Old Man Jenkins used to say, “Don’t go cryin’ over spilled milk when there’s a whole cow in the barn.” As a kid, I thought he was saying something just to be funny. It took me a few years—and a few bruised egos—to understand what he meant. It was mid-July, the kind of night where…

Last evening, as the heat of the day finally gave way to a kinder breeze, I wandered out front with a drink, no particular plan in mind. The sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows, making the dry grass look golden. There was a stillness in the neighborhood that felt older than me,…

Some days, I really miss writing for the local paper back in Storey and Lyon Counties. You know the kind of assignments I mean–little stories about the folks who live next door, or the grand old buildings that have somehow survived both the dust and the gossip. But every once in a while, the news…

It’s like my mom always told me, in that dry, deadpan way of hers—usually while she was stirring a pot of chili or folding a mountain of laundry nobody else thought to touch—“You might not be the dumbest guy in the world, but you better hope he doesn’t die.” I used to think that was…

It always amazes me how much talent can rest in one family. Take my friend, author and illustrator, Dixie Miller Goode, who lives with her family in Crescent City, Cal. She’s the kind of woman who can cook a Sunday roast with one hand, fold laundry with the other, and still have enough leftover energy…

Have you ever chased a wild notion down a rabbit hole and only to find yourself ankle-deep in jungle vines and cosmic horror? That was me the other day—sitting on the back porch, Buddy at my feet snoring louder than a chainsaw, coffee in one hand, and a reprint of Weird Tales in the other—when…

I saw a post the other day from Ella Emhoff, the daughter of former Vice President Kamala Harris. She was laying her anxieties out like laundry on the line—worries about global warming, her angst over the state of the world, worries about things so big that none of us, not even her famous mother, could…

It’s funny how silence can scream. Used to be, the quiet was something I craved—especially after a long day of deadlines, bad coffee, and folks who insisted on forwarding every email twice, just in case I missed it the first time. But lately, silence doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like a door that was…

Every morning when I slide into the studio chair and flip on the microphone, I remind myself that not everybody is awake yet. Some folks are just pulling on socks with their eyes half-shut, while others are nursing that first cup of coffee like it’s an IV drip straight from heaven’s percolator. My job is…

I woke up this morning determined to tackle the day. Not with energy, exactly, but at least with pants on. That’s progress at 65. Buddy, my ever-faithful mutt, stared at me like he wasn’t buying it. He’s got this way of watching me—head tilted, eyebrows doing half the work—that makes me feel like I should…