Grief is a strange teacher. It makes the ordinary sound extraordinary—the slam of a cupboard feels like an earthquake, the hum of a refrigerator sounds like thunder, and the silence of an empty house can feel heavier than a hundred voices. Loss strips away what doesn’t matter, leaving you with only one question: What am…

Can I tell you what a blessing it is to have a friend like Dave Angell? And before you think I’m being cute about his last name—no, it’s not a radio gimmick. It’s the real deal. Angell. The first time I heard Dave’s voice float out of a speaker, it was sometime around 1970 or…

I just spent three days at a multi-class reunion, which, for the record, is about two days too long for any sane person, so I was well within my element. Don’t get me wrong—there’s something sweet about gathering with folks you’ve known since your hair had color and your knees and back bent without complaint.…

It seems the Del Norte Triplicate is about to become just another ghost along Highway 101, like the abandoned motels with their faded neon and the gas stations where weeds push up through cracked pavement. The Wednesday, September 17 edition will be the last, and with it goes a voice that has been chattering in…

Mary and I took Buddy, our four-legged shadow, to the south end of DeMartin Beach in Klamath the other day. She found her perch on a bleached-out driftwood log. She settled in with that air of calm patience women often have when watching their husbands try something foolish. I, of course, was the fool. I…

I’ve lost a little more faith in humanity. That seems to happen in tiny spoonfuls, like someone sneaking up behind me with a teaspoon and dipping into my heart when I’m not looking. It doesn’t make a big hole all at once, but soon you notice the pile of teaspoons missing. It was nothing dramatic—no…

Well, it finally happened. At this weekend’s Del Norte High multi-class reunion, after years of working hard at being a professional underachiever with a flair for comic timing, I was handed a most singular honor a human being can receive–The Golden Banana Slug Award. Now, I know what you’re thinking—why me? Why not the kid…

Mary and I drove into the Klamath Glen on what I called a “sightseeing tour,” but she would later describe it as a white-knuckle expedition sponsored by yours truly. Now, if you’ve ever driven over the old levee, you know it rises just enough to give you a sense that gravity has gone on holiday,…

More than once, I’ve been told that I should just “let people be wrong.” That’s good advice—wise even—but I confess I don’t always have the discipline to sit quietly when foolishness puts on a crown and calls itself wisdom. After the murder of Charlie Kirk, people everywhere were grieving, angry, and trying to make sense…

It was my twentieth birthday the last time I slept in the town of Klamath. I didn’t know it then, but life was about to give me one of those abrupt shoves that send you skidding across the gravel of adulthood, skinning your knees and pride in the process. I had just gotten the boot…