middle of November, mind you—and the clerk looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to sell me stamps or call for backup. I just smiled and asked if she had any that tasted like peppermint. That’s when I saw her quietly reach under the counter and probably press a little red button.

But I’m not crazy. At least not technically. I pay taxes, I water my plants, and I only talk to myself when I’m sure no one else is around—or when the conversation gets interesting.

Now and then, I’ll see someone muttering to a bush, flailing their arms at invisible enemies, or wearing tin foil as a fashion statement. The old me used to whisper, “There but for the grace of God…”

But the newer, more seasoned me realizes we’re all one bad week away from living in a bathrobe and yelling at traffic. The only difference between me and someone in a psych ward is that I’m outside—and sometimes not by much.

Case in point–last year, I decided to build a “thinking shed” in the backyard. A little place to sit, stare, and maybe write a poem or two if inspiration struck before the mosquitoes did. I painted it green because it made me happy, hanging up a disco ball, figuring my muse would appreciate the sparkle.

My neighbor, Bob, came over with a beer in one hand and confusion in the other.

“You startin’ a cult?” he asked, peering inside like he expected to find chanting or goats.

“Nope,” I said. “Just needed a place to sort through the voices in my head.”

Bob didn’t laugh. He backed away slowly and later left a pamphlet for a local church in my mailbox.

But truth be told, it’s a mighty thin membrane separating the everyday crazy from the completely unhinged. I once had a dog who would bark at its reflection. We never locked it up—we just said it was spirited. But when I talk to my reflection, suddenly it’s “concerning.”

You start to realize, after a certain age, that normal is a town most people pass through, not a place anybody lives. We’ve all got quirks. Some people collect garden gnomes. I gave names to mine and invited them to dinner. Sue me.

So if you see me wandering the neighborhood at sunset in pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, talking about how clouds are just sky lint, don’t worry, I’m fine.

I’ve always tried to be open-minded about food. I ate bugs on a dare in middle school, chewed raw garlic during a brief, misguided health kick in my thirties, and once even tried something called “nutritional yeast,” which tasted like an old library book. But nothing—nothing—has challenged my taste buds and moral convictions like cilantro.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Tom, cilantro is a superfood!

Yes, well, so is dirt, technically. I’m not here to argue science. I’m just here to explain why cilantro and I have gone our separate ways—and why it keeps trying to sneak back into my life like an ex who swears they’ve changed.

It all started when my wife came home from the store one day, arms loaded with leafy greens and enthusiasm.

“We’re going to get healthy,” she said, beaming, as if cilantro was a friendly guest we’d invited over for dinner instead of the soapy intruder I knew it to be.

She sautéed it. She massaged it. She put it in smoothies with names like “Green Warrior” and “Detox Sunrise.”

And every time, I tried to be polite. I’d nod and chew and make approving noises like a man eating a rolled-up welcome mat dipped in lemon juice.

“It’s so versatile,” she’d say, cheerfully tossing it into soups, salads, and even—this is not a joke—brownies. “You barely taste it!”

Now, I love my wife. But I’ve tasted cilantro in brownies. I’ve tasted it in things where cilantro has no moral or culinary business being. Cilantro doesn’t disappear. It lurks. It haunts. It’s like a grumpy cousin who never leaves the family reunion.

Eventually, the tide began to turn. I staged a rebellion, loudly and with visible gagging. Even the dogs wouldn’t eat the leftovers, and these are two creatures that eat a dead lizard with visible joy.

The final straw came during spring cleaning. I opened the fridge, and there it was—a large, unopened bag of cilantro, three weeks old and somehow crispier than when bought. It had survived like a cockroach in the coldest part of the produce drawer, glaring at me from behind the expired yogurt.

That’s when it hit me—cilantro is versatile. It fits into any meal and any size trash can. I discovered this by cramming it into the bin beside the counter and then into the garbage can in the garage. It conformed to every container as if it had been born for discard.

And don’t you know, it still shows up. At church potlucks, in neighborly casseroles, and even at restaurants, hiding like a health-conscious apology.

I’ve accepted my fate. Cilantro and I will always share the same planet, maybe even the same refrigerator from time to time.

But deep down, we both know where it stands–in the trash, right next to the nutritional yeast.